Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) (21 page)

My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I could hear it echoing in my ears. I continued laying into him, telling him how worthless he was. I was to the point of anger that nothing I said really registered with me. Finally, in a moment of rage, I shouted, “I’m pregnant, Jag. Like you said, though, you don’t need anything to interfere with your lifestyle.”

His eyes bulged in shock, his jaw trembling as he tried to collect his thoughts.

I didn’t wait. I didn’t give him a chance to convince me to stay, or to apologize for any of the hurtful things he’d said. I opened the door and slammed it shut.

I was almost to my car when I heard him shouting, “I was angry. Don’t—I fucking love you. I
love
you more than…”

I reached for the door of my car, snapping back at him, “More than yourself? You don’t even like yourself, Jag. That’s not saying a damn thing! Maybe if you said you love me more than drugs, more than your fame—but then you’d just be lying to me again! I’m over it, Jag. I can’t…” He took several steps toward me and I shook my head. “Don’t come any closer to me. I can’t take your lies. I can’t take you!” I sat in my car, staring at him, watching him break, tears trickling down his face, but the image of him snorting those lines kept me from giving in to him.

I cleared my throat. “I can’t put my own kid through what I went through. You’re a lost cause. I wanted to fix you, but I can’t. Two broken people can’t make a whole, and now I’ve got an entire new set of problems to worry about instead of a doped-out, sex-crazed boyfriend. Do me a favor and when all the questions start coming your way, just say it isn’t yours! Save us both the humiliation.”

I shut the door, started my car, and sped off.

My chest burned and everything inside of me felt like it was slowly bleeding out.

But I couldn’t.

As selfish as it may have been, at that moment I didn’t want to fix him. I didn’t have the strength to. I’d fought through it with Sean only to lose him and almost lose myself. I loved Jag in a way that almost didn’t seem real. And had it not been for the hurt, I think I could have convinced myself that it hadn’t been real.

But it hurt, physically hurt me, how deeply I loved him. I knew I couldn’t fix him. At that point, I had to decide whether I wanted to let him kill me or not.

There was no way around the fact that he would be dead before this kid was old enough to remember him; the only question that I had was whether I was going to let him kill me too. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t commit that kind of suicide.

Chapter 26

My anxiety sped up my pulse when I stepped into the doctor’s office.

The pale blue walls covered with black and white photos of tiny babies swaddled up in blankets did little to soothe me. All it did was make my stomach flip a few times.

On my way up to the check-in desk, I noted the very pregnant women sitting with their ankles crossed while doting husbands draped their arms around them.

And there I was, a bartender knocked up by a coke- addicted rocker.

I could only assume that once I actually started showing, these prim and proper mothers-to-be would try their hardest to cover up the judgmental glares that would be directed at me. They’d feel pity for me and think what a shame it was that such a poor girl would have to raise a baby on her on. Some of them would probably shake their heads, internally shaming me for not using protection, never having the first clue of what I gave up to protect myself and this baby.

The receptionist grinned when I stopped in front of the counter. I forced a nervous smile and grabbed the pen to scrawl my name on the clipboard in front of me.

“Which doctor are you here to see?”

I glanced up from the sign-in sheet, forcing another smile. “Dr. King.”

“Okay. I’ll need your insurance card and driver’s license.” The lady drug the clipboard across the counter to pull the sticker off, then she stood and sorted through the red medical charts to the side of her desk, pulling one from the middle.

I dug through my purse and handed my cards to her, waiting as she made copies. Handing the cards back to me, she glanced down at my chart and stopped. Her eyes lifted up to mine then fell back to the folder.

“Hmm,” she mumbled as she tore a sticky note from the file. She freed an envelope clipped to the front and handed it to me.

I took it from her, slightly confused. “Is this something I need to fill out?”

“Nope.” She took a stack of papers and held them out. “These are. I don’t know what that is, but it was clipped to your chart with a note to give it to you.” She grabbed a pen from the desk. “Just give all those papers to the nurse when you get back in the exam room.”

I sat down in the stiff, navy blue waiting room chair, adjusting the clipboard and numerous papers in my lap before I tore the envelope open.

Inside was one of those order forms for a subscription to the
LA Times
that’s usually inserted into magazines. I flipped the card over and recognized Jag’s handwriting:
I waited all day for you. And I’ll keep waiting until you let me make this right.

I went weak and rolled my lip in to try to keep in the sob that threatened to escape.

The past day and a half hadn’t been easy. Jag had been unrelenting. He’d shown up at my apartment, beating on the door, begging me to let him in—yelling out apologies and promises.

He’d called me countless times but left only one voicemail, which I had neglected to check. He’d even found his way to Layla’s house and begged her to do something for him. And now I’d found out that he had managed to figure out which doctor I was coming to and had shown up for an appointment I had to reschedule.

Thank God I’d rescheduled it, because there was no way that I would have been able to handle the surprise of him kicked back in one of the waiting room chairs.

Part of me wanted to listen to him, wanted to believe that he could change, but I knew from experience that he couldn’t. And I feared if I talked to him, I would give in. I wasn’t as hard as I’d thought—at least not when it came to Jag. The chance of him actually getting his shit together and
keeping
it together was so small I couldn’t risk it. I refused to do that to this child. I refused to raise a child in that type of dysfunctional environment.

He had said he didn’t need anything to interfere with his life. He had proudly confessed that he was an addict and that there was no way he’d ever stay sober. He’d said he didn’t want to stay sober, and if he didn’t want to, there was nothing I could do.

When he’d shown up at my apartment, he yelled through the door that he had been angry, scared that I was going to leave him, and was just putting up a defense so he wouldn’t get hurt. But I know that emotions like that just make you more likely to say things you want to say, but would never let come out of your mouth under normal circumstances. People will say whatever’s needed. They will lie if they think it will allow them to keep something they want. And although I did believe Jag wanted me, I knew he didn’t need me. And I had somehow convinced myself that I didn’t need him.

****

I woke up to my phone going off.

I reached out to my nightstand and fumbled for my phone. Pulling it up, I saw a number I didn’t recognize.

Unrelenting. He’s calling me from someone else’s phone.
I almost answered it, but instead I just dropped it on the pillow beside me.

I wanted to answer it, I wanted to talk to him…and I hated that.

I had never believed in second chances, and I couldn’t help but want to give him one. That’s how deep the connection I felt to him was; I had the urge to go against my own instinct—twice!

I chalked that uncomfortable urge up to the hormones, up to the fact that something inside me just wanted to be with him because I was carrying his child.

I closed my eyes to drift back to sleep, but couldn’t.

Grabbing my phone, I swiped through the pictures. I had at least a hundred of him, and I stopped on one I’d taken when he didn’t even know I was watching him.

I’d taken it the day before everything fell to pieces. I’d been in his kitchen, and when I turned to go back to the living room I’d found him sitting on his sofa leaned over his knees, hands clasped and eyes concentrated on the floor. He looked helpless, he looked lost, and he looked utterly broken.

That was Jagger, not Jag. That picture was the epitome of the real Jagger Steele, guard down, rock star identity pushed to the side, and that picture brought tears to my eyes because it made me hurt, it physically caused my heart to hold back beats because I knew that, deep down inside, he had no idea what to do. He had no clue how to handle his life, how to take the pressures he’d been handed, and he was utterly lost. And if I had to put money on it, I’d bet all he wanted was to feel okay in his own skin.

Jag, he didn’t even know who the hell he was. I had a better idea of who he was than he did.

He had become so consumed with the fame, with the money, the rock, the women that he didn’t have time to sort out who
he
was. He never healed from the hurt that had broken him. There were parts of him that were so much like me, it made me hate him. The ugliest parts of myself, he had those too. He had scars, he had issues that no one could right, and all he wanted to do was make that pain vanish.

And I should’ve known better than to push him away the way I did.

I laid there and contemplated whether I should call him back. This wasn’t a normal situation and the seriousness of what I was forcing him to lose, I couldn’t brush that off. I had no idea what circumstances surrounded the other kid he had, but he’d sworn he had no idea he had a son. What if that was really the truth, what if he’d been lied to…not given a chance to decide if he wanted to be a father?

I couldn’t do the same thing to him.

Letting out a loud breath, I dialed his number. I swallowed. Angry that he had this effect on me, pissed that I hadn’t made him wear a condom, but more terrified that giving him another chance would rip my fucking heart out of my chest, leaving a gashing wound that would never do anything but fester and set into sepsis.

My finger hit the call button, and I hadn’t even pulled the phone to my ear before it went to voicemail. His voice came over the line, first as one of his deep laughs, and then as, “It’s Jag. Leave a message.” The beep drew out and I sat there in silence, panic choking me, closing my throat, and I hung up, immediately sobbing.

I had no idea what in the hell to do. I didn’t want to need him. I didn’t need the risk of losing him looming over me every second of the day. It would be easier to go through the pain now, get it over with, accept that I had been wrong, and just suffocate that want inside my soul for him than it would be to walk into a room and find him OD’d, foam pouring from his mouth and his eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.

At that point in my life, I thought that sometimes maturing was knowing how to cut your losses.

Either way, losing Jag would kill me, but I felt that giving up would be easier than knowing I outright failed, knowing that I wasn’t good enough, that his first love was a high and not me and this child…I just felt like giving up was safer.

I laid there for an hour.

Crying.

Mourning.

Angry.

Just when I got up to get something to eat, my phone rang again. It was the same unknown number and before it had finished ringing the second time, I picked up.

“Hello?” My pulse raced as I waited, hoping to hear Jag’s voice come over the line.

“Roxy?”

That wasn’t Jag’s voice.

My chest tightened. “Yeah…”

A loud breath rustled over the receiver.

I waited, but the woman on the other end didn’t say anything. I tried to push down that horrible gut feeling I had inside me. “Hello? Who is this?”

A few sobs broke over the phone, and I fell back onto my bed, my hand covering my mouth because I knew what was coming.

“Roxy, this is Jules. Jag…he…”

I swallowed, my breath picking up as my chest pulled so tight I thought my heart would be squeezed to the point of seizing. “No. Jules…?” I stopped because I knew the only reason she would call me would be if something horrible had happened to him.

“Jules? Please…I tried to call him…I—I just…” The room spun, and I laid all the way down in the bed.

She gathered herself and cleared her throat. “Sweetie, it’s not your fault. He was…”

Was! Was?

“He had a problem. Jag…he was always a step ahead of death. He—he…”

Had, was… he’s dead!

Tears poured down my cheeks, my stomach kinked, and my chest burned from the pain that welled inside it.

“Please, tell me he’s
not
dead? This is my fault. It’s my fault…” I grew hysterical and jumped up from the bed, swiping my hands through my hair and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

“He’s not, right? I—I didn’t know what else to do. What was I supposed to do? I just wanted to fix him. I just wanted to make him happy, but I
can’t
.” At that point, I was screaming through tears.

“I don’t know. All we know right now is that he’s been admitted to the ER in Savannah.”

“Savannah?” I shouted.

“Yeah. I don’t know details, but I know he’s not responsive.”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry. I hate to do this to you like this, Roxy, but I know you cared—
care
about him, and I know that I’ve never seen Jag act the way he did with you. He loves you. I just—I’m really upset right now, you know. He was…is…I just—I’ll get Stone to call you when we find out more. Just thought you should know. Sorry to do this to you.” Jules had to stop again to choke back her emotions. “I just, you know. He’s done this before. I’m sure he’ll be okay. You know? Just fine. Jag, he’ll be okay. And…you, you’re good for him. Don’t give up on him. Okay? He
needs
you.”

When I swallowed, my throat caught, and all I could do was nod even though I knew she couldn’t see me.

“Okay. I’m gonna make some calls to the company now. I’ll check back on you later.” Jules hung up. And I completely broke down.

I had no idea whether he was dead or alive, in a coma…Guilt slammed over me, crushing me into a lifeless pile in the middle of my bed.

I’d asked him not to break me, but I’d shattered him with my stubbornness.

He was human, and he was going to fuck shit up.

He was going to lie, he was going to do things he knew he shouldn’t, and it was wrong of me to have expected him to change for me.

He
was
who he was, and he was right, I had known—I had been more than aware of who he was before I ever let him into my life.

Had I
really
wanted to stay away from him, I would have. And by letting him in, I’d become vulnerable and unable to accept the responsibility of supporting someone who needed to mend, of loving not only the pieces of him that were wonderful and beautiful, but the parts of him that were diseased, that were raw and gritty and all those things that I hated.

I neglected my part of that deal. And the worst part of it—the thing that made every last part of my body cripple with remorse was the fact that I’d known
better
. I knew how incredibly fragile he was, I could see that he had one foot already in his own grave; and when he fucked up, instead of trying to yank him back, I had just shoved him into the hole.

Why did I always act so hard, so fucking cold, and like I didn’t need a damn thing? Sure, my life had been utter hell. I had suffered well over my share of tragedy, but so had he.