“Yeah. Sure. I’m working at Luxor ‘til nine or so, then I’ll be home.”
He doesn’t try to convince me not to go to work, he doesn’t tell me to be careful or to think of him like he usually does. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “I’ll call you later, babe.”
“Okay. Try to have a good night, Barrett.”
And the line goes dead.
Alison
The late afternoon sun has lost its warmth as I pull into the parking lot of the location of tonight’s catering job. Luxor’s vans are parked by the curb and I spot Lola’s car in the back of the lot by Isaac’s. I pull in beside her, get out, and walk briskly to the back door.
This afternoon has thrown me for a loop. I hate this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that everything is falling apart, that things aren’t capable of ending well. It just drums up so many bad feelings that I find myself wanting to vomit every few minutes.
“Mrs. Baker, did you see photos on Malarky’s website? Did you see your husband snorting cocaine off a prostitute’s tits?”
“Mommy, why did Daddy leave us? Doesn’t he love me anymore?”
“You’re a worthless piece of shit, Alison. You have nothing to offer a man like me.”
My stomach rolls right along with the memories.
I walk around the side of the van and stop dead in my tracks. A woman is standing on the curb, a Cheshire cat-like smile carved on her glossy lips. She’s beautiful—tanned skin and long, blonde hair. When she sees me, she turns to face me.
“You’re Alison, aren’t you?” she asks.
The disdain is undeniable in her tone, poison leaking off of each syllable. I throw my shoulders back and take a deep breath. “Yes, I am.”
Keeping my head up, I quicken my pace, but she steps in front of me.
“I’m Lacy McKay,” she voices, loud enough so that I can’t pretend I didn’t hear her. “I thought we should meet.”
The air around us changes, sweeps from a normal fall evening to one of a horror movie. She can tell I know who she is because she smirks. That one little movement in the right corner of her lips changes everything.
“I don’t see why.” I’m stopped, unable to go forward without physically running into her, and I’m not giving her that. I narrow my eyes right along with hers.
She laughs a high-pitched squeak that makes me cringe. “Oh, honey, don’t act like you don’t know who I am.” Her palm presses flat against her stomach, her eyes narrowing. “And that I’m having Barrett’s baby. You did know that, right?”
Even though I knew this was coming and I know it’s false, or that Barrett says it’s false, still, it knocks the wind out of me. The thought of the possibility of Barrett’s child in her stomach makes my entire body shiver, my entire self ready to come out of my skin.
I hate the smug look on her face. I loathe the entire concept behind this. I abhor being in this situation to begin with.
Still, I can’t let her win. “Oh, honey,” I say, giving her words back to her, “you can’t get pregnant from fucking him in your dreams.”
Her mouth drops open, and I soak up the small victory. She gets herself together much more quickly than I anticipate. “No, but you can get pregnant when he fucks you on his desk in the Mayor’s office, can’t you?” She takes another step closer, looking down at me from the good two inches she has on me. “It’s just as well that you know now and can leave him before all of this comes out. He’s never going to be with you anyway. I mean, shouldn’t that be obvious to you by now? You’re going into work,” she says, making a face, “in there. If he were serious about you—”
“If he were serious about you,” I bite out, “you wouldn’t be in my face tonight.”
She takes a step towards me, her breath hot on my face. “Guess where he is right now.”
“Working, just like I need to be,” I say, trying to take a step around her. “Now if you’ll take your pathetic ass out of my way . . .”
She blocks my path. “He’s with Daphne Monroe.”
The pleasure she gets in informing me of this isn’t lost on me. Her pupils shine with absolute delight.
I try to temper my reaction, not let my features show the surprise I feel, the blip of shock that’s sitting right in the center of my core. “If that were true—”
“Oh, it’s true,” she snickers. “Pull it up online. It’s her on his arm in front of the city tonight. Not. You.”
I make myself laugh, even though I don’t feel anything of the sort. But I want to make her feel stupid . . . and me feel stronger. “Well, it’s not you either. So that makes you, what? At least number three on his list and you’re supposedly carrying his child. What’s that say about you?”
“You little . . .” She huffs a breath, her eyes blazing. “You think your shit doesn’t stink, don’t you?”
“Nice imagery,” I snort. “Very classy. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”