Page 73 of Making Choices

My stomach clenches at the look on their faces.

Has something happened to Zeke?

Is that why he’s not here?

“Dad’s hidin’ out, lickin’ his wounds,” my youngest brother says with a sneer. “Forget about him, he’ll show up as soon as his oversized ego’s had its dents all smoothed out.”

“Should never show his face again,” Wyatt mutters.

“Listen up,” Sander bounds out of bed and claps his hands. I keep my eyes on Wyatt, ready for my sensitive brother to bolt if my twin loses his temper. “All you gossipin’ motherfuckers needa get your arses downstairs. Make sure Slash has sorted the guest room. Tell Mumma C to put the kettle on.” Nate snickers when our brother uses Crystal’s much-detested club name again. She’s slapped us all upside the head more than once in an attempt to stop us using it—which only adds to the allure. “I’ll carry Cherub downstairs so Doc can look her over when he gets here.”

Before I can protest, the other three are in motion. My brothers’ pounding footsteps can be heard on the stairs within seconds, but Nadia takes her time leaving. When she reaches the doorway, she turns back to me and Sander. Her eyes flash with annoyance. For a moment, I think she’s mad at me, which would make sense considering we still haven’t discussed her situation with Alex and Sander when we were in high school or her freak out at the compound when Honey rubbed her face in Bear’s infidelity.

As quickly as that thought enters my head, I push it away.

I don’t have the bandwidth to get into what Zeke did or didn’t do with Honey last night.

And don’t get me started on Slash cheating on Bebe with that bitch.

Nadia harrumphs, and I realise that she’s angry at my brother when she exclaims, “Shit’s not gonna get any better, Sander, if everyone buries their damn heads.”

“My sister, my call,” he snaps. When his voice takes on the broad, nasal tone that he worked so hard to lose after he was drafted into the National Basketball Federation and pushed into media training, I can tell he’s just as aggravated with her as she is with him. “So, fuck off, would ya… go make yaself useful to someone who actually needs ya.”

“I know you’re all hurting right now, but there’s a time limit and strings attached to my cooperation. I hate secrets.”

Sander smirks. I glance between my twin and my best friend, aware that this is likely to go nuclear, but also knowing that I lack the energy to intervene. “You’re in no place to talk about secrets or time limits, Nads. ’Specially when that’s the only thing any of us can rely on with ya—your ability to get the fuck outta Dodge the second the truth gets too tough for ya.”

“Okay,” I interject when Nadia’s eyes water. My voice is croaky and not as loud as I’d like, no doubt a symptom of Alex almost choking me to death last night, but it has the desired effect. They close their mouths and look at me. “You two need to call time on this argument because I’m not up to watching two of my favourite people go at it right now.”

“I’m sorry, Anna,” Nadia tells me.

Sander simply glares at her until she ducks out of sight.

“What the fuck?” I ask.

“Ignore her. She’s talkin’ outta her arse.”

“You shouldn’t talk to her like that.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to remind her that she’s in no place to judge.”

“Whatever,” I mutter. “Just don’t do it in front of me. Despite everything, she’s my best friend.”

Sliding over to the edge of the mattress, I place my feet on the thick carpet and push myself upright. Sander strides forward to grab my shoulders when I wobble. He holds me while I wrap my arms around my cramping belly. “Jesus Christ—”

“Sit down!” My brother uses his grip on my upper arms to force me back into a seated position on the edge of the bed. With one hand I tug Slash’s T-shirt beneath my butt and, pulling it hard, I stuff the hem between my thighs. “You’re bleedin’.”

He kneels in front of me, then tries to nudge my legs apart. I grab his wrists, digging my fingernails in until he halts. “Stop. It’s fine.”

“Fi-ne?” Sander’s voice cracks. After dragging in a ragged breath, he says, “You’ve got blood runnin’ down ya legs. How’s that fine?”

“It’s par for the course with a miscarriage... I think.”

“What the fuck?” My brother falls backward onto his arse and jams his fingers in his hair. “No wonder… it all makes sense now.” He gives me an awkward pat on the knee, then scrambles back to his feet. “Look, Cherub. I’m gonna—I’m gonna—get someone to come help ya.”

“Okay.” I rub my bruised chin as I look at the wall behind Sander’s shoulder. “I’ll wait here then.”

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself as he dashes toward the open door. “You do that.”

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