Page 62 of Jett

“Hi,” I say, hoping she can’t make out the sheer panic on my face.

“Are you alright, Raine? You’re looking a little green?”

“Oh, I um ... I have a ...”A tiny human growing inside me. “A stomach bug.” Not technically a lie. I could just have a twenty-four-hour flu. “Best not get too close.” I shift away, and slide my shopping bag to my side, between the wall and me, but her shrewd gaze catches it, and she stares at the pregnancy tests through the flimsy plastic bag.

“That’s certainly an interesting way of looking at it.”

My face falls and I’m certain I turn beet red.

Finally, the elevator comes to a stop and I exit, but Mrs Robinson grabs my arm before I can get away. “This is what happens when you lower yourself to the level of bikers and deadbeats.”

“Get your fucking hands off me.” I shove her away. Her dog growls. “Those deadbeats are some of the best men I know.”

She shakes her head. “What would your husband say?”

“I don’t know. He’s not here on account of trying to kill himself. He left me long before he ever left this earth.” Even as I say the words, I’m both shocked and elated. The truth of that fact sinks in bone-deep, and my gut clenches. “If you ever attack me like that again, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

Mrs Robinson’s face registers only shock. I’m a little stunned too and so I hurry away to my apartment and open the door. Once inside, I lean against the wood. What the hell was that? Did I really just threaten an old woman? What in God’s name has happened to me? Is she right? Are the Saints rubbing off on me?

I stare at the package in my hands and turn and lock the door, then I take my supplies into the bathroom so I can know for sure.

***

AN HOUR LATER, I’Mshowered, my bathroom floor is covered in used pregnancy tests, and I feel like hell warmed up. My phone rings and I glance at it and contemplate letting it go to voicemail, but I need to take this, because I don’t know how to deal with my mess of a life right now.

“Hey, I only just got your message, but I’m outside your building with food and tequila so ... buzz me up?”

“Okay.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound so hot.”

The question rattles around in my head. Am I okay? No. I’m the farthest thing from okay.

“Oh my God. Raine, baby, what’s the matter?”

“I ... I’ll tell you when you get here.”

I wrap the towel around my body, get up from the floor, and head into the living room. After pushing the buzzer to open the door, I hurry back to my room and throw on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt firm enough to give my tender breasts some support without wearing a bra. I can’t handle underwire now.

A few minutes later, Indie is knocking on my apartment door and I pull it back and burst into tears.

“Raine, what’s wrong?”

Her arms are full of takeaway and tequila and she still manages to wrap them around me, and I can’t stop crying. I know her bags are probably heavy, and I’m being awkward, but I can’t help it.

“Baby, what’s wrong? You gotta talk to me.”

“I’m pregnant,” I wail.

“Oh, shit.” Indie’s eyes are round as saucers. “We need alcohol for this conversation.”

“I can’t have alcohol. I’m pregnant.”

“God, as if the idea of pushing a tiny human out of your vagina isn’t bad enough, you’ve now got to go without hard liquor. For how long?”

“Um ... I think forever. Or at least until I stop breastfeeding. Oh my God ... I can’t deal with this.” I release her and let her come inside the apartment. “Sorry. I kind of ruined your jacket there.”

“The jacket is the least of our worries. Where the hell do you keep your shot glasses?” She moves into my kitchen.

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