Page 11 of Wreckage of Us
“Where the fuck are you gonna put a baby in there?”
“Uh,” he turns and stares at his car again, then back at me. Back at the car. Back at me.
“I guess I haven’t thought of that…”
“Figures,” I mutter.
“I don’t think I understand why we’re talking about me putting a baby in my car…” The fucker lifts the shades off his eyes and rests them on top of his head, watching me carefully.
“No reason to play games, fucker,” I take a step forward, ready to kill him now for real. “I already know she’s pregnant.”
Saying the words out loud, especially to him, is literally making me sick. I need to leave this fuckin’ state as soon as I know whatever the fuck is floating on the dark web is not a threat to Becca. Or her baby now, too. Fuck. I am not extending that to the douche in front of me. He can die.
“She finally told you?” Dr. Douche looks pleased with that.
“Yeah, she finally told me,” I growl. “Thanks for being so supportive of her telling me about it.” The sarcasm is thick, and he looks more confused than ever. That’s it, I really have to kill him.
“She didn’t think you’d want to know,” he says with apprehension. “I thought she was wrong, but now I’m thinking that…”
“Oh, how generous of you that was,” I laugh. “Encouraging her to tell me she’s having your baby. So very generous,” I crack up.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He is so put together at all times, it sounds odd hearing him swearing.
“I’m talking about you fucking her while knowing she was with me.” I take another step closer to him, and I have to give him credit, he’s not backing off even though I got a good fifty pounds and half a foot on him.
“Dude,” he puts a hand up. “I have no idea what you think you know. We went out on a couple of dates before you two fucked in her friend’s dad’s house, but she and I,” he points toward the front of Becca’s house, “we never had sex.”
“What?”
“We kissed,” he shrugs, making my eye twitch. “That was before I knew about you,” he rushes to add. “I was an asshole to her after that day. Called her some names, it wasn’t pretty.”
Fuck, everything he says sounds almost identical to how I left things with Becca. “It took me a couple of weeks to get my shit together, grow some balls,” he chuckles sadly, “and apologize to her.”
“You never fucked Becca,” I ask for clarification, my heart now beating in my head with such force, I can’t think.
“Scout’s honor,” he puts his hand up, fingers in some weird signal I don’t understand. I was never a boy scout.
“What the fuck,” I murmur to myself, sick to my stomach.
“Did she tell you the baby was mine?” Dr. Douche’s voice goes up a notch when he asks.
“She…” I stop talking and start thinking.
Where the fuck did I get the idea that Dr. Douche was the baby daddy?
“Were you at the hospital with her today?”
“Uh, well, I work there,” he tells me the obvious. “I did follow her outside after she was done with her appointment today though. She was talking to some people…”
“Fuckin’ Puck,” I grumble. Things are not gonna be pretty for him once I got my hands on him.
“Did Becca tell you this baby is mine?” he repeats his question.
Fuck it all to hell.
“No,” I let out all the air out of my lungs. My hand goes to the pocket of the sweatshirt I’m wearing, looking for the pack of smokes I normally have there. Except that there’s nothing in it now. I probably forgot them when I rushed to leave the house and come rip Becca a new one.
Because I thought she was pregnant.
