Page 118 of Black Sheep

PITTER PATTER

Cleo

Open the door, Cleo.”

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Burying my head in the sand for two weeks after the Hamptons didn’t work. Sur-fucking-prise. I hold the three pregnancy tests in my wildly trembling hand. Each one happily states I’m 3+ weeks pregnant.

“Cleo, dammit, open the door!”

I’m pregnant.

Oh God.

My mind skates sideways, backward and forward.

The volatile cocktail of terror and joy and anguish surge through my blood. Hysteria bubbles up to fight with the tears clogging my throat.

I’ll never be able to tell this child a cute little story of where he or she was conceived.

On the roof of your father’s sports car in the middle of the forest where I thought he meant to harm me doesn’t sound great.

In a replica childhood bedroom I staged in a punishment club sounds even worse.

“Talk to me, Cleo. Right fucking now or I’m kicking this door in.”

“I’m…okay,” I call out.

“Try that again. To my face. Once you open this door. You have ten seconds.” The menacing power in his voice sends another shiver through me.

Even if I want to, there’s no way I can hide this from him.

But I’m not ready to deal with…any of it.

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“No, baby. You’ll come out now. Rushing past me and locking yourself in the bathroom the minute you get back from lunch with B doesn’t fill me with elation. In fact, it scares the living shit out of me. So…two fucking seconds.”

I stagger to my feet, the tests clutched tightly in my fists. My legs feel like lead, my heart a rusty pump that barely functions. I’m about to tell my father’s killer that I carry his child. Another golden nugget I’ll never be able to relive with this child.

The moment I turn the lock, he pushes it open. Eyes ablaze with savage intent and dizzying worry meet mine. Rake my face. See my terror.

He exhales harshly as he grabs my shoulders. “Jesus. Baby, what’s wrong? Did something happen at lunch?”

I shake my head numbly.

“Then what? Are you sick? I’ll call the doctor—”

He stops when I hold up my hand. His gaze locks in on the tests.

He grabs my hand and turns the tiny screens to read the verdict for himself. He stops breathing for several long seconds, and then his breath punches out. Hard. “Cleo? Are you…is it real?” His voice is a hoarse, shaky croak.

Filled with elation. Hope. Apprehension. More elation.

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