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“Climb in,” he says, kissing the back of my head. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the room quickly, and I climb into his bed.
When I hear the door close, the dog gets up, walks over, rests his enormous head on the mattress, and nudges my arm. I reach over and pet him.
Being here, being with him, I find peace.
Chapter Thirty - Four
Five Days Later...
When I walk through the gym’s door after Muttley and my run, Jagger and Tatiana stop talking to look at me. I haven’t said a word about what happened before I left, and I know damn well I should apologize.
I unhook Mutt’s leash, and he heads toward the stairway door. Before I brought her back here, he always went and laid in the office. Now he wants to be up there with her. Can’t blame him, either. It takes all the will power in the world for me to leave her alone, but she needs time to figure out what the hell she’s going to do about the kid growing inside her. I haven’t pushed. I’m just as confused as she probably is.
I don’t want the responsibility, and I don’t want her to die because of my fucking carelessness. But the thought of something growing in her that is mine, the knowledge that we are forever bound by that, I want that, too, so much more than I care to admit.
I walk over and open the door, and Muttley hauls his ass up the stairs. Then I go grab a shake.
When I turn around, Jagger and Tatiana look away.
I reach out and tap Jagger on the shoulder, and he looks back at me. Then I take a deep breath because I have never, not once, had to apologize for a damn thing I have ever done in my life.
“All my choices and actions have been mine. Every fucking one of them. I’ve never felt ashamed of a damn thing.”
“The point?” he asks, his eyebrow creeping up.
“I shouldn’t have grabbed you. For that, I am sorry.”
“And he shouldn’t have hit you,” Tatiana says to me.
“I had him by the throat; he had every damn right to hit me,” I tell her. “It’s self-defense.”
I know I caused some damage between them by what I did, and that is what I am the sorriest for.
“Just like it was when you were trying to save your sister’s life,” Jagger says, and I feel like it knocks the wind out of me.
“Michel.”
I look over my shoulder to where the familiar male voice says my name. It’s my parole officer.
“Mr. Jordan?”
“Just checking in.”
“Why?” I ask. He has never just fucking dropped in before.
He holds up a bag. “We need to do one of these random piss tests before we consider your appeal.”
“My what?”
“Your writer friend apparently has a wide reach. Your request is being considered,” he says, holding out the bag. “Should know in a few weeks, as long as this doesn’t come back hot.”
I fight back the urge to tell him I don’t want the appeal. I did the crime, so I’ll do the time.
Muttley comes running toward me and skids to a stop. I look up from him to see Tatum closing the door behind her. She looks around, her cheeks pinkening and matching those lips that I have left alone for five days.
Five days she has slept on my chest. Five days she cooks, she eats, she’s on the computer, and she sleeps at least twelve hours a night, and naps, too.
The first couple of days, when I tried to start a conversation about what we are going to do about the kid growing in her, she rolled to her side and put her back to me.
Fucking hurts to be shut down, but I know damn well she is hurting, too.
This is so fucked up.
“Michel.” Jordan pushes the bag at me.
I look at Tatum, who mouths, “Please.”
I take the bag and head for the locker room, Jordan hot on my heels.
When we come out of the locker room, Tatum is standing next to Tatiana, and Jagger is staring down Mr. Jordan.
“Do you have a minute?” Tatum asks after Jordan leaves.
“He does,” Jagger answers for me, and I bite back the words I have for him.
I grab Muttley’s leash and hook him up before heading toward the door and opening it. “Ladies first.”
We walk silently for a while. I glance over as Muttley waters his favorite hydrant.
“You wanted to talk?” I ask. When she eyes me skeptically, I shake my head. “I’m not sure what you want from me, Tatum.”
She looks down. “Well, that makes two of us.”
I run my hand through my hair, still damp from sweat, and groan.
She looks up at me, the corner of her lips curving up in one corner.
“You’re laughing at my misery?”
“Misery is lying in bed while this little life is growing inside of you and causing you to feel like you’re going to throw up if you stand. Misery is listening to a man you love ask you if you’re going to keep it in a tone of someone who just stepped barefoot in a pile of dog poo.”
