Filthy Daddy

It.

He called our baby an it.

He…doesn’t want the baby?

The thought never even crossed my mind.

It’s too…wrong.

Horrifying, really. Long before I started my nursing degree, I was pro-choice. Yet now, knowing this tiny miracle is growing inside me, all I want to do is see him or her, and get to know him or her, and hold him or her tight to my chest.

Him or her.

Never it.

How much worse can it get to hear the father afraid to acknowledge his own child as a person in a damn sentence? A wave of nausea hits, and I grip the bed. If he wants to make my choice easier, he’s just done it. I’ll keep the baby and raise him or her by myself. Tate never has to be a part of our lives if he doesn’t want to. It’s simpler to take him out of the equation right now. This way I won’t have to worry about fifty-fifty custody, or visitation, or child support, or trying to mold our casual non-relationship into something that it wasn’t from the very beginning.

Everything is suddenly very cut and dry.

Simple.

“You don’t have to be a part of our lives.” I take a deep breath that eases in through my lungs like shards of glass. “Jett is out of the picture. This is over. We’re over. In fact, you and I were never a thing. I’m sure you know that. You’re off the hook, Tate.”

That sums it up. There isn’t anything else to be said between us.

I keep my gaze pinned to the well-shined wooden floor as I get off of his bed, walk out of his room and return to the guest room. I absently pack my things into my travel bag. He didn’t say a word or make a move to follow me. That tells me everything I need to know. A few tears fall past my lashes, and I angrily brush them off.

Everything after that point is a blur. I stumble down the steps with my travel bag bouncing against my hip. I’m numb as I make it to the bar and give Silas a tap on the shoulder.

He turns just his head and studies me for a second.

“Hey. What are you doing carrying that bag when you’re pregnant?”

“Is there anything I need to sign now that our agreement for security or protective services has come to an end? You know where to invoice us, so are we good?”

“There’s nothing to sign. You should be golden. What, you going somewhere?”

“I need to go home. Now.”

“What’s the hurry? Did Cindy get on your case again? I’ll send her home if she does.”

“No. I haven’t seen her.”

“Good. What’s the problem then?”

“Shit’s handled. I’m out. Thanks for all your help. I mean that.” I push away from the bar and walk over to Axe. “Hey, I need a ride home if you have some time.”

He nods. “You got it. I’ll grab my keys.”

Chapter 20

Tate

What the fuck just happened?

History is repeating itself, quick and dirty, and now I’m paying the price. My issues bite me in the ass with every second Molly stays away from me. It isn’t the first time the past has come back to fuck with my present. It probably isn’t the last time either. Not with my luck.

I tell myself that I’ve done the best thing for Molly, and probably for the baby too. The last thing she needs in her life is another anchor or complication, especially with all her goals and dreams of middle-class, picket fence, goal-setting be all you can be bullshit. She wants to pass her nursing exams, become a nurse, and make something of herself. She probably wants a big mansion like the one her mother owns. I know I’ll only fuck all that up. I’m too screwed up to be in any one woman’s life long-term, because I’ll break her, hurt her, and then walk away before she figures out how utterly damaged I really am.

There were way too many years being kicked around through the foster care system where no family wanted me. I scowl at the vivid memories that funnel through my brain. The sharp sting of belts across my ass, shoulders, and back because I took a shower when it wasn’t my turn, or used too much water. The strict schedules of different household who didn’t want to spend a dime more than they were paid by the state for my care. And those were the better foster homes.

Then there was that one woman with the smothering hugs. Always a little too long. Her fingers arching over every bone in my spine, cupping my ass. I shudder at the memory. The next ones weren’t much better either. None of them were real winners. Then it got worse. I had a growth spurt between the ages of ten and thirteen that took me to almost six feet tall. That landed me in a group home because every foster parent thought I was one of those rebellious, angst-filled, graffiti-carrying teenagers. Did I ever have to grow up fast after that. Hell, I have enough emotional baggage to sink a cargo ship. I’ve been set up for failure.