look away from her ass. It’s too perfect. It’s too red. It’s too her.
It’s all mine.
I roar as I come, falling forward, biting down on her neck.
She’s coming at the same time, cursing again and again in a constant stream under her breath, “Fuck, Carlo. Fuck, Carlo. Fuck, Carlo…” until her voice fades into nothing.
We pause like that, both of us looking down at the club, at the hundreds of people. When my cock begins to wilt inside of her, I step back. She turns to me with a sardonic twist to her mouth that makes me want her all over again.
“For the record,” she says, “you don’t own me.”
“If you say so,” I smile, bringing my lips to hers. I hold it like that for long moments, feeling her breath, smelling her fire. “But only time will tell.”
23
Hazel
I feel more than slightly embarrassed when I realize it. I tell myself I’ve had a lot going on. These past few days since the club, especially, have been like adult Disneyland. That is, if Disneyland mostly involved sex and flowering emotions and something that could quite easily be confused with love. Sure, that’s an excuse, right?
An excuse for the fact that I haven’t had my period in nearly two weeks.
Let me say that again: I have missed my fucking period.
There’s a pit in my belly as I ride the elevator up to the attic. At first, I considered going to Alda, but as close as I have grown to her, part of me thinks she’d tell Carlo. I know Emily won’t. She’s closer to my age. She’ll understand. I can trust her, I hope.
She’s in one of her typing frenzies when I walk in, big chunky pink headphones blaring one of her pagan metal bands. I drop into the beanbag and spend what feels like an eternity thinking about how silly it is of me to be surprised, really, when not once did either of us suggest a condom. Passion does that, I guess.
Well, this is my reward. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe I’m just going into early menopause. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe my body is playing an elaborate practical joke on me.
She finally looks up and closes her laptop. At first, she’s wearing her typical Emily smile, but then, when she sees my face, it wavers. She leans across and puts her laptop on the table and then wheels over.
“Hazel? What’s wrong?”
“I like to think I can trust you …” I start, sitting up.
My hands keep worrying at each other. I keep thinking about how much of a disaster it will be if I’m actually pregnant. What if Dad finds out? What if Carlo decides he doesn’t want a pregnant woman? Do I care? Do I want to find out if I care?
“Hazel?” She’s laughing awkwardly, looking at me like I’m a crazy person. “You’re sort of just staring off into space.”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I need your help.”
I explain the situation. She listens, nodding slowly. She can’t hide her smile, which is annoying. This is a no-smiling situation as far as I’m concerned.
“So you’ll get me the test?” I ask.
“Of course I will!” She wheels toward the elevator. “This is awesome.”
“Awesome,” I repeat, tasting the word. It doesn’t feel right. “And Emily, please don’t tell Carlo.”
She bangs a U-turn in the chair, raising her eyebrow. “I’m afraid that’s putting me in an incredibly awkward position,” she says, suddenly seriously. “I can’t countenance the notion of lying to my brother. I’m sorry, Hazel, but I am going to have to—” She breaks up in laughter, unable to hold it in anymore. “I’m just screwing with you. I’ll get Ubert to drive me. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Buy a bunch of other stuff, too,” I say. “He can’t know.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, chica. Relax.”
She rides the elevator down and I pace around the room. I put my hands over my belly and try to imagine a life in there. I know it’s an everyday thing and literally thousands upon thousands of babies are born every day but it seems too silly to be true. Like, as if a baby could live in there, in my belly, in my body. With all I’ve been through. With all I’ve done.
Anxiety has a weird time-distorting quality because before I know it, Emily is back. Ubert stands behind her with a ridiculously large bag overflowing with all kinds of stuff: a novelty-size chocolate bar, three tubes of potato chips, an industrial canister