“You’re not getting your keys, biker dude,” I tell him in a firm tone. “No matter how hard you glare.”
He glares harder. It doesn’t faze me. He’ll be thanking me in the morning when it isn’t a piece of scrap metal wrapped around a tree.
I lift my chin, his keys tight in my grip. I’m not backing down and he knows it.
“They better still be there in the fuckin’ mornin’,” he bitches.
My gaze narrows. He seems to like it, and his bleary eyes drop, inspecting the decorative zippers on my tight black pants with serious intent.
“Or else what?” I bark.
Kelly pauses for a moment, weaving on his feet as he blinks at me. “Or else I’ll be pissed off.”
“Good one, Kelly,” I snap, rolling my eyes. It’s late. I’m tired. I’m also potentially pregnant for fuck’s sake. I can’t see Jake anywhere, and I’m pissed because it leaves me disappointed. I start for the living room, crooking my finger. “Come with me.”
His flirty blue eyes light up. He leaves his bottle on the counter and follows me to the living area. Kelly has the wrong idea but if it gets him to the sofa where he can pass out, I can consider my duty done and leave.
I point to the couch. It’s covered in blankets and pillows. “Lie down.”
Instead of doing what I say, he peels off his shirt and stalks toward me like a lion. Then he pounces, planting his lips on mine. My hands move to his chest to push him off. He needs to remove his mouth before I punch his junk or barf on his face.
“What in the goddamn fuck?”
I leap in the air, a shriek escaping me.
Kelly pulls back and turns, affording me a glimpse of Jake standing behind him. His large hands are fisted so tight by his sides that thick veins pop wide over his knuckles. He isn’t even looking at Kelly. His gaze is on me, his hurt so deeply visible it freezes me in place. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, they’re blank. But it’s too late. I’ve seen what he’s trying to hide. And knowing I caused his pain burns like acid on my skin.
Don’t cry. Do not fucking cry.
But I can’t get any air. Damn you, Jake, for coming into my life. For making me want things that were never meant to be. For telling me you wanted to end it all and then acting like I just stabbed you in the heart.
We could have had everything. A whole different life. Yet in one fateful day we lost it all. The past swims in his eyes when I lift my chin and meet his gaze.
“Fuck this shit,” he growls. He stalks to the door, rips it open, and slams it behind him so hard I flinch. The reverberating bang is a catalyst. The dam bursts inside me and a sob breaks free.
Kelly stares down at me, eyes round like a deer caught in headlights. His body is fairly vibrating with horror, which tells me he doesn’t do tears.
“Fuck you,” I mutter to him. I don’t do them either. And yet here they are dripping down my face faster than a leaky pipe.
Kelly goes in for the awkward back pat. I dodge the advance. His huge pawing hands have done enough damage tonight. Snatching up my bag, I stomp toward the bathroom, wiping at my face.
Shutting the door behind me, I dump my Burberry on the bathroom vanity. Rifling through the contents, I find the brown package in the bottom and pull it out. Not bothering to waste time reading instructions, I unpack the stick, pee on it, and set it on the counter. There. Pregnancy test taken.
I exhale deeply and stare at myself in the mirror as I wait the requisite three minutes to find out my fate. My sheet of long blond hair is as limp as the rest of me, and mascara runs down my cheeks. I look like shit. Tired. Defeated. Not like myself at all.
When my time is up, I hold my breath and look down at the stick. Two lines look back at me.
Holy shit. My hands shake and my stomach rolls as I meet my gaze again in the mirror. The bright green of my eyes has always been fierce and sharp, never kind and loving like a mother’s eyes should be. How the hell am I going to pull this off?
I grip the edge of the counter and set my jaw, glowering as I gather myself together. You’ve got this, Mackenzie Valentine.
I mean, really, how hard can motherhood be?
JAKE
My jaw is tight as I drive along the quiet, dark streets after leaving the party. I’m tired. Tired of wanting the one thing it always seems I can’t have. Tired of never being enough. I’ve been stuck on the fringes of Mac’s life, waiting for her to find what it is she’s searching for. Waiting for her to open her eyes and see what’s standing right before her. But she never does. Whatever road Mac travels on, it never leads to me.
The knowledge burns like hell. I free one hand from the steering wheel and rub it over the tightness of my chest. My heart thumps painfully beneath it. How do you give up on the one thing that keeps you breathing?
You just do it.
With the car idling at a red light, I call up Henry Paterson’s number on my phone and hit speaker. We met when Jamieson formed back in college. Despite being polar opposites, Paterson is my best friend. He’s a flirty show pony, playing lead guitar and whoring his way through women like a man with days left to live. I prefer flying under the radar, smashing out my frustrations on the drums, feeling the pounding rhythm break me apart with its intensity. The thunderous beat and the wildness gives me peace, and the band—Evie, Frog, Cooper, and Paterson—is the family that gave me a home.
“Romero,” Paterson answers groggily.
Shit. I woke him.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Never mind,” I mutter as I take a left at the lights and hit the on-ramp for Sydney’s Motorway 1.
“You’ve woken me now,” he bitches. “What—”
I cut him off with the words I never thought I’d say. “I’m quitting the band.”
“What the fuck?” he bleats. The shock in his voice is unmistakable. I don’t make idle threats. In fact, I never say anything unless it’s something worth saying. And I’m not impulsive. But leaving is my only option. I won’t survive another minute living like this. “No. You’re not quitting. Why? Where did this come from? Fuck, Jake. Way to drop a bombshell at two in the morning. I can’t even right now.”
Passing the sign that tells me Melbourne is eight hundred kilometres away, I gun the engine of my 1979 Dodge Charger. It’s a car that Casey helped me lovingly restore over the span of three years. His girlfriend, Grace, smashed his own Corvette Stingray earlier in the year, and he’s been making noises about stealing my Charger ever since. He’ll be shattered to find out he’s lost his chance.
“It’s past time for a change,” I tell Paterson.
“But—”
“Can you let everyone know?” Coward. “Box up the rest of my shit. I’ll message you an address to ship it to.”
Paterson’s voice hardens. “You’re not leaving.”
“I’m already gone.”
He huffs angrily. “Bullshit. You can’t.”
I jab the clutch and drop it down to sixth gear. Miles of dark road pass by me in a blur as I leave the outskirts of Sydney behind me. “Give me one good reason I should stay.”
Henry doesn’t hesitate. “Mac.”