Page 24 of Ghost's Obsession

The ride into town is quiet at first, with Heather leaning her head against the closed window. Her eyes are closed but she’s not sleeping. I can tell by her breathing and the way her hands unintentionally shift to cradle her flat stomach. When pregnant women do that, I’ve always interpreted it as a protective pose. But I’m still not sure if she even wants this baby she’s carrying.

I keep my eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. The thing that keeps running through my mind is where the hell is this baby’s daddy? Why isn’t he here to take care of and protect his unborn child? The obvious reason is because Heather considers him unfit in some way. Maybe he’s one of those lazy fuckers with an aversion to working and she can’t see herself taking care of him and a new baby. Or it could be that he’s abusive and she doesn’t want him around the baby. Or heaven forbid, she was raped at some point and ended up pregnant.

There are a lot of reasons why the dad might be missing, but they all provoke and make my protective instincts come surging to the surface. I like Heather and don’t want to see anything bad happen to her or her baby.

Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of our surroundings, like I need to watch the road but also every damn thing around us. Everycar we pass might veer off and crash into us. Every alley might contain a danger. Every parked SUV sitting too long at the intersection might mean trouble that I can’t yet grasp. I was never one to trust easily. But now, my suspiciousness is not just habit, it’s some kind of protective instinct rising to the forefront of my consciousness.

“You ever been to a doctor to get checked out for a pregnancy?” I ask, breaking the quiet before I crawl right out of my skin with worry.

She rolls her head over, opens her eyes, and shakes her head. “No, definitely not.”

“Well, you’re in good hands. Patch is solid. Everyone in town likes him. He’s not even taking new patients right now, but he’ll make an exception for you.”

“I remember he was nice to us at the clubhouse,” she says weakly.

“Unofficially,” I say to keep the conversation ball rolling. “He’s patched me up before.”

Her eyes fly open. “I remember you saying he patches up the club brothers when they get shot. I hope your gunshot wound healed without a problem.”

I shoot her an embarrassed grin. “Mine wasn’t a gunshot wound. I gave myself a third-degree burn on the inside of my arm while cooking on the grill.”

Heather gives a small laugh, “Really? How’d that happen?”

“Bear closed the lid of the grill while I was still flipping burgers. It was a huge fuckin’ grill and took him a minute to getthe lid back up. It clamped my arm down against the grilling plate.”

Suddenly, she isn’t smiling anymore. “That actually sounds horrific. It must have been really painful.”

“It was. But it taught me an important life lesson.”

She takes a guess, “Use a long spatula?”

“No. Don’t let absent-minded fuckers help with the grilling.”

She presses her lips together, as if trying not to laugh.

I jerk my chin to the building in front of us. “We’re here.”

She jerks to a sitting position. “You sure he’ll see me with no appointment?”

“Yes,” I tell her firmly. I ease off the road, pull into a parking space, and turn off the engine. Turning to her, I try to find the right words to talk about something delicate. “Patch is a solid brother. You can trust him to keep whatever you say between you and him. If you’re running from a domestic violence situation, tell him you don’t want any insurance records or files to track you by.”

Heather nods slowly, letting my words sink in. “Alright, I’ll try to trust him.”

As we get out of the truck, she goes quiet again, wrapping her arms around her waist. When we get to the front door, I ask, “You ready or do you need a minute?”

She exhales slowly and nods. “We should get this over with before I chicken out entirely.”

I don’t know why this is so hard for her, but I do know she’s a logical, rational person. If she’s scared, there must be a reason.I push the door open and let her go first. The waiting room is packed, but Patch is at the receptionist’s desk, leaning over to read something on her screen. He glances up and smiles when he sees me.

He says, “I got your text. Come on back, this shouldn’t take long.”

I hustle her to the side door, which he opens and leads us to the back where his exam rooms are located. We chat on the way back about how quickly my arm healed.

Patch is wearing dark green scrubs with a white lab coat. He takes her vitals himself, asking pointedly, “Are you staying for the full assessment?”

I’m taken aback because I’ve just been on autopilot. However, by all rights, Heather should have privacy for her medical evaluation. “No, I’ll go and wait in the waiting room.” When I go to step back, her hand shoots out to grab mine.

Her voice trembles a bit when she asks, “Could you stay, please?”

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