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"There's no fetus!" I yell.Feeling eyes on me, I'm suddenly painfully aware that we're at a popular beachfront café. I lower my voice. "There'snofetus."
"There could be." He lifts his shoulders, plainly displaying his complete indifference to the potential disaster.
"God help me, if you shrug another time, I'll stab you."I am feelingparticularlystabby. Oh my god, what if it’s super-early pregnancy hormones?
No. Not even his swimmers could work so fast. He's just extremely stab-worthy.
He laughs, which any jury would agree is worse than shrugging. "Chill, Morgan. If you're pregnant, we'll have a baby. It's not the end of the world. We are young, but my parents were younger when they had me."
Hence his ridiculously hot, young father. That's why Camden’s not terrified by the prospect of knocking people up at nineteen. "Well, so weremyparents.” At least, my mother. “That didn't turn out so well. All my life, I’ve done everything possible to ensure I wouldn't end up like my mother," I seethe.
"You're nothing like her.” He says it like it’s a simple fact.
Never mind the fact that I could very well be her clone. We don’t look that similar now, as substance abuse has taken its toll on her eyes and skin, aging her prematurely, but I remember her from when I was little. She wasme.The same blonde hair, the same metallic eyes, the small upturned nose and wide mouth. And then there’s the fact that she worked in a strip club, like I used to. And she’s not exactlydumb. Her brain’s highly logical, and she’s quite good at math.I can’t say I’m smarter than her. Just luckier. So far. I’ve lived my life painfully aware that one wrong choice, one poor decision, could turn me into her. It’s happened to so many women in our area.
"Teenage pregnancy is very much like her," I snap.
One of the surefire ways to ruin my life would be to get knocked up, forcing me to pull back on school, on work, on everything that I can do to drag myself out of the hole I was born in.
Camden reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through it. "She picked a loser; you’re fucking a guy with a seven-figureportfolioand a nine-figure inheritance. Apples and oranges, darling."
Hehas money, I'm well aware. That doesn't guarantee thatI, or my potential future baby, would be taken care of—on the contrary, almost half of the single mothers I know have a baby daddy better off than them who doesn’t lift a finger to help in any way. And if anything, men with resources like Camden’s probably have ways of disposing of offspring they don’t want. For all I know, he might "take care" of the issue by putting a hit on me if I end up pregnant. "I can't do this if we're not safe. Ican't."
“If protection is that important to you, you should have made it part of the deal,” he teases, still not taking any of this seriously.
I kick his ankle under the table.
“Violence, Morgan? Do you think that’s likely to work against me?”
“No, but it made me feel better.”
He laughs and takes his phone from where it sits on the table, to send a quick text. "There. We have an appointment at the hospital tomorrow. We can discuss birth control options. If there are someIcan take, I'll pump myself full of hormones rather than letting you do it."
I blink, surprised by his offer.
"Just no condom. I like feeling you far too much. I don't even want to miss one percent of the sensation."
I can feel myself blushing. That was somehow sweet, if also highly unhinged and selfish.
Camden has done many things that are somewhat sweet today. Hugging me. Kissing me. And all those words that, put together, seem to equate to his saying loud and clear that he plans to keep me around.
Only I don't believe it. I can't bring myself to. First of all, he had his dick inside someone's ass earlier. I'm hardly essential. And well, I'm me, the trailer princess to his golden prince. We just don't make sense.
No, he bought me for his use on Fridays; that's all there is to it.
“Are you ready to order?” a preppy guy asks, brandishing a notebook and a pen.
I haven’t even looked at the menu, too busy glowering at Camden.
“A vanilla cupcake for me. There’s a fat tip in it if you can put a cherry on top,” the asshole says, winking at me. “I can’t get enough.”
“Do you have smoothies?” I ask our waiter. “I suddenly feel like eating a banana that’s been smashed through a blender. Violently.”
The waiter laughs. “Sure thing.”
“You need proper food, brat,” Camden counters with an eye roll.“Not a drink.”
I flick him the bird.
