Brutal Game Page 4

  Whatever. Every lover he’s had has made him the man he is today. I ought to be sending out thank-yous.

  The man himself was nowhere in sight, which meant he was either chatting with his sister three floors down or doing something with his car. It always felt intimate and strange to be in this apartment without him. Like she was snooping, even though she never had. If she wanted to, it wouldn’t take long; he was the most minimalist person she’d ever encountered. If she moved in here, her possessions would make this lofty space feel instantly cluttered. And far more like home.

  She turned at the sound of the key in the lock and smiled. He’d probably been gone for all of ten minutes, but the overprotectiveness charmed her. It was a novelty to someone who’d grown up with a mother as detached and careless as Laurel’s.

  He was wearing a knit cap and his canvas jacket, cheeks burned pink. “Fuckin’ freezing out there.”

  “Hard to believe it’ll be spring in a few weeks. You warming the car up?”

  “No, checking on Heather’s.” Heather was his sister. “She said it wouldn’t start and it looks like she’s right.”

  “Bummer. Hell of a week to get stuck waiting for a bus. Can you fix it?”

  “Probably not, unless it just needs a jump or something. If not, I’ll get it towed for her and give the mechanic the stink-eye so they don’t try and overcharge her.”

  Laurel smiled. “There should be a name for the opposite of feminine wiles. They get the same results.”

  “How’s the coffee?”

  “Delicious.”

  “The key,” he said, crouching to slide a massive phone book from the bottom of his bookshelf, “is to put in way more grounds than you’re supposed to.”

  “Or stop buying Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. It’s so watery, no wonder you need twice as much.”

  He glowered, eyes on the pages he was flipping. “You take that blaspheming mouth out of New England, woman.”

  “I’m from Providence—I get to say it’s awful.”

  He set the Yellow Pages on the counter. Flynn was the only person Laurel knew who actually kept a phone book in the house. It was one of the many reasons she loved him. He owned a computer but barely used it, even though she’d insisted he finally get internet so they could stream movies.

  “Almost ready?” he asked, eyeing the Auto Garage listings.

  “Just let me chug this and dry my hair, and I’ll be good to go.”

  “I’ll warm the car up. Meet me down there.”

  “Will do. Five minutes.”

  He left Laurel be with her coffee, and the second the door shut her head filled up with way too many questions. Was she actually queasy, or was that her imagination? Or was she just queasy with uncertainty? Either way, the coffee wouldn’t help. Neither would spending her shift trying to decide whether or not to pick up a pregnancy test.

  “It’s really unlikely,” she told the coffeemaker.

  You’ve said that three times, the red light seemed to reply. She switched it off.

  “Like, really unlikely,” she said, making it four. And she’d keep on saying that until she believed it.

  4

  Sunday wasn’t much of a day of rest. Flynn dropped Laurel off at her work, back just in time to drive his sister and niece to church. By early afternoon he had Heather’s car entrusted to a neighborhood garage, and after a grocery run, he headed off for his near-daily workout.

  The gym was the same venue where he fought each weekend, a shady little concrete-and-cinder-block outfit in the basement of a shitty bar. On Sundays it was usually just him and the younger guys, everybody else doing the family thing.

  The family thing. Sprawled on a weight bench, he stared up at the ceiling, at the bald fluorescent bulbs staring right back. Though neither of them had spoken of the question of a pregnancy test since Laurel had disappeared for her shower, he hadn’t quit thinking about it for a second.

  Flynn’s mental baseline was a sort of anxious thrumming, not unlike the buzzing of the light above him—an ever-present hum that never let up, aside from when he was fighting or fucking. It was the reason he didn’t drink coffee, which only made him more of a punchy motherfucker than he already was. Alcohol turned him into a mopey dick, and he wasn’t about to go back to smoking a pack a day after kicking the habit once. He supposed a marijuana scrip wouldn’t be so hard to snag, but that stinky-ass shit was for hippies and burnouts. That eliminated the most popular chemical crutches. Physical release was all he had left, and so here he was every day he wasn’t in the ring, punishing his body until his brain could finally shut the fuck up.

  The pregnancy question… It didn’t scare him, not the way it might another man. It was out of his hands. Whatever might ultimately come was Laurel’s decision. It was the simple not knowing that was gnawing at him.

  It’d change everything. No fucking doubt. His life was predictable in ways he found both reassuring and monotonous, and a baby would throw it all into chaos. That wasn’t to say he couldn’t handle it, but it would be a far more welcome challenge a few years down the road.

  Laurel, though. She had potential. He might make decent money working construction, but it was nothing like what she could pull in if she managed to land an engineering job. A career. That was what she needed to be worried about, right now. Plus there was her mental health. She’d gone through a long blue patch over the holidays, and at his urging got prescribed an antidepressant she could take on an as-needed basis. It seemed to be helping a lot. Would she have to give that up, if she took on a pregnancy?

  He dropped the weights he’d been using onto the rack with twin clangs, swore under his breath. He needed to chill the fuck out. He eyed the handful of guys on the benches and at the heavy bags, sizing them up. All kids or newbies, nobody fit to spar with. Not the way he needed to fight right now. He went through the rest of his routine, seeking solace and not finding any. Jesus, uncertainty was the motherfucking worst.

  Desperate for distraction, he went back to the grocery store, bought the ingredients for the only thing he knew how to cook that tasted any good—casserole. He cooked noodles and slices of sausage and mixed them up with marinara sauce and covered it with mozzarella and foil and stuck it in the oven just in time to leave to pick up Laurel. If she hadn’t bought a test or gotten her period, they’d make a stop at Rite Aid.

  He was just shrugging into his jacket when a familiar sound stilled him—a knock and the scrabble of a key in the lock.

  Laurel appeared, smiling, snowflakes melting in her hair. Then that smile drooped, her eyes taking in his coat and hat. “Were you about to come get me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I left you a message, like, four hours ago. My coworker lives around the corner—she gave me a lift.”

  “Oh.”

  “You really need to check your phone.”

  “I don’t think I can even get text messages.”

  She smirked. “You can, you just refuse to learn how. And I left you a voicemail, anyhow. I know you.”

  “Oops.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m here now. Saved you the trip.” She shed her coat and hung it up, then stepped close, rising on tiptoes to pull the cap from his head.

  He kissed her temple. “How was work?”

  “Exhausting. Like, really exhausting.”

  He didn’t doubt it—she looked wiped, eyes dull and cheeks pink. Though now he thought about it, it wasn’t that windy today.

  “I’m making dinner.”

  She perked up some at that. “Are you? Let me guess—Italian casserole.”

  “You guess right.”

  “Well, good. I like your one recipe. I brought leftovers, but it’s only dessert, so that’s perfect.”

  “You don’t look so hot,” he said.

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “I dunno…” She unwound the scarf from her neck. “When’s dinner?”

  “An hour.”

&nb
sp; “I just want to lie down, I think. I’m all hot and woozy. I hope I don’t have the flu.”

  How selfish is it that I hope maybe you do? If it was between that or being pregnant, he knew which one he felt prepared for. “Go lie down, then. I’ll wake you up when it’s ready.”

  Only he didn’t. Laurel curled up on his bed and passed out, and he didn’t wake her when the timer dinged. He took the foil off the dish and let the cheese brown, then turned the oven on low. Heather had lent him a book, some novel about broke-ass college guys in the Northwest doing rowing back in the World War II days or something. He stretched out beside Laurel on the bed and stared at the first page and kept on staring, didn’t take in more than six words while he waited for her to wake.

  At long last, a hmm, a yawn. A dozy groan and she turned onto her side, eyes blinking open to find him there.

  “Dinner smells good. Is it ready?”

  “It is.”

  “What time is it?”

  He looked to the microwave. “Ten twenty-one.”

  “Whoa. What?”

  “You were beat.”

  She sat up. “Jesus. I napped for three hours?”

  “Hungry?”

  She looked down at her stomach as though conferring. “Very.”

  “Good. Me too.”

  Beyond hungry, in Flynn’s case. He’d only eaten a fistful of cheese and a few slices of sausage since before his workout. His gut was packed with butterflies, but they weren’t particularly filling.

  Laurel moved to the couch and he loaded a couple bowls with dried-out casserole. He made it a whole minute before the clinking of forks drove him to blurt, “You buy a pregnancy test?”

  Pausing mid-chew, she studied him with still-sleepy eyes. She swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Not to sound paranoid, but when’d you get your period last?”

  She frowned, thinking. “Oh—it was New Year’s morning. I remember I had a champagne hangover and that showed up on top of it.”

  “That was almost two months ago.”

  “I know, but like I said, sometimes they don’t come at all on the Pill, or just a mini one.”

  That didn’t do much to slow his pulse. “Maybe I should go out and get one now. Just so we can rule it out.”

  She nibbled her lip.

  “Just ask me to. I don’t mind.” And I’m fucking dying inside. No news was not good news. Whoever’d come up with that saying was so full of shit.

  “It’s after ten. And it’s snowing.”

  “Someplace’ll be open. Star Market.”

  “What, in Dorchester?”

  “Wouldn’t you sleep better?” He would. He might sleep at all, in fact. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. I’ll get you some Nyquil while I’m at it, in case it’s the flu. I’ll go right now.”

  “Maybe…”

  “I’m going,” he announced, setting his bowl on the coffee table and reaching for one of his boots. “And I’ll grab tampons, in case it’s just PMS. And Kettle Chips.”

  She smiled, seeming to surrender. “You know, there’s something surpassingly manly about a guy who’ll pick tampons up for you without batting an eye.”

  “Your pussy doesn’t scare me, honey.”

  “No, I daresay it doesn’t. I could come—”

  “Nope, you couldn’t. Eat up. Stay warm. Back soon.”

  She smiled and shook her head, watching him lace his boots and pull on a hat, something simultaneously soft and fierce about her expression. Or maybe that was a fever brewing.

  Twenty minutes later, Flynn was unloading his basket onto the checkout conveyer belt. The young clerk passed his purchases stoically across the scanner—tampons, Nyquil, potato chips, pregnancy test, plus a bottle of red wine. It wasn’t until he handed over the plastic bag that the kid showed any sign of life, saying flatly, “Party time.”

  Flynn was tempted to meet the snark with a verbal backhand, but he didn’t have it in him just now. Instead he muttered, “You know it,” and headed for the door.

  Pregnant. Pregnant. The word had grown larger and larger over the course of the drive, thundering now, echoing and huge. He let it tumble around his skull as he started the trip back home, windshield wipers batting harmless fluffy flakes aside.

  What if she was pregnant? He’d been preoccupied with the thought all day, but it changed now, with the test in his possession. With an actual answer at hand.

  Plus that’s not really the question, is it?

  The real question for Flynn was, what would she want to do about it if she was?

  It wasn’t his decision, but if she asked what he wanted her to do… Shit, be honest? Or refuse to say so she wouldn’t feel pressured? But refusing to say, was that supporting her choice or was that forcing her to make it completely on her own? He thought he knew what he’d want her to do, but it felt so goddamn delicate, the question of whether or not to say.

  She might not be pregnant. Probably isn’t. Some cramps and hot flashes could be anything, and feeling exhausted after waitressing all day was to be expected. The female body was like a car with no manual, a mystery designed to confound and bewitch the simple male brain. A man was lucky to get invited to dick around under the hood and go for a spin, but fuck if any of them knew how to service the thing.

  He pulled up behind his building, yellow streetlight making the steadily fattening snowflakes glow like gold. The plastic bag felt monumental in his grip, as though he were lugging a bomb, not a couple pounds of snacks and feminine hygiene products.

  Not a bomb, he corrected. A pregnancy was scary and profound and life-altering, but that was a metaphor too far. Still, his hand was shaking unmistakably as he unlocked the door.

  “Honey, I’m home. Got you booze and chips and a stick for peeing on. You on the rag yet?”

  A laugh answered that crass greeting, loosening his chest, if only by a fraction. “No, I am not.”

  He flipped the deadbolt, rummaged in the bag and pitched the box toward the bed where she was lounging. “Best pee on a stick then, woman.”

  She’d changed into her pajamas—or rather, her pajama bottoms and one of his tee shirts. Why was that so fucking sexy? Though he was grateful to register any reaction apart from anxiety, he set the thought aside. Answers first, then depravity. We can fuck to celebrate, if it’s negative.

  Laurel knelt and picked up the box, studying it. She opened it while Flynn peeled off his layers.

  “Thanks for doing this.” She unfolded the instructions. “Going out in that.”

  “It was nothing. Go pee on a stick,” he repeated.

  “The snow’s picking up,” she said, still reading.

  “Go pee on a stick.”

  She met his eyes, smiled dryly. “I guess I’ll go pee on a stick, then.”

  “What a good idea. How long does it take to get the answer?”

  She scanned the paper. “Three minutes. Wow, that sounds really fast and like forever at the same time.”

  Well put. “There’s chips and wine, while you wait.”

  She smiled. “Classy. If it comes back a plus sign I better spit the booze out, huh?”

  There was a joke in there, but he barely heard it, caught too completely on plus sign. Plus sign. How could one shape—two fucking little perpendicular lines—possibly be so powerful?

  Then he thought of the cross, that symbol that had dominated his childhood and bullied his psyche, and somehow it made perfect sense.

  Fuck you, lines.

  At least these lines would bring answers. The other kind had done nothing but torment and confuse and contradict.

  Right. Now, to survive the longest three minutes of his entire life.

  5

  Laurel crept out of the bathroom practically on tiptoes, paranoid any sudden movement might somehow queer the test.

  Flynn was planted at the edge of the mattress, hands clasped between his knees. “Well?”

  “I just did it. Two minutes to go, probably.” She wished she hadn
’t done the dishes already. A chore would be a welcome distraction.

  “That took ages.”

  “I know.” She flopped down beside him, splaying her hands on her belly and staring up at the ceiling. “I read the instructions, like, eight times. If we only had the one test, I wasn’t looking to send you back out in the snow.”

  “How hard can it be? ‘Step one, pee on stick.’”

  She let her arm fall back behind her, smacking his side. “It’s trickier than that. You have to angle it and stuff, and pee for just the right amount of time.”

  “Good thing you’re an engineer.”

  She shot him a look. “Are you being mean to me?”

  “No, sorry. Not on purpose. Fuck, I’m fucking nervous.”

  Laurel softened. “Me too.” She sat up and circled a hand over his back. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “No.”

  “I swear I’ve been taking the pills correctly.”

  “I believe you. You won’t even let the toilet paper hang facing the wall—no way you’d get sloppy about that sort of thing.”

  “It’ll probably be negative. The chances are really low.”

  “Maybe I have, like, stealthy-ass fuckin’ Jason Bourne sperm that snuck by your defenses.”

  She snorted. “My uterus isn’t a Swiss bank. It doesn’t work like that, anyhow. It suppresses eggs from being released.”

  “My sperm are so powerful your eggs couldn’t resist them.”

  “My God, if it’s positive you’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. After I regain consciousness. Think it’s been three minutes?”

  Her hand stilled. “Yeah. But I’m too scared to check.”

  “I could. One line is negative and a plus sign is knocked up, right?”

  “No, no. I’ll go.” She sat up, looked at him long and hard.