Brutal Game (6 page)

He came with a thundering moan, pressing close, driving deep, falling still and silent after three long, clenching thrusts.

She listened to his breathing, the delicious rush and gasp of his disbelief and satisfaction. She hummed a happy sound, smiling.

“Mm.” He kissed her cheek, squeezed her tightly with his arms and legs. His cock was going soft, slipping from her along with the warm spoils of their sex.

“Turn over,” he said again.

Laurel rolled onto her back and he grabbed a washcloth from the little plastic bin on the shelf where the lube—and formerly the condoms—lived. She tidied herself and he lay beside her. She watched his ribs rise and fall, rise and fall, and breathed them both in.

“No cramps, huh?”

She dropped the towel over the edge of the bed. “Nope.”

He turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Is it just me, or was that fucking intense?”

“It’s not just you.” She glowed to know he’d felt the same way. Pleased to imagine it had felt even a fraction as mind-altering to him as it had to her. “That was like… I was going to say an out-of-body experience, but actually I mean the opposite. Like my brain checked out and my body was… I dunno, but it was crazy. Crazy hot. Crazy good.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Maybe your pheromones are, like, turbo-charged, because of…you know.”

“Maybe I’m just fuckin’ great in the sack.”

She rolled her eyes and tapped his chin and lips with a clumsy finger. He kissed it, then caught it between his lips, suckling. She smiled, charmed and spent and blissed out beyond reason.

“I propose we fall asleep ASAP,” she said, “to maximize the orgasm haze and minimize the chance of lying awake and thinking too hard about stuff.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

She nodded, mushing her hair into the tangled covers. “My thoughts exactly.”

“You go first,” he said, meaning the bathroom.

She took the invitation, padding naked through the apartment. Strangely, she didn’t feel cold at all. At least not until she stepped into the bright and whirring bathroom, only to spot the fateful pee-wand on the sink’s edge.

Still a plus sign.
Still a hell of a question, demanding a fuck of an answer. Just like that, the haze was gone, sucked away by the shower fan. And Laurel knew she’d be lucky to sleep a single wink, tonight.

“
N
ow you’re
definitely
sure about this?”

Flynn glanced at the girl in his passenger seat—a year or two younger than Laurel, plump, with a plain, expressive face and a vinyl purse shaped like a cheeseburger.

“Positive,” he said.

It had been a week since the appearance of the little blue plus sign, and whether Laurel’s roommate knew she was pregnant, Flynn wasn’t sure. He doubted it. Laurel held things back, held things in, even from her friends. Plus Anne hadn’t said anything to suggest she knew, and unlike Laurel, she
wasn’t
the type to withhold.

Anyhow, this mission had to do with a different—if no less monumental—uncertainty.

“This is
so
exciting,” Anne said, shaking her mittened fists before her, all but vibrating. “I’m so honored you tapped me for the job.”

“I’m relieved as fuck you said yes. I don’t have the first clue what sort of a ring she’d want.”

Nor did Flynn have the first clue if Laurel would say yes when he proposed. He only knew that
he
was certain, and ready, and that the decision felt right.

They’d been living with the unanswered question of the pregnancy for what felt like eons, and though he ached for a decision, he knew better than to rush her. Plus he felt nearly comfortable with the ambiguity, now. And steeled more than ever in his commitment, whether they wound up raising a kid together in nine months or five years or never. His mind was made up, and he’d always defaulted to action over navel-gazing.

At this very moment, Laurel was at his sister’s place, helping get ready for a party to celebrate his niece’s graduation from vocational college. It was a Sunday and he’d told Laurel a white lie—said he’d picked up an overtime shift for the afternoon and that he’d catch up with them all later. No doubt with a tiny velvet box burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

“You came to the right woman,” Anne said with gravity.

“You sound confident.”

“I bet Laurel and I have watched the past four
Bachelor
and
Bachelorette
finales together.”

“That a TV show?”

“It is! It’s the best TV show there is. And at the end of every season a chick gets proposed to, and there’s always a bit where the dude—or dudes—pick out the engagement ring. They show them perusing a few different designs, and we judge the crap out of every one.”

“So what’s she into? Laurel?”

“Simple, for sure. Anytime they show a ring with loads of crap on it she’s all, like, ‘Gross.’ So definitely a solitaire, or
maybe
a solitaire plus a couple tiny diamonds on the sides. But not slathered in gaudy diamond frosting, you know?”

“All right. So gold, or…?”

“Have you
ever
seen Laurel wear gold jewelry?”

He frowned, drawing a blank. “I have no idea.”

Anne shook her head in his periphery. “You’re such a guy.”

“What gave me away?”

“She’s a silver girl, all the way. So that means either white gold or platinum. Whichever your budget can handle.”

“I figured it was most important to get her the biggest diamond I can afford.” He wasn’t rolling in it, but he lived simply and worked hard and had a respectable hunk of savings to his name; you had to when you didn’t boast some cushy gig with a 401K.

“Don’t get anything gigantic,” Anne said. “It has to fit a woman’s frame.”

“Her frame?”

“Oh my God, you’re so lucky I’m here.”

“Clearly.”

“Plus you can get a
big
diamond, but one with some flaws in it, for the same price as a smaller one that’s closer to perfect.”

“Oh.” Shit, there was more to this than he’d realized. Better to have Anne explain than get taken for a ride by the salesperson. Like the opposite of Flynn taking his sister’s car to the shop for her.

“Personally, I’d say go somewhere in the middle. A little flaw or two is fine. I mean, it’s not like people walk around wearing jewelers’ monocles, right?”

“Right.” A jeweler’s what now?

“And it has to be a conflict-free diamond, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Crickets chirped between his ears.

“What shape, do you think?” Anne talked a mile a minute, but today Flynn welcomed it. It didn’t allow his own nervous mental commentary to get a word in edgewise, even if these questions had him feeling less prepared by the minute.

“Shape? They’re just, like, round, aren’t they?”

“Usually. But there’s loads of other options too. Square and oval and marquis and emerald and radiant—oh, radiant is
really
classy.”

“Jesus, am I qualified for this? I’ve only got a high school diploma.”

“I’ll hold your gigantic hand. Have you guys talked about marriage much?”

“Not…explicitly,” he said. Not at all, in fact. He’d made the mistake of teasing Laurel about it way back when they’d first been hooking up, and it had weirded her out so much he’d not dared mention the M-word since.

“So this is going to be a complete surprise.”

“Pretty much.”

“Why now?”

He kept his eyes glued to the road through the watery flakes pelting the windshield. “It just hit me.” Like a fist to the face. And he’d recovered from the resulting daze without a doubt in his mind.

“You know how you’re going to propose?”

“Not really.” Again, not at all.

“When?”

“Not sure. When it feels right.” In the next week or two, he imagined, some time when it was just the two of them. Before she decided about the pregnancy, he hoped. He wanted her to know where he stood. Wanted her to know that if she kept it, he was in this. And that if she didn’t, it didn’t change how he felt for her, how serious he was… Though now he thought about it, maybe it would make her decision harder, if he proposed first. Maybe that was too much pressure, like a big fat sign she’d take to mean he wanted her to have the baby.

And is it?
Fuck if he even knew—

“You nervous?”

He cracked a smile. “Terrified.”

“Ha! This from the guy who volunteers to get assaulted every weekend. For free.” Anne had come along to the fights with Laurel once and spent the entire night wincing and shielding her eyes with her purse. “For
free
,” she said again, throwing her pink wooly hands up in disbelief.

“For fun.”

“You know what’s super fun? Bar trivia. Badminton. Getting drunk and trying on all the clothes in your closet.”

“Your closet, maybe.” He exited the highway, taking them onto a neglected route trimmed with tired strip malls. When they reached the plaza, he was relieved to see the jewelry store was nicer-looking than most of its neighbors. He parked and shut off the engine, sat holding the wheel and staring blankly between his fists.

Anne patted his shoulder. “Nothing to fear, champ. Just a massively expensive purchase with no guarantee she’ll say yes.”

“When you put it that way.”

“C’mon. Let’s go look at sparkly shit.”

And since the car was getting cold, he flung his door open and took the next big, icy step into the unknown.

“
H
ow’s this
?” Laurel asked, holding up a sugar cookie to show Flynn’s sister.

Heather eyed it in her beady way and nodded. “Perfect.”

Before them on the kitchen table were tubes of icing and sprinkles and those little silver balls that just had to be poisonous, Laurel imagined. The cookies were supposed to be snowflakes, frosted pale blue and white, but they’d spread a bit in the oven and given the color scheme, they could’ve passed for trussed-up Stars of David.

She set the test cookie aside and got to work on the rest while Heather layered a lasagna. For a family named Flynn they certainly did lean heavily on Italian bakes. Then again, she’d never before had a meal at Heather’s not bestowed by a surly delivery driver, so it felt very fancy indeed.

For Laurel, the afternoon was a welcome break from the lingering questions that nagged at her day and night. A week since she’d peed on that stick—and two days since she’d peed on a second one, also positive—and she felt no closer to confident about her decision. But for the next few hours, it wasn’t about her. It was about Kim, and about cookies, and fun and celebration. She just hoped no one noticed her toasting with seltzer water.

The young woman of the hour was out at the moment picking up her daughter from her ex’s mom’s house, leaving just Laurel and Heather to handle the party prep. Once upon a time this apartment had seemed so harsh and unwelcoming to Laurel, with its cigarette undertones and the incessant drone of the portable TV on the kitchen counter, always tuned to court TV or trashy talk shows.

Heather herself had initially intimidated the crap out of Laurel, as well. She was nearly fifteen years older than Flynn, an abrasive South Boston native with a lanky build and a hulking presence, a load of auburn hair and clashing roots and no deficit of eye shadow. Everything about Heather Flynn growled,
Don’t fuck with me,
but Laurel had grown very fond of her. She’d stepped up to raise her brother in her twenties and was every inch the mama bulldog, but she hid a heart of gold behind the sandpaper veneer.

Her daughter Kim had just completed a certificate program in medical billing. The family, broken though it was, was fiery and proud, and you’d think Kim had just graduated from Harvard with honors.

Laurel, on the other hand, had had no one cheering when she’d crossed the stage to accept her Bachelor’s in Engineering at Wentworth aside from her classmates, to say nothing of a party to mark the occasion. The whole thing struck her as slightly outlandish but infinitely charming, and she envied Kim, she could admit. Or perhaps it merely humbled her to remember how she’d judged Flynn’s niece when they’d first met, thinking she was a sulky, overgrown teenager who’d had a kid way too young and fucked up her life.

Joke’s on me,
Laurel thought. In no time at all Kim might land a job that paid better than Laurel’s waitressing gig. The engineering market in Boston was tight and competitive, and it didn’t help that she’d let her education lapse. She wanted to kick herself, some days. Now more than ever.

“You’re quiet.” Heather’s accent was as heavy as her brother’s.
Yaw quiet.

“Am I normally noisy?” Laurel deflected, knowing full well Heather had her pegged.

“Somethin’s on your mind.”

Laurel went with the truth, if not the one that really had her preoccupied. “Just thinking about how Kim’s getting her shit together, and here I am, officially thirty, and no closer to a career than I was when I was her age. Makes me realize a Bachelor’s is just a waste of time and money if you’re too much of a coward to use it.”

“It’s not too late.”

“I know,” she said, pressing a silver bauble into the center of a blue cookie. “It just looks so bad to potential employers, that I’ve let it get so moldy.”

“Just keep at it. It’s all well and good kickin’ your own ass if it gets you movin’, but don’t pause long enough to let the self-pity take root. Trust me, I’m Catholic. I know guilt. And guilt gets shit
done
.”

“No, I know. And you’re right. For me, inaction is the absolute worst thing. If I think too hard about it, I get scared. And if I get scared, I clam up. It’s just such a slog, sending out résumé after résumé and getting nothing back. Like I’m shouting into the— Oh.” Pain spread through her lower back, slow and intense, as though her tailbone were in a vise. “Oh.
Oh,
Jesus.”

Heather glanced up, cheese bag in hand. “You okay?”

“It’s my back.” She clutched the spot, rubbing, not caring if she was getting frosting on her sweater.

“You throw it out?”

Laurel shook her head, gnashed her teeth through a fresh, mean wave of agony. “No,” she groaned. “It’s an ache, but Jesus, it’s so bad.
Fuck
.” The pain eased and she caught her breath. Goddamn, was this another joy of pregnancy?

“I’ve got ibuprofen,” Heather said.

“No, thanks.” She was only supposed to take Tylenol. For someone who wasn’t even sure what she wanted to do about her pregnancy, she’d done her homework. “Damn, I hope that was it.”

“PMS fun?”

“Something like that. Whew.” She waved a hand to cool her flushed face, then looked back to the task at hand. “When do you get your new car?” she asked Heather. The old one had “shit the bed,” as Heather put it, not worth the money to replace the engine. Flynn had found her a used one through a coworker’s brother or something.

“Not ’til the weekend, probably. Worth the wait, though—looks like a good little car. Yaris, it’s called, which is a stupid-ass name. Sounds like a nickname for your twat. But it’s supposed to be reliable. Not a scratch on it, Mike said, which’ll be nice after driving that rust bucket for twelve years…”

Laurel nodded, half listening. The pain hadn’t gone, merely softened. She felt its nagging pulse and moved in tiny, cautious motions as she worked. There were only three cookies left to ice when another spasm hit, harsh as the first. She moaned and doubled over, staggering to a chair to sit.

“Shit, girl, you okay?”

Laurel shook her head, then nodded, unsure. Goddamn, six weeks pregnant and she was already huffing and puffing her way through the pain—how the heck would
birth
feel, if things went that way?

“Ah, fuck.” She squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands to her back, trying to radiate their heat into the spot, praying it would calm again soon. There was more, now—cramps deep in her belly, squeezing sensations shot through with hot shocks of pain.

“I’ve got Vicodin,” Heather said. “It might be expired, but—”

“No, no. Christ, this hurts
so
much.”

“You need me to get you to Urgent Care?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” It was hard to think, and scary besides.

“I could call a cab— Oh. Laurel.”

She opened her eyes, finding Heather’s blue ones wide.

“Baby, you’re bleeding.”

Laurel looked down to discover a maroon patch spreading across the beige chair pad between her thighs. “Oh. Oh my God.”