Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,35

to the living room, the fishbowl catches my eye, forcing me to stop, forcing me to remember why Lucky is even here in the first place. He didn’t come to sleep with me; he came because he was suffering and he didn’t know where else to go. And nothing has changed in that respect. He still lost something special today that was a reminder of his sister’s death—a tragedy he hasn’t been able to move on from yet.

I grab a handful of hair and squeeze again, wishing I could cry and fall apart right here on the hallway floor. But I know I can’t. I don’t have that luxury of letting myself go nuts, imagining all the ways a child would completely ruin my life, because my friend needs me and that’s more important than what might be happening in my life. I turn around and shout to him from the hallway. “Never mind. You can stay. I just have to go online for a little bit.”

I go into my home office and log on to my computer, praying I’ll find an answer to my dilemma. Maybe there’s a chart I can consult that’ll tell me if I was fertile on Friday or whatever.

I don’t know why I’m bothering, though. If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all, and I’m not going to assume that just because I slept with a guy named Lucky that I’m suddenly going to become fortunate myself. My ovaries were probably busy throwing out ten big, fat, fertile eggs on Friday night. I can just picture those slutty little eggs, too . . . Here, spermy, spermy, spermy . . .

Lucky comes up behind me as I’m scanning ovulation charts. I click on an advertisement for a morning-after pill in my hurry to hide what I’m doing. Oh well. What’s another Commandment broken?

“Toni, don’t.” Lucky puts his hands on my shoulders and gently squeezes.

I brush him away angrily. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

He gets a chair and brings it over, sitting down next to me. “You don’t need to panic. The chances of you being . . . whatever . . . are very slim. Let’s just ride it out.” He reaches up and strokes my upper arm.

My finger freezes in the process of clicking the mouse. I turn to look at him, trying not to let the anguish I’m feeling show in my eyes. I hate how weak and scared I’m acting right now. “You can’t be serious. Our entire lives would be destroyed if I got pregnant. Kids hate me, and I don’t like them either. I’d be a terrible mother. I’d ruin the kid’s life!” I can’t get the image of a neglected, lonely little girl out of my head. She looks a lot like Lucky’s sister.

“No you wouldn’t. That’s ridiculous.” He glances at the ad on my computer screen and then looks at me, sadder than I’ve ever seen him. Even sadder than when Sunny went belly up. “So, what are you going to do? Start a spontaneous abortion? Is that really what you want?”

I can’t handle it. I can’t handle his words or his face or the meaning behind everything. I stand up and scream. “I can’t, Lucky! I can’t! I can’t do this!”

The idea of ending another life has me seeing red. I know I’m not being rational, that murdering Charlie by putting five bullets in his chest is not the same thing as taking a morning-after pill, but I can’t seem to stop the flood of emotion that surges through me. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie . . . I murdered a man I was supposed to love. I’m a murderer forever and that will never change.

I grab the nearest thing and throw it, trying to calm the emotion taking over every inch of me. It smashes against the wall on the other side of the room. Unfortunately, it was one of my late grandmother’s antique vases, but I don’t let that stop me. The emotions are still there, still eating me alive.

A box of books is next. I tip it over, sending the contents spilling all over the floor. The pillows on the settee call to me after I’ve trampled the pages. I wish I could shred the material and stuffing into a thousand tiny little pieces, but I lack the strength. Instead, I hurl the cushions against pictures on the walls, knocking them all down. They each fall with a crash of