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“Understandable, but the others had safety measures in place.” Determining that subject is closed, I move on to what’s been in the back of my head and bugging me since Emmett busted me coming out of the bathroom. “Did you guys find anything out? From your trip, I mean.”
Rex looks a bit confused. “Yeah, some. I filled the others in while we were suiting up earlier. Didn’t Emmett fill you in? I thought he would have.” He doesn’t elaborate, and my stomach cramps from the disappointment.
“Well, he didn’t, so do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing much to worry over. We have a couple leads to go on.” Rex shrugs, evasively glossing over an almost three-day trip. Out of my peripheral vision I pick up Brade’s raised eyebrows.
The anger returns full-force. “So, the others get to know the details, but I don’t?”
“It’s not like that, babe. This isn’t quite the best place to be discussing it.” His explanation is plausible, but I’d still like to know more.
“Let’s go somewhere else then. I can take my plate.” I pick up said plate and expectantly wait for Rex to lead the way. Presumably, he’s wanting to avoid a lurking Brent, and after him sneaking around by the carport, I don’t blame him. But Rex doesn’t move.
“Why don’t we just wait until we know more, yeah? No point in worrying you for something that may not even pan out.” Rex is being cagey, and Brade is still silent, staying out of it, and I want to know why.
“You never had any intention of telling me, did you? That’s why you sent Emmett to get me.” From the guilty flush that works its way up his face, I’ve guessed correctly. My stomach hurts enough now that I don’t even want to eat anymore, so I dump my food off in the trash. “It’s pretty fucked up that you want me to trust you and work things out, yet you can’t even tell me what’s going on. You obviously filled in the others before you left and now after. And don’t even try to use the excuse that it’s classified or any other crap because we both know you and Emmett aren’t quite following any of the rules.”
Brade reaches for my arm, concern written all over his face, but I twist out of reach. “Birdie, wait.”
“No, I won’t wait. All I’ve been doing is waiting. Waiting to feel better, waiting for this to be over, and at this point waiting to find out whose baby I’m carrying. Now you want me to sit in the corner like a good little girl and wait for the men to handle it all? Can’t stress Lark out, she might have a panic attack. Again.”
By now, I’m pissed off and hurt and ready to smack them both. “If I’m not able to handle any of this, what do you think I’m going to do with a baby? They’re stressful too, you know? But that’s okay. It’s not like it’s my life that’s being affected or anything. Hell, you all don’t even have to deal with this kid if it’s not yours. Me? I’m stuck. No matter what, I’m the one that has to deal with it because it’s in my body. I can’t go gallivanting off or do anything hazardous, and I can’t even take medication. So I’ll go sit in my room and hope that this baby is Brent’s so that he’ll sign off and walk away, and when this is all over, you can all fuck off right along with him. All I asked for was information. Everyone else was entitled to it, but I’m apparently not good enough or stable enough.” Tears leak out unbidden, and I walk out of the kitchen, tossing back, “You two have a good night” as I cross the threshold.
I hope they fucking choke on their regret, completely not caring that they seemed hurt by the end. So beyond sick of being handled, I retreat to my room and cry myself to sleep again while trying to rationalize why they preach trust one moment only to withhold it the next.
I wake up for the second time that night, but this time is vastly different from the last. Cramps seize my abdomen in a vise, and the wet feeling in my underwear signals something is very wrong. Stumbling through the dark room and into the bathroom, I fumble for the light before sitting on the toilet. It’s not a ton of blood but definitely more than spotting.
Panic and sadness are the first things that hit me, followed by a sense of relief with a dash of guilt directly on its heels. My head is dizzy with the vacillating emotions washing through me, and I have to wait a moment for it to pass before I strip to get in the shower. I start the water and make sure the connecting door is locked, not wanting to be interrupted if Brade is so inclined if he hears the shower. As I clean up the sadness comes back. This isn’t the best time or circumstances for a baby, but having the choice removed is so very final.
I let the tears of sorrow mix with the spray from the shower before the worry sets in. I’m going to have to tell them, and I’m not sure how. Not to mention I have no idea what’s supposed to actually happen or what’s normal. Involving Brent isn’t really high up on my to-do list, but I’ll probably have to give in with this turn of events.
The thoughts run through my head one after another along with what I might have done to cause it. Was it the medication? Climbing out the window, even though nothing bad happened? Or maybe all the panic attacks and stress? But then I start to wonder if maybe I’m not actually losing the baby— I’ve heard of women who have full periods early on. The uncertainty is brutal, and my stomach is in knots between the irregular cramps.
Finally deciding there’s nothing that can be done immediately either way, I take some pain relievers and climb back into bed after checking that I hadn't bled through onto the sheets.
I feel like I've only just gotten to sleep when my shoulder is being shaken. Can't people let me freaking sleep? Groaning, I peek an eye open.
“What, Brade?” My tone conveys just how happy I am with him for waking me up.
Concern and hesitancy lace his though. “Not to be indelicate, Lovebird, but...” he trails off, and I sit up to glare at him.
“What, Brade? Spit it out.” Asshole has been snooping, and now he’s caught.
“I was trying to make amends for my part in last night's blow-up by doing your laundry for you. The state that I found your underwear and pants in add up to you either spilling directly on your crotch or something else.” Now he’s the cranky one, as if I’m hiding things. Which I kind of am, but… I shrug to myself. Which gets me a strange look from Mr. Snoops-in-Laundry. Figures he’d find them after I rinsed them out and hung them over the edge of the laundry basket.
“Yes, Braeden. Things aren’t so good on the baby front as far as I can tell. I just wanted five minutes to let it sink in and try to make sense of my own emotions. Besides, waking everyone up to tell them didn’t seem like a good idea when there’s nothing to do about it.” I want to yell at him at the look of pity he gives me.
“I’m so sorry, Birdie.” He hugs me to him, and I feel like a fraud. Yes, I’m upset, but I’m still also relieved— sleeping on it hasn't changed my stance. I’m not sure how to tell him that without sounding like a heartless witch. "We need to take you to a doctor and let the others know." He gives me his 'I'm serious and not backing down' stare after he sits back on his heels.
"While I adore your pretty green eyes and pouty lips, I'll have to decline. It's not safe to go." I shrug in the wake of his disbelief and explain. "We have the FBI dogging Rex and Emmett for a location while Robert is on a warpath and trying to find me and his wayward son. How long do you think it will take either of them to pinpoint us at a hospital? Unless I go alone, which I doubt any of you will allow. Even then, I can't use my I.D., and that's going to put me directly on their radar. A hospital is going to immediately flag me for being an illegal or a victim of abuse and report me to the authorities.” I give him a small smile when he realizes I’m right. Poor guy looks helpless and frustrated with it.
“There are laws about that. They can’t deny you care for either of those reasons or sic the police on you.” He’s right, but things don’t always go like they should, and I tell him so. It’s just not worth the risk right now. “This is fucked up, Lark. At least let’s tell the others and see if there’s something Brent can do.”
At that, I balk. “Brent isn’t touching me ever again. Period.” My arms cross, and I’m ready to throw down if he’s going to insist.
“He’s a doctor; he’ll know something. At least get his opinion on whether we should chance going to a hospital.” I agree with him on that suggestion.
“Fine, but if he’s an ass, I might hit him.” I slip out of bed and go use the bathroom. When I come back out, Brade has one of his hoodies I usually steal waiting for me. He must have run around to the other door since he didn’t go through the bathroom.
