Page 22 of Ghost's Obsession

“I haven’t… confirmed it. Not officially,” I add. “I took a test, but I haven’t seen anyone. I’ve just been trying to come to grips with the possibility. It gets overwhelming and I throw it into a little box in the back of my mind for a while. Turns out pretending something isn’t real doesn’t actually make it go away.”

Ghost straightens in his seat and pours juice into my glass. “I know a place,” he says, his voice serious. “A doctor’s office in town. It’s real clean and run by one of our prospects. He’s a doctor with his own practice. He sees all our brothers and their old ladies. You’ve met him already, Patch. His real name is Dr. Thomas Patchett.”

I blink, vaguely remembering him. “One of your prospects is a real doctor?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, he’s damn good at what he does. You wouldn’t have to sign in or pay. Because you’re with me, he’ll not only see you but take really good care of you.”

His generous offer hits me right in the feels. It’s like a gift from the gods. My ex can’t track me if I don’t use my old creditcards or pop up in the system. I choke up while picking at my chicken. “You really think he’d see me?”

“I know he will,” Ghost responds confidently.

I hesitate. “I don’t want him judging me.”

Ghost shakes his head firmly. “Patch doesn’t judge. Hell, most of the women he sees are dealing with worse issues than possibly being pregnant. He’ll listen and if it’s something else, he’ll help you. And you don’t have to worry about him telling everyone about your business. He’s a real doctor who keeps his patient’s confidentiality.”

The room is quiet for a few seconds. Then he leans closer and looks right at me. “You don’t have to do this alone, Heather. You have me and my club to look out for you now.”

I swallow hard, feeling tears sting the back of my eyes. “I don’t want to be a burden to you or anyone else.”

“I know. You’re not a burden. You’re my friend, someone I care about.”

I nod once, sharp and small, because if I say anything else, I might actually cry.

“What about the baby’s father? Is he still in the picture?” he asks.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to answer.

“Okay,” Ghost responds, thankfully not asking any more questions.

“I’ll go,” I say. “To see Dr. Patch.”

His shoulders relax just a little. Not all the way but enough to make me think he actually cares about my wellbeing and was worried for me there for a minute.

“I’ll take you there.” he offers. “We’ll go first thing in the morning. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” I tell him. And for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe that maybe I’m not alone anymore.

Chapter 9

Ghost

Iskip the coffee this morning. Instead, I drop a bag of peppermint and ginger tea into a travel mug, add a splash of honey, and pour the water slowly. It’s not what I want. Hell, it’s not even what I need. But it’s what she might be able to keep down, and right now that matters more than my caffeine fix.

I put bread in the toaster. When it pops up, I wrap it in a napkin with no butter or jelly. I’ll give it to her dry and bland. It’s the kind of thing someone can eat when their stomach’s about to revolt.

I’m carrying the tray across the yard when I hear her retching. I pick up the pace, pushing the side door open without knocking. And there she is, crouched over the utility sink, hair falling forward, hands braced on the edge. She’s shaking and heaving. Not crying, just locked in that brutal rhythm of nausea that won’t give her a second to breathe.

I set the tray down and step closer. “Hey, I got you,” I say, voice low as I cross the room and stand by her side. I don’t ask permission. I just kneel beside her, one hand gently pulling her hair back from her face, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.

She flinches at first, then looks up at me with the most emotional expression I’ve ever seen on a woman’s face. There is misery, fatigue, and gratitude on her face. She eventuallyleans into my touch without a word. I’m happy that she accepts support from me in her time of need.

The retching keeps coming in waves, then turns into dry heaves. I feel such empathy for this woman. She’s strong to go through all this without a word of complaint. I stay right there through all of it, quiet, solid, and unflinching.

When it passes, I grab a clean cloth from the drawer, wet it under the warm tap, and hand it to her.

She presses it to her mouth, then her forehead, then just holds it in her lap while her whole body shudders once. “Sorry,” she croaks.

“Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.” I say it softly but firm, my hand still warm on her back.

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