Page 34 of Blackout: Book Two

Chapter Thirteen

Lacey

I never went back home. After leaving the hospital, my father took me back to his house and sent Nico to grab some of my stuff. I didn’t put up much of fight because the truth was, I couldn’t bring myself to go back inside that house. It had nothing to do with the break-in either. Riggs and a few of the guys had gone in and cleaned up the mess Javier’s men had made. They even applied a fresh coat of paint to all the walls, leaving no trace of the cartel behind. I couldn’t go home because I didn’t want to be reminded of Blackie.

To say I was devastated would be the understatement of the year. In hindsight, I knew rehab was probably the best thing for my husband, but I still hated the idea of him being gone. I resented him something fierce. It didn’t help that I had no contact with him and wouldn’t for at least a month. Every day that passed I felt more and more alone.

Abandoned.

Discarded like a used toy.

Strange considering I was surrounded by people.

My mom returned from her vacation the week after Blackie was admitted to an inpatient rehab in New Jersey and I finally caught her up to speed on what a mess my life had become. Between her, my dad and Reina, there was always someone on Lacey duty. I felt bad for imposing on my dad and Reina, especially since they were just finding their bearings after suffering their own tragic ordeal, but I knew it was their way of making sure I didn’t lose my fucking mind and so I let them rally around me.

I wish I could say it helped, that their love and support overpowered my maker, but the days were long, and my treacherous mind always managed to find an hour or two to wreak havoc on me. Some days she sank her claws into me before the sun rose, other days she got me at night. Those were the worst. She kept me awake for hours, filling my head with vile thoughts and sometimes I found myself wishing I wasn’t pregnant at all. How horrible is that? I wished for this baby. I prayed for her and here I was thinking how easy life would be if she didn’t exist. I’d wake the next morning feeling disgusted by my own thoughts and want so badly to hurt myself. Then, I’d place my hand over my belly and apologize to the child growing inside of me, realizing she hurts when I hurt.

I never shared that with anyone.

Instead, I keep my grim thoughts to myself, fix my mask to my face and go on with my day. I don’t know if anyone buys my façade, but I like to think I’m giving the people who care about me the performance of a lifetime. That my efforts aren’t wasted. That they don’t see through me.

A knock sounds on my door, forcing me to pull the pillow away from my face.

“Lace, are you descent?” my dad calls from the other end.

Sighing, I toss the pillow to the side. All I want is to sleep. He will never let that happen, though. Since he’s hung up his leathers, he’s doesn’t know what to do with himself and is up at the crack of dawn, cooking breakfast for everyone. Until recently, I didn’t know my father knew how to crack an egg.

“Yeah, Dad,” I mutter, forcing myself to sit up. The door opens, and he pokes his head into my childhood room. “It’s nearly noon,” he reveals.

Great, so he’s moved onto serving lunch now.

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” I reply, pushing the blanket off me as he opens the door wider and makes his way towards the windows. In one quick motion, he draws the blinds up. The sun shines through the pane, temporarily blinding me and elicits a groan from me.

“Your mother is going to be here soon,” he says as he stares at me worriedly.

“What for? She was here two days ago.”

“She’s taking you shopping,” he says pointedly. “I’m sick of seeing you wear clothes that don’t fit you.”

Narrowing my eyes, I worry my lower lip between my teeth and glance down at my attire. Of course they don’t fit. I’m wearing a pair of Blackie’s sweat pants and one of his t-shirts. I started to wear his clothes because it made me feel close to him, but then I realized my jeans felt a little too snug. Technically, I didn’t have a bump. If anything, I looked bloated and well, my hips were slightly rounder. My boobs, however, were a different story. They were gigantic and wearing Blackie’s oversized t-shirts made it okay for me not to wear a bra.

So I resembled a bum…at least I was comfortable.

“I’m not buying clothes,” I argue. “I’m barely showing. When people can look at me and tell I’m pregnant is when I’ll go shopping.”

“Newsflash, kid, people can tell your pregnant,” he growls.

I roll my eyes as he grabs my hand and pulls me out of bed. I quickly find my footing as he drags me in front of the mirror. He touches his hand to my stomach and my eyes go wide as the material clings to the slight swell of my belly.

When did that happen?

“But I’m only twelve weeks,” I say more to myself than to him.

“Right, about that,” he starts, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Your mother and I did the math and you’re about finished with your first trimester which means it’s time to reevaluate the decision about your meds.”

“I’m fine,” I defend.

“Lace, you’re talking to me,” he says softly as he turns me to face him. Lifting a hand to my cheek, the lines around his eyes pinch together as he offers me a sad smile. “You don’t have to pretend with me, yeah?”

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