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One hundred percent, apparently.
I was having a hard time wrapping my head around all of this, but my gut told me Presley wouldn’t lie. Not when I’d been such a dick to her just before leaving the resort. And definitely not when she knew I would demand a paternity test.
Fuck.
“Then why the fuck didn’t she reach out?” I demanded.
“She did. To management. They essentially told her to fuck off.”
My heart sank.
Double fuck.
Management meant Aurora, our band’s manager.
The same woman I’d been casually fucking the last few months.
I had a feeling my life was about go from bad to worse.
* * *
I stared at the phone number Lexi had given me for a long time. I needed to call Presley, but I didn’t know what to say or how to even get some kind of dialogue started. According to Lexi, she’d reached out to management multiple times. They’d told her not to call back until she had a lawyer, something I knew Presley almost certainly couldn’t afford. Now my son was four months old, and this was the first I was hearing about him.
Instead of calling her, though, I called my lawyer. I gave him specific instructions for setting up a DNA test somewhere close to where Presley lived, making sure we took care of the costs. Even if it turned out the kid wasn’t mine—and somehow, I doubted that—it wasn’t like the lab fees were a big deal for me.
I’d just gotten off the phone with him when Aurora let herself into my hotel room. She had a key since she’d been planning to stay with me while we were in town.
“Hey, handsome.” She put down a couple of shopping bags and sauntered over to me. “I bought you a surprise.”
“Oh, yeah?” I eyed her, gently moving her arms when she tried to wrap them around my neck.
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. “Something happen at soundcheck?”
“Nope.” I’d come back to the room even though we had to play soon. Calling my lawyer had been a priority and I still needed to get myself together before performing because news about having a son had hit me hard. I’d need to find out the results before I did anything else, but my gut rarely steered me wrong, and I was almost positive it was true.
“You’re scaring me, Zeke. What’s wrong?”
“Tell me about Presley,” I said quietly.
She looked genuinely confused for a moment. “Who?”
“Presley Figueroa.”
It took a beat, but I knew the moment the name clicked because her face morphed into a professional mask of nothingness. “The young woman who called the office incessantly, trying to get your number?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
“What about her? I told her if she wanted to bring a paternity suit again you, to hire a lawyer. That was what? A year ago? More? She obviously didn’t.”
“That wasn’t your call,” I said, sounding a lot calmer than I felt.
“Of course it was!” She rolled her eyes. “Do you know how many calls like that we get every week?”
“Kingston has had half a dozen paternity suits, not a single one of them panned out, and yet you brought every one of them to him. Every. Single. One. Why not this one?”
“She was some aspiring journalist! I thought she was pissed about not getting the interview. Ross told me you guys blew her off, so I figured—”
“Ross knew about this?” I stared down at her angrily, feeling betrayed all over again.
