Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3), Nicci Harris [read a book txt] 📗

I can’t breathe through that thought.

But then he pulls away.

Cassidy

I took two Phenergan last night to help me fall asleep.

I still woke up before my alarm.

And the antihistamines make me foggy. I welcome the feeling.

After a quick run followed by an even quicker breakfast, I am now on my way to my ballet academy. To keep from analysing what happened last night with Max, I stare at my phone, idly flipping through photos and messages.

Carter doesn't peer back at me. Cautious to keep his eyes on the road, he navigates the residential streets before turning onto the highway.

So apparently, my mind can take in pictures and scenery and also thoroughly dissect my anxieties. The fact that Carter is still here. That he picked me up to take me to my classes means I haven't lost Max. Or is this protection now due to his guilt and not his love? I swallow the thought.

Last night was restless. A night filled with yearning.

My insides are all tied up at the mere thought of spending another night alone in my bed. Without him. Wondering whether he's still so angry. So hurt. . . His pain had manifested the only way it knew how. Max Butcher doesn't cry. Or act weak. He doesn’t have a flight mode. . .

I have already foreseen the scenario where he charges into my bedroom and drags me out by the arm. What's more uncomfortable to imagine. . . is if he doesn't. I mean, I'm not exactly my charming, playful self lately. He might enjoy our time apart.

My stomach rolls.

God, that thought makes me feel sick.

Focusing on some selfies of Toni and me, I force my brain to analyse them instead. When my phone rings, I jump. I lift the handset to my ear and answer, "Hello."

"Is this Cassidy Slater?" a young female voice asks.

"Yes."

"We have been trying to get hold of you since you were discharged," she says with a little exasperation or maybe it's nervousness, I can't tell. "I'm a nurse from The District Central Hospital. We wanted to know how you're feeling?"

Shame hits me. I've been ignoring numbers I don't recognise. Every flashing nameless number fills me with fear, reminding me of Erik. Of his anonymous texts. Of how ignorant I was to ignore them.

Through a sigh, I answer, "I'm feeling a lot better."

"Is there any discolouration or pain around your sutures?"

Glancing down at the jagged slice on my forearm, I shake my head even though she can't see me. Erik threw me through a glass table - he made his mark physically and emotionally that night. "No."

"That's great. There is another thing, Cassidy," she says, sounding a little strange. "We were unsure whether you knew at the time and you left quite abruptly."

Sitting up straight, I frown at the rearview mirror. Wary of Carter while he focuses on the road, I lower my voice, but I'm not sure why. "Knew what?"

"Well. . . your blood test revealed that you're about six weeks pregnant, well, seven now." She keeps talking, but the words are suddenly foreign, her voice muffled and distant.

Between my ears, my heartbeat hammers like a drum.

Oh God.

Saliva builds up in my mouth, forcing me to swallow hard. This can’t be happening. Not now.

I'm eighteen.

I want to dance around the world.

I'm eighteen. . .

The phone starts to vibrate beside my ear from my hand trembling so fiercely. I blink at Carter, who is now glancing at me in the mirror. Hearing the tick tick tick of the indicator, I barely register that the car is slowing down and rolling into the strip lane.

"Did you know?" the lady on the other side of the phone asks. Apparently, we both speak English again. Well, this explains the whole crying over the position of a toothbrush thing. The sick feeling. The confusion.

I decide to lie in order to cut the conversation short. "Yes."

The phone call ends or I hang up or she does, I don't know which.

Pregnant.

Through the front windscreen, I see cars flying past us.

Oh God.

We can't bring a baby into his world.

The blare of horns snaps me back to reality. Staring at the mirror, I acknowledge Carter and say, "Why have we stopped?"

For a man who wouldn't need a mask to dress up as Freddy Kruger, it is amazing how comfortable I am in his presence. Unable to see his mouth, I watch his eyes as he says, "That's big news, Miss Slater. Congratulations."

"Could you hear her?"

Nodding, he confirms, "Yes." When he glances at my ear, I realise I'm still clutching my phone to the side of my head. I lower it to my lap. Looking at it, I'm reminded that Max doesn’t have a phone. He doesn't like to be contacted. Bothered. That's the mentality of a man who doesn't want to be tied to the world. Restricted. Not that long ago, he thought having a girlfriend was worse than polio. And now. . .

I glance up at Carter. "I can't dance Sugar Plum." The words come out at the same time as my realisation. Uttered without context, they must be such peculiar words to him. In two months, I'll be expected to perform a very physically demanding role - one that I'll never be able to do four to five months pregnant. I mean, I could. But not to the standard I would want. That truth sinks like a boulder to the pit of my belly, my body slumping in the seat as if its presence is a tangible thing.

How big will my belly be at five months pregnant?

I'm so small.

Max is so big. . .

I don't know enough about genetics to know whether the size of the parents play any role in the size of the foetus. . .

Should I call it a foetus?

Can I?

Is it wrong?

It's a baby-

"Max said you like carnival rides?"

Carter