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“So we’re like the potential fairy godfathers?”Goddammit. Why does the F-word keep coming up today?
He laughs. “We could be, but let’s see them play first.”
After we find our table, a tired-looking waiter comes to take our order. When Maxim talks to him, I learn that this band plays here once a week and they’re pretty popular, but the bar’s owner only lets them play three of their own songs, and then it’s covers for the rest of the set.
Many of them are Full Moon covers, which is ironic but not entirely unexpected. After he brings our drinks, the house lights dim, and a few guys take the stage. Curiosity sets in, but while I do watch them closely, I also pound the scotch while Maxim’s attention is on the band.
Our waiter might be tired, but the guy is good. Every time my glass gets close to being empty, he brings me a fresh drink. Maxim’s barely touched his beer, but that’s not my problem.
Both of us are focused on the band during their set, but I can’t deny that my head isn’t totally in the game right now. As much as I’m trying to keep it there, it’s just not working.
“These guys are good,” Maxim says into my ear while the band works the crowd into a frenzy on a Full Moon song we’ve heard two million times before. “What do you think?”
I lean back, blinking hard in an attempt to get past the haze of alcohol clouding my mind. “They’re good.” I finally agree. “Good with the fans too, which definitely goes in the pro column, but it’s a big con that they’re basically a Full Moon cover band. Dad and the guys do this song much better.”
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously. Hey, are you slurring?”
His gaze drops to my drink, and he frowns. “How many of those have you had?”
“Not enough.” I pout, signaling my waiter friend again. “Do they have any other performances coming up where we can hear more original material live? The video links you sent me were good, but live really is the only way to get a feel for them.”
“Sure,” he says sarcastically. “They’re playing Madison Square Garden on Saturday.”
I perk up. “Really?”
“No, not really.” He scoffs. “We’re in a dodgy bar, and the owner only lets them play three of their songs. What are the chances they’d agree to that if they have a bunch of other venues lined up? How fucking drunk are you?”
“Again, not enough,” I say sadly, but then the waiter brings my new drink, and I grin. “Fine. You obviously like ‘em, so let’s sign them. I’m convinced they’re going places, but we could take them to better places. So let’s take ‘em there.”
I don’t hear his groan, but the face he makes tells me that’s the sound I would’ve been hearing if it weren’t for the music. “I’ll go talk to them after the show, but you should head home. I mean it, Vincent. Go home, kiss your girl, and get some sleep. Don’t even stop for a test now. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. You can’t be hungover if we have our first client meeting, and even if we don’t, we’ve got a lot of shit to get sorted.”
Sighing as I nod, I knock back my drink and get up. “Let me know what they say. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” he replies, and I can practically feel his eyes burning holes in my back as I walk away. I know he’s worried that I’m going to grab another shot on my way out, but he doesn’t need to be. If I even try, he’ll be there to take it from me before I can get it to my mouth.
Which is why I need to be smart about this. I’m still going to get another shot before I head home. I just won’t get it from this bar. I grin as I walk out onto the sidewalk.Take that, Maxim. You’re not so smart after all.
36
OLIVIA
Vincent has been drunk for four days.Four. Fucking. Days.
Apparently, he hasn’t been drinking or drunk at the office, but he has been hungover—obviously. I’ve barely seen him, and when I have, it’s only when he stumbles in late at night or as he rushes out in the morning.
Moving in together is starting to feel like it was a giant mistake. I have no idea what happened or if he’s simply having a moment because we’re officially living together now, but if he carries on like this… Well, it’s a good thing I still have a room at my parents’ house.
At least it means I have somewhere to go for the time being if this doesn’t work out. I’m not quite at the point where I’m ready to make that decision, but I have been wondering whether I should just call and make sure that my parents don’t have any immediate plans to convert my room into an office or something.
On top of that, I’m still nauseous, and I’m starting to suspect there’s something larger than a stomach bug at play. The only thing is that the other possible cause for this isimpossible. Vincent and I have been careful. We’ve done everything to prevent it,andwhile my last period was super light and super short, I had it. From what I’ve read, what I had might’ve been implantation bleeding and not a period, but at least it explains why I might’ve thought I had one even if I didn’t.
Despite all that, I’ve had this gnawing feeling that what itcan’tbe isexactlywhat it is. Which is why I’m currently sitting on top of the closed toilet in our ensuite bathroom with my phone clutched in my hand, unable to look away from the timer ticking down on my screen.
There’s a row of drugstore pregnancy tests lined up on the vanity. I didn’t know which brand to get, so I got them all. I’ve been reading up on their accuracy, and basically, I’ve learned that if even one of them comes up positive, I need to go to a doctor. It turns out that false positives aren’t all that common with these things.
My hands are clammy, and my heart is racing. I toyed with the idea of telling Vincent what I was going to do this morning, but he was gone by the time I woke up, and since the tests are supposed to be more accurate first thing in the morning, I wasn’t going to wait until I eventually see him again.
I need to know—even if only for myself. These last few days have proven to me that maybe Vincent isn’t as reliable as I’d thought he’d become. If I am pregnant, I may well be in it alone.
