Wicked Ever After, Page 2
Shayla Black
“Of course. We’ll catch up on Saturday. I’m doing my first full day back in the office tomorrow, so I’m expecting a lot of crazy.”
“Okay. Let’s talk then.”
He kissed her forehead. “No matter what, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Just promise me you’ll make decisions that add to your happiness before worrying about anyone else’s.”
“I will.”
The following morning, Brea rolled over, stretched, and opened her eyes. Last night when she’d laid her head down, she would have sworn she was far too upset to do anything but toss and turn all night. Instead, the minute her head had hit the pillow, she’d all but fallen into a coma.
She glanced at her bedside clock. Eight thirty? Her first appointment was in an hour. Yikes!
Tossing off her covers, she sat up and bounded out of bed.
Instantly, a crash of nausea dropped her to her knees. She clutched her stomach and barely managed to crawl to the toilet before she lost the contents of her stomach.
Ugh. She must have picked up the stomach flu from one of her clients.
Early in her career as a hairdresser, she’d learned the hard way that the public was germ-filled. She’d been sicker that first year than she’d ever been.
When she’d finished retching, Brea flushed the toilet and lay back on the blessedly cold tile. She was going to have to call into work, darn it. After all the disruptions to her schedule these past few months, she really hated to lose the cash flow—or, potentially, her hard-earned clientele. But it wasn’t like she could coif people while she was vomiting.
Brea took some deep breaths, trying to calm her rolling stomach. But the smell of her citrus-vanilla bath beads on the nearby tub stung her nose and revived her urge to throw up.
Seconds later, nausea forced her to pitch her head over the toilet again.
When she’d finished, she pinched her nose closed and picked up the offending box, dragging it—and herself—to the garage, where she dumped the bath beads in the trash to go out with Monday’s pickup. The second she let herself back in the house, she sagged against the doorway with a groan.
What the heck was going on? She’d loved that scent since one of her middle school friends had given her those bath beads as a birthday gift. She had repurchased them over and over because they always brought her comfort and pleasure. So why had the smell suddenly made her sick? Well, sicker.
Scents had nothing to do with the stomach flu…
Instantly, a more terrifying reason for her smell sensitivity crowded her brain.
She raced across the house and grabbed her phone from its charger. The first thing she saw was a message from Pierce.
Made it to location. No sign of asshole yet. May be here a few days. I’ll call when I can. See you when I get home.
Her relief that he was safe—at least for now—warred with her indecision about their future. But she shoved it aside to launch the app on which she charted her periods.
According to this, she hadn’t had one since early August. November was a week away.
That couldn’t be right. She couldn’t possibly have missed two periods.
But she feared her memory wasn’t faulty.
August, September, and October had been a whirlwind of craziness—Cutter’s hostage standoff, Daddy’s relapse and second surgery, Pierce’s capture and recovery, keeping the church going, her business flowing… She vaguely remembered thinking earlier this month that she’d missed a period, but she hadn’t been shocked, given all the stress she’d been under.
She hadn’t really believed that in one night Pierce had gotten her pregnant.
But it was possible. She was tired all the time. Her breasts were tender. She was weepy. She craved sex. The signs were there; she simply hadn’t put them together.
Brea sagged back to her bed, staring at the ceiling, and gaped. If she was pregnant…what was she going to do? If Daddy had been disappointed last night, he would be crushed by this news. And what would she tell Pierce? He’d asked her to be his live-in girlfriend, not have his children.
And what kind of father would he, a man who took lives, make?
Don’t get ahead of yourself. One thing at a time.
First, she had to find out what she was dealing with.
Thanking goodness Daddy was already at the church, she brushed her teeth and called in sick to work. The receptionist, bless her, promised to contact all her clients and reschedule. Then Brea dragged on some sweatpants and a hoodie, mustered up her courage, shoved down more nausea, and drove to the drugstore.
As she sat in the parking lot at the little pharmacy around the corner, Mrs. Simmons, her first-grade teacher, walked out of the sliding double doors and waved her way. She watched Mr. Laiusta, one of her dad’s parishioners, hop out of his car two spots down. Two guys she’d gone to high school with emerged, sodas and chips in hand, and eyed her through her windshield.
She couldn’t possibly walk into that store and buy a pregnancy test. Someone would see her. And everyone in town would know her secret by the end of the day.
Swallowing down another wave of sickness, she backed out and drove to Lafayette. She was familiar with the drugstore near the hospital; she’d had some of Daddy’s medicines filled there after he’d been discharged. No one at that location would know her. No one would care.
Even so, when she arrived, she braided her long hair, wound it on top of her head, then plucked one of Daddy’s discarded ball caps from her backseat and pulled it low over her eyes.
It took her less than five minutes to purchase a pregnancy test. The bored forty-something woman behind the register didn’t blink, just counted out her change and looked to the next customer in line.
Bag in hand, Brea froze in indecision near the door. Drive the twenty minutes home to take the test? What if Daddy’s first day back at the church had proven overwhelming and he cut his day short to come home? Or what if she messed this test up and needed another one?
She couldn’t risk it. Besides, she didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary to learn the truth.
Head down, she slinked to the back of the store and found the ladies’ room. Thankfully, it was a restroom for one. She shut and locked the door, then tore into the box and scanned the instructions.
As she washed her hands, they shook. Then she sat on the toilet with the test strip.
A wave of nausea swamped her again—a combination of her nerves and the sharp scent of the antiseptic cleanser. She swallowed back another urge to vomit as she finished administering the test. Then she set the strip on her plastic bag strewn across the counter and bent to wash her hands again.
She had to wait three minutes. It would be the longest one hundred eighty seconds of her life.
But as soon as she rinsed the soap and dried her hands, she glanced at the test strip.
Less than a minute had passed, and the result window was already displaying two solid pink lines.
Pregnant.
On a gut level, Brea had expected it, but she still found herself stunned. She looked at herself in the drugstore’s grimy, water-splotched mirror. “What am I going to do?”
Her reflection had no reply.
She broke down and sobbed.
Everything in her life was about to change.
Why hadn’t she insisted on a condom? Why hadn’t he ever used one?
Maybe he just hadn’t cared. After all, he wasn’t the one pregnant now… He didn’t have to pick up the pieces or face his community or raise his child alone.
The handle jiggled, then a light tap sounded at the door. “Someone in there?”
“Just a minute,” she answered automatically, then gathered up the bag, box, and test before throwing them all in the garbage. Then she swiped away her tears, tried to plaster on a fake smile, and opened the door.
As she walked out, a woman with a baby on her shoulder and a diaper bag in hand gave her a little smile. “Thanks.”
What was she going to do?
She slid her hand over her still-flat belly and exhaled. Apparently, she was going to have a baby.
But without hurting her father, jeopardizing her career, and tearing apart her community, how? And how would Pierce feel about this?
Mechanically, Brea eased into her car and headed back to Sunset. Traffic was light. She didn’t remember the drive.
When she reached home, she parked and ran into the house. She tore off her clothes and slid back into her pajamas. The house was so quiet. She felt utterly alone—shocked and scared. Eventually, she’d have to get up and face her problems like an adult, and she knew her tears were pointless. But right now she needed to shed them, just like she needed reassurance that somehow, someway, everything would be all right.
She needed Cutter.
He was in Dallas, working. Normally, she would never call while he was on the job. But he would hear and understand her like no one else.
Brea grabbed her phone from the purse she’d discarded at the foot of her bed and dialed her best friend. Before he even answered, more tears sprang to her eyes.
“Hey, Bre-bee.”
“C-Cutter, hi. I hate to call you…but I could use an ear.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is probably a bad time, and I’m sorry. Really. But I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Slow down. It’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I woke up this morning and I felt horrible. I didn’t know what was wrong and then I… Ugh. I’m talking too much. But I’m afraid to just blurt everything. You’re going to be mad. Everyone will be shocked. Daddy will be disappointed. I just”—her breaths came so quick and shallow that she feared hyperventilating—“don’t know how to say this but…I think I’m pregnant.”
“What?” he growled. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“No. I bought a test at a drugstore in Lafayette and took it in their bathroom. I’m still in shock. B-but I’m shaking and I can’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do.”
“Make an appointment today. Find out for sure. If you’re right, this isn’t going to go away.”
“I can’t see Dr. Rawson. The first thing he’ll do is tell my dad. I know he’s not supposed to but…” She shook her head and tried to think of solutions instead of continuing to dump problems on him. “What about that clinic near your apartment?”
“Fine. Call there. But you need to see a doctor before you make any decisions. I’ll go with you if you want. I’m home in a week. I promise not to confront Walker until then. But if you’re right—”
“You can’t say or do anything to him.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“He doesn’t know yet. He left on a mission last night, and I don’t know when he’ll be back. He’s gone after the guy who held him captive in Mexico, so I don’t even know if he’ll return in one piece. I’m worried.” She clutched the phone. “You have to promise me—”
“That when he shows his ugly face I won’t kill him? I can’t promise that.”
“Cutter, you aren’t helping.”
“All right.” His voice took a gentle turn. “I promise we’ll figure this out. I’ll take care of you. I always have. I always will. And I hate to do this to you now, but I have to go.”
“Are you in a situation?”
“Client meeting.”
She winced. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m glad you called me. As soon as I’m free, we’ll talk, okay?”
“Thanks.”
The sudden silence in her ear told her that Cutter had ended the call. The sound was lonely and terrifying. And when she darkened her own device and tossed it on the bed, she lowered her head in her hands and started to cry again.
Chapter Two
Wednesday, October 29
Orlando, Florida
* * *
“You realize this is the work of our internal mole,” Hunter Edgington said over the phone.
“I’d come to the same conclusion.” One-Mile paced the small bedroom in the thoroughly average house located in Orlando, itching to get out. “Who else knew you’d stashed Valeria Montilla on the outskirts of St. Louis?”
“While she and her son lived there alone? Only Logan, Joaquin, and me. After we pulled Laila out of Montilla’s Mexican compound when we rescued you? We had to make all those last-minute arrangements to get her to Valeria’s, so the whole damn team knew.”
“Which means we’re back to square one trying to figure out who the fucking traitor is.”
“For now,” Hunter admitted. “But it appears you’ve relocated Valeria and her family to Florida without Montilla being any wiser.”
At least something good had come out of this shit show. “Who on our team knows Valeria’s new location?”
“Besides Logan and Joaquin? Just you.”
“I suggest we keep it that way.”
“That’s the consensus here. The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Yep.” But it was bugging the shit out of One-Mile not to know who had tipped off Montilla about Valeria’s St. Louis safe house. Which asshole on his team couldn’t be trusted?
It was also bugging the shit out of him to be away from Brea.
When Hunter had called and said it was imperative he get to St. Louis and relocate Montilla’s estranged wife from her no-longer-safe house before sunrise, One-Mile had just asked Brea to move in with him. The timing of the mission had sucked. He’d hated leaving her so abruptly, especially right after dumping his daddy bullshit on her with no explanation. But she loved him, and he loved her. Lives had been on the line.
So he’d left and caught a charter flight to St. Louis. By three thirty a.m., he’d been pounding on Valeria’s door. Telling her that the feds had spotted her estranged husband in the area hadn’t gone over well. Insisting the terrified woman pack up her infant son and her sister, along with whatever they could fit in his rented van so they could be gone before sunrise had been met with rants and tears. But she’d done it.
For the next two days, he’d driven two tense women and a fussy baby halfway across the country to this rental in Orlando—and safety. But One-Mile was still on edge.
He hadn’t talked much to Brea in almost a week. He hadn’t been worried at first. He’d been busy as hell until Sunday, and he’d known she spent that day with her dad and the church. But he’d only heard snippets from her on Monday and Tuesday. Yes, she’d locked his house up behind her. No, she wasn’t angry that he’d had to leave. Of course she wanted to talk when he got home.
But there was something she wasn’t saying. Something bothering her. He was itching to get home and address it.
“You haven’t seen any sign of Montilla since you arrived, right?” Hunter asked.
“No.” He’d been in Orlando over seventy-two hours. And he knew damn well they hadn’t been followed. “I think the coast is clear. Do we have any idea where Montilla is now or if he’s figured out his wife has relocated?”
“A few hours after you pulled out of St. Louis, he was spotted less than two miles from her safe house.”
Closer than in previous sightings. But the asshole obviously hadn’t known his estranged wife’s location or he would have already torn the place apart. “But nothing since then?”
“No.”
That gave One-Mile an idea. “Did he come with his entourage?”
“Since this is a personal thing, we think he’s alone. He has been every time he’s been spotted, according to the feds.”
Perfect. “I want to go back to St. Louis and find him.”
“By yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“No. You need to stay with the client. If we were going to send you after him, we’d have someone watching your back.”
One-Mile scoffed. “You sent me in with Trees last time. L
ook how well that worked out.”
“Without a heads-up from him, we wouldn’t have known you’d been captured for days.”
“But how do you know he wasn’t the one who set me up? I won’t say his escape was convenient but…”
Hunter didn’t have a comeback for that, which told One-Mile that possibility had crossed his mind.
“Let me try,” he pressed again.
“It’s too risky.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Risk is what we do. Once Montilla figures out that Valeria and his son are gone, he might slink back over the border and it will be a shitload harder to reach him. She will never be safe until that fucker is dead or behind bars. We can make that happen. I can take care of him. Just give me a green light.”
“No. You want revenge, and that’s not your mission. I won’t have you going off on some crusade. You’ll get your ass killed. You’ve barely been cleared to be back at work, and—”
“This is bullshit,” One-Mile growled. “Why leave this son of a bitch on the loose?”
“Because it’s the feds’ responsibility to hunt Montilla and kill him like the animal he is—not yours. And because I said to stay there another few days to make sure Valeria is settled and safe. We were hired to transition her, period.”
“I’ve done that.”
“So finish the fucking job before you haul off on your own agenda.”
One-Mile didn’t like his pile-of-shit reasoning or his attitude.
“When can I come home? I have more doctors’ appointments,” he lied.
“Sunday.”
That gave him four days to catch Montilla. If he succeeded, he’d be taking one more scumbag off his cartel throne and keeping Valeria’s family safe. If he died…well, no one at EM Security Management would care.
But he hated leaving Brea behind.
He’d compartmentalized his concerns, but pacing his ten-by-ten cookie-cutter cage with nothing to do… It was hard not to wonder what was running through her head. Was she upset? Shocked? Or just swamped?
