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I rake my fingers through my hair. “Lynette, I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing here, but I’m just about to—”
“I’m pregnant,” she blurts.
“And what the fuck do you want me to do about that?” Jesus. Women.
Her eyes bug out. “It’s yours.”
The world spins.
What in the actual fuck is going on right now?
“What the hell are you talking about? I made fucking sure to use a condom every time we had sex. There’s no fucking way that baby is mine.”
“One of them broke. Did you forget that, asshole? Jesus, this is not the response I was looking for here.”
My mind races back to the times I fucked Lynette.
Fuck.
She’s right.
One of the condoms broke.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I don’t want to be a dick and ask her if she’s sure it’s mine, but fuck, it’s no word of a lie that Lynette sleeps around. Maybe it’s not mine.
“It’s yours, Fury.” She reads my mind. “I’ll take whatever test you want to prove it. But I’m not asking you to be involved; I just thought you should know.”
A horn blares from my front yard and a wo
man calls out, “Come on, Lynette. Happy hour is starting soon!”
An avalanche of thoughts run through my mind as I try to process this.
“Happy hour? Why the fuck are you going to happy hour? You’re pregnant.”
She frowns. “You can still drink when you’re pregnant, Fury.”
My thoughts all crash together.
She’s pregnant.
It’s mine.
I don’t doubt her.
She’s going out for a drink.
To happy fucking hour of all things.
She’s. Fucking. Pregnant.
As she takes a step away from me, preparing to run back down the stairs to whoever’s in that car waiting, I grab her arm. “You’re not going to fucking happy hour, Lynette. Not when you’re carrying my child.”
My voice is hard. Firm. I’m not taking no for an answer. And she doesn’t miss that in my tone.
“Umm, it’s my body. I get to choose what I do with it.”
