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That gets to me. His undying support, his knowingness of all the dedication and work I’ve put into this year’s Olympics, despite committing to the competition late. I hug longer. “You’re the best, Beckett.” As we break apart, Eliot and Tom see I’m about to GTFO.
“Are you avoiding our sister?” Eliot suddenly asks.
Blood drains from my face. Nausea roils. “Uh, no…why would you think that?”
Because it’s true.
Tom chimes in, “It’s sorta strange how you’re leaving right when Jane says she’s coming here.”
“Coincidence,” Luna sing-songs, totally covering for me. I fucking love her.
I accidentally make eye-contact with Charlie. He arches a brow, and my face burns at a terrifying thought.
What if Charlie exposes my pregnancy. Right here, right now. With the Rochesters in plain view. He knows Eliot and Tom are out of the loop.
He totally could bomb-drop them and others. Just like he exposed Banks and Thatcher’s twin switch. He threw them under a bus and backed it up for good measure. Which hurt his own sister.
The world can’t know I’m pregnant.
Not right now.
I have too much at stake.
Sickness rises and scalds my throat. I swallow it down.
Laughter ignites at the bar. Wesley makes a show of flashing his phone screen in our direction. He has a gossip website popped up, and I can barely distinguish the title of the article he’s reading. But I catch two words: Tentacle Porn.
It must be about Luna and how The Royal Leaks exposed that she writes erotic sci-fi fics.
Fuck Wesley.
Instantly, Eliot stands from the armrest. Bodyguards surround him, but Eliot says coldly, “The laughter of lily-livered, spineless bastards sounds like fish flapping at our feet, so keep laughing.”
Wesley lets out a weaker laugh, then eyes Wyatt. Both guys burst into laughter.
Eliot stakes them with a murderous glare. Not retreating.
Luna collects her sweatshirt and stands. “See ya later.” She makes an abrupt exit, not wanting to entertain the Rochesters.
Tom races after her, so urgently that he forgets his phone. His bodyguard picks it up on their way out. Tom slings an arm over Luna’s shoulders as they leave.
Charlie hasn’t exposed my pregnancy, and I ease more and more as he stops paying attention to me. I start believing he’ll keep my secret. Either because the Rochesters are occupying his interest or because Eliot is right—Charlie does have a heart in there somewhere.
“They won’t say anything to us,” Beckett tells Charlie. “It could compromise the legal battle.”
Which must be why they aren’t verbally sparring with Eliot.
Charlie rises from the couch, and after two steps towards the Rochesters, Oscar immediately cuts into his path. “Not today, Charlie.”
He looks directly at his bodyguard. They have a silent staring contest, and for a single second, I wonder if Charlie thinks he can get Wesley to admit to The Royal Leaks. But what low, low levels will Charlie need to stoop to make Wesley break?
Nausea rises tenfold.
I’m going to be sick. Hurriedly, I jolt to my feet, and Akara is already pushing towards me. “Sul?” he whispers as I catch his wrist.
I’m going to be sick, Kits.
I can’t get the words out.
“Just breathe through your nose,” he whispers and leads me towards the exit. Whether the Rochesters are watching me morph into a green-cheeked ill emoji, I don’t care right now. I just trail behind my boyfriend, fisting the back of Akara’s shirt.
Don’t let go of him.
Don’t puke on him.
I’m so dizzy.
Barely seeing doors swing open, barely seeing bodies slip through, barely hearing Jane question, “Sulli?”
I snap my eyes shut. Nauseous like I’m on a Tilt-a-Whirl at high speeds. I inhale big, big breaths through my nostrils.
Don’t puke.
Don’t puke.
Rough but affectionate hands touch the tops of my hands, then rest on my biceps, and then those same hands lift me. Banks. Banks is cradling me, and Akara places a palm to my cheek. And once Kits breaks away and I jostle a little, I open an eye.
They’re jogging. Running.
Akara leads the way.
I’m pregnant with their baby.
How much of this sickness is because of the little champ? My hands shift to my belly. No baby bump this early. Besides the missed period and ultrasound, I’ve had no big physical reminder that I’m carrying a piece of me and Banks or Akara.
Now the signs of pregnancy come crashing like waves against me.
Too real to push aside.
Too real to ignore.
A sheen of sweat gathers on my forehead, and Banks sets me in front of a toilet. Must be a guest bathroom in a hotel lobby—it’s all I think as the contents of my stomach fill the porcelain bowl.
“You’re alright, Sulli,” Banks says gently. “Just let it out. We’re not going anywhere.”
I let that sentiment carry me through seconds, then minutes.
My boyfriends take care of me for the next half hour—Akara placing damp paper towels on my forehead and Banks holding back my hair. And when the nausea finally recedes a little bit, I land back carefully on Akara’s lap and slump into Banks’ chest. All of us seated in an intertwined heap in the toilet stall.
