Page 57 of StoryTeller's Tale

I open and shut my mouth, not sure what to say. Questions like how the hell did he find me, go through my head.

Without being invited, he sits beside me. Even though there’s not a part of us touching, I swear I can feel the warmth from his body. Familiar scents that I remember from before wash over me. I don’t know why it is that I immediately feel comforted, and not so alone. Which is crazy.

When I’d first seen the lines on the pregnancy test, my first thought hadn’t been to contact him. How would I have known where to start? All I knew was his road name, and that he was a member of the dreaded Wretched Soulz. I didn’t know where he lived, was based, or where he’d come from.

And he knew even less about me.

As the sun beats down, dappled light flickering through the overhead trees, neither of us seem to want to start a conversation. On my part, how do you tell a man you’ve only met once that you’re carrying his baby? I suspect he’ll run a mile as soon as he knows, and I selfishly want to enjoy his presence just a while longer.

Eventually, though, I can contain myself no longer, and have to ask, “Is this a coincidence? You seeing me here?” It has to be. I can think of no other reason.

He chuckles softly. “No. I knew exactly where to find you.” He glances over his shoulder at the terminal behind. “You waiting on catching a plane?”

In truth, I don’t know what I’m doing. “I could be waiting on someone to arrive.”

“Yet you’re not,” he contradicts, confidently.

I shoot a quick glance at him, wondering whether he’s a mind reader. My hand has the urge to rest on my stomach, I make a conscious effort to keep it away.Has he a right to know about the baby?

The only responsibility he has was that he provided the semen that got to my egg. He’d done the deed under duress. He’d probably have not willingly wanted to touch me had he not been forced. So why should he be lumbered with my problem when it couldn’t be described as his fault?

Knuckles wouldn’t have let him stop to put on a condom.

My mind veers between thinking how much I should tell him and questioning why he’s suddenly appeared. The statement he knew exactly where to find me suddenly echoes in my head.

“How did you know I was here? And why did you bother to come find me?” My eyes narrow, particularly as his body movements show he’s intent on remaining sat next to me on the bench.

I shift along an inch, making sure nothing of our bodies is touching.

StoryTeller’s lost none of his appeal over the intervening weeks. He’s like an apparition from one of the books that I read, miraculously come to life as though he’s just stepped straight from the pages. He’s so goddamn handsome I can barely imagine the words an author could use to adequately describe him.

Me? Well, I’m the non-descript girl who fantasises about having such a man look at her once, let alone twice. So why he’s actively seeking me out is a mystery.

I didn’t fail to notice the sideways glance that he gave me as I moved away, nor the strange look of uncertainty that crossed his face. Is he regretting what must have been an impulsive decision to come say hi? After all these weeks, I’m certainly not sure what he’d have to talk to me about.

He clears his throat. “I went by your house.”

I startle as his statement suggests he was actively looking for me. But that wouldn’t have led him here.

“Agatha didn’t know where I was going,” I blurt out. I hadn’t known myself. Not until I’d driven around and found myself at my parents’ house.

“She didn’t. So I went to your parents’ instead.”

Overlooking how he could have discovered either address, I let my head drop into my hands. “You spoke to my stepmother?” Rubbing frantically at my temples which have started to pound, I worry just what he could have been told.

“Yeah,” he admits. He shakes his head. I catch the movement out of the side of my eye. “I also met your stepsister. She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

I intake a breath sharply. Normally men fall at her feet. There are not many that see straight through her. She’s beautiful, slim, and everything that I’m not. Perhaps StoryTeller isn’t so shallow as to not look further than what’s on the outside.

I ask what matters to me most. “What did they tell you?”

Now it’s his turn to rub at his forehead. “The reason why you’re sitting outside the airport, wondering what the fuck to do next.”

Suddenly I understand what a deflated balloon feels like as my bones turn to jelly, and I fold in on myself. “It’s got nothing to do with you.” Though I try to be forceful, my voice sounds tremulous.

“Like fuck it doesn’t,” he says under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear. He moves his body so he’s facing me, and one of his hands reaches up, gently touches my face, and gently forces me to look at him. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be dead.” Or wishing I was. I shudder at the memory which still has the power to give me nightmares most nights.

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