Taking Possession: A Secret Baby Romance (Bad Ballers Book 4) Page 9

  After an hour of just staring blankly at the place where Dash had unleashed his fury, Abe called. We spent two hours on the phone, rehashing the conversation.

  “I don’t know,” said Abe, who was being surprisingly somber. “I don’t think either of you handled it well. Yes, he was being self-centered, but so were you. And before you yell at me, I understand why you said what you did – but why not give it a go between the two of you? You don’t have to tell anyone about it yet. It might not even work out. Hell, you might not even carry your baby to term – and yes, I know that’s terrible to say, but you’re still in your first trimester…”

  He could tell I wasn’t in the mood to hear him defend Dash, so he eventually told me to shake it off because I had to teach the next day.

  Not only did I have to teach, but I was having dinner with my dad.

  I really like my dad. Despite being perpetually busy during our childhood, my dad was the one who had taken care of me when my mom was off making sure Becca became an international sensation. It was my dad who had stoked my love of literature and had told me, from the get-go, that I should be a teacher.

  He was in town for an academic conference, and we met at seven o’clock at a local microbrew that served pub food.

  “You look tired,” said my dad, mildly. He’d ordered a large pint of the house lager, and I’d ordered a water.

  “Parent/teacher conferences were last night,” I said.

  “That’s why I teach college,” said my father, smirking, “though the students who grade grub are almost just as bad…”

  “I’d take a grade grubbing student over a pushy parent any day,” I muttered. “How are you? How is Irena?”

  My dad was happy to spend the next few minutes talking about his life with his new girlfriend and the new paper he was presenting at his conference, but as our entrees came, he grew reflective.

  “Your sister thinks you’re pregnant,” he said almost casually, but his eyes lingered on my water. Goddamn it, Becca.

  My dad and I share coloring (red hair and blue eyes), but he’s tall (it’s where my sister got her height from), and it’s easy for him to look down at me. Right now, he was giving me that same look he used to give me when he’d found out I’d snuck out of the house to go party during high school.

  And I felt like a naughty teenager.

  “You know,” I said sharply, “I’m not sixteen anymore. And I’d appreciate it if, when having this conversation, you’d treat me like a grown woman who’s turning thirty in a few months.”

  My dad blinked, surprised, but he sat back, stopped towering, and nodded at me. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I stared at my steak tips. “Can you keep our conversation to yourself?” I asked him bluntly.

  My dad nodded.

  So I told him. Abe knew, Dash knew, and since I’d decided I was going to keep the baby, there was no reason not to start letting people know. If anyone could give me advice on what to do, it was going to be my father.

  My dad sat there during the whole conversation, occasionally taking a bite of his burger or sipping at his beer. When I finished with Dash coming over last night (I didn’t tell him about the hole in the wall), my father frowned.

  “So, you and Dash haven’t resolved anything yet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He nodded and then he shrugged. “Well, you’re a big girl, Anne. Far be it from me to tell you what to do. If I can offer up one piece of advice?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Don’t tell your mother or your sister,” he said, pursing his lips. “Not any of it.”

  22

  Dash

  “Two more, Todd.” I waved my hands at the bartender, who actually put down the cocktail he was shaking to get me two more fingers of Glen Livet.

  “Bro,” said Caz, sitting next to me, “I’m all for a last hurrah before the season starts, but can I recommend you slow down a little?”

  “He’s about to recommend you shut your mouth and mind your business,” muttered Burke, who was standing on my other side, finishing up his third Heineken. “Besides,” said Burke, waving for Todd to bring over another beer. “Let him have his scotch. Another glass, and he might actually tell us what the fuck has been riding him.”

  Fat. Fucking. Chance.

  I ignored both of them. I’d already told them, at least four times, that my business was my business, and if they weren’t satisfied with that answer, then they could go fuck themselves.

  “I have a distinct feeling that we’re about to find out anyway,” muttered Caz. I glanced at him, but he was looking toward the back of the bar.

  “Shit,” said Burke.

  Curious, I looked too. Becca.

  Of course. Of course she was here. I turned back as Todd brought the scotch over. I put it back in one gulp and, before he could escape, said, “One more of those, please.”

  “If you’re going to drink it like that, I’d suggest getting a slightly less expensive brand,” said Burke, mildly. I ignored him again.

  “Hey, Lady Lovely,” said Burke over my shoulder. I didn’t need to turn around to know that Becca had just walked over. She was wafting Coco Noir (she was their spokeswoman). I was drunk enough that the scent was bringing back memories of Becca, wearing nothing but that perfume as she raked her fingers down my chest.

  “Hey, Berserker,” said Becca, her voice pitched below the thumping music. “You guys having one last hurrah before camp starts?” Pre-season workouts started in five days.

  I knew I had to turn around and offer her a hello. So I did, trying not to focus on her face as I kissed her cheek. Goddamn, that perfume was heavy tonight. Over her shoulder, I saw Gil standing just a few feet away.

  “Hey, man,” I said, straightening up. I had almost half a foot on Gil, who was an inch shorter than Becca in her heels. Why the fuck would she bring her new boyfriend to my bar. I closed my eyes, trying to rein in my irritation. Just to piss him off, I kept my hand on Becca’s back a little longer than I would have otherwise. I saw Burke tense, and I saw Gil’s eyes narrow. God, he looked like a lizard when his eyes narrowed. I smiled at him.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

  “No, man, I’m good,” said Gil, his eyes still narrowed.

  But I was feeling generous. Todd came back with my scotch. “Hey, hang on,” I said to the bartender. “I’m gonna get this guy a drink.”

  “Dash,” Becca warned, her voice low.

  “Do you know who he is?” I asked Todd. Todd gave me a forced and slightly harried smile and glanced at Gil.

  “Yah, Angel’s Craving,” said Todd. “Love your music, man.”

  “Thanks,” said Gil, but he didn’t sound grateful. What a dick. When someone says they like your music, you should sound grateful.

  “What sort of drink do you think this guy likes?” I asked Todd.

  “Dash,” said Becca, more sharply. I looked over my shoulder and frowned at her. “What?” I said. “Can’t I get the guy a congratulatory drink?”

  “Don’t need your congratulations, man,” said Gil. I turned to look at him, and Todd hurried off to see to another customer. Gil’s eyes were still narrowed at me. I looked him up and down. What the fuck did she see in this guy?

  I bet that Gil was asking himself the same question. Dude was spoiling for a fight, as if he had to prove to Becca that he was tougher than me. I smiled at him. Fucking try it.

  “I don’t need congratulations,” Gil repeated. “I got your girl, man. That’s all the congratulations I need.”

  “Oh shit,” Caz muttered.

  “Gil,” snapped Becca, turning on him.

  “You have her now,” I said coolly. “But you won’t last long.” I waved between them. “You’ve got a kid, right? Becca doesn’t want a family.”

  “Dash, man, not here,” said Burke softly, crowding me. I stepped away from him and knocked into Caz.

  “You’re wrong, bro
,” said Gil, grinning at me nastily. “She never wanted a family with you.”

  Oh. This fucker was going to get it so bad. I felt my hand fisting and saw Caz move to step in front of me, but it was Becca who stopped me, tugging viciously on my arm.

  I looked down at her, incredulous. “Come on,” she snapped, tugging harder. I took a long swallow of my scotch, slammed the empty glass down on the bar, and followed her out.

  “Becca,” I said, my voice a warning. “Tell me that fucker is joking.”

  Becca looked furious for a moment, but her look cooled to something more like irritation. “He’s not joking, Dash.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I was too drunk. I needed this spelled out.

  “We’re too selfish, both of us,” said Becca. “We’d have been terrible parents together.”

  “Fuck you! I’d have been a fucking great father!”

  “We’d have been terrible parents together,” said Becca. “But not Gil. I’ve seen Gil with Arnold…”

  “His fucking son is named Arnold…”

  “…and he’s a wonderful father.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Dash,” snapped Becca. “I’m trying to be honest here.”

  “Oh. Now you’re trying to be honest. Great. You couldn’t have honestly told me this before you ripped my heart out of my chest?”

  “I never ripped your heart out of your chest, Dash. We never loved each other enough.”

  “Don’t tell me how I did or didn’t feel.”

  “I’m trying to be honest…”

  “You want some honesty?” I snapped.

  Becca blinked.

  “I’ll give you some fucking honesty. You know who doesn’t think I’ll be a shitty father? Your sister.”

  Becca’s brows drew low with confusion. “Anne?”

  “Annie thinks I’m going to be a fucking fantastic father. Matter of fact, she’s having my kid. Congratulations! Go get yourself a Birkin bag.”

  Becca took a step away from me. “That’s not funny, Dash…”

  “I’m just being honest,” I said, shrugging.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Not a word of it.”

  “You guys okay?” Caz asked, rounding the corner, Gil hot on his heels. Becca whirled toward Gil and shook her head, once. “Get me out of here,” she said to him.

  Gil sent me a look of disgust and triumph. Taking Becca by the hand, he led her out.

  “What the hell happened?” asked Caz.

  I shrugged. “I need another drink. I need about ten more drinks. I’m going to get so fucked up that you’re going to cart me home. Got it?”

  Caz just stared at me. It was Burke, leaning silently against the wall, who said, “Got it.”

  23

  Anne

  “How could you,” my mother sobbed into the phone. “How could you do this to your sister?”

  I took a deep breath. Sitting in the faculty lounge during my off period, I knew this was not the most appropriate place to have this conversation with my mother. My colleagues kept walking in and out. The eleventh grade biology teacher even stopped to make sure I was okay.

  Fine, I’d signaled. But I wasn’t fine. I was growing angrier by the second. Not only was there nothing I could say to defend myself, even if there had been, my mother wasn’t giving me a chance to speak.

  “I raised you better,” my mother said. “Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I failed as a mother!”

  I closed my eyes and took another deep, calming breath. I had imagined what would happen when my family found out, but it hadn’t been anywhere near as dramatic as this. Becca had sent me a single text: We’re done. And before I could come up with a response for her, my mother had called me at ten-minute intervals during my workday until I’d picked up the phone. You’d have thought my pregnancy was some sort of slight against her, the way she was carrying on.

  With nothing to say, I could only listen as she bemoaned my “terrible judgment” and “jealous disposition.”

  “I don’t understand what Becca ever did to you that you would treat her this way…” my mother bawled.

  “Mom…” I tried.

  “I wish I weren’t your mother!” my mom snapped. “To be the mother of such a hateful child…”

  I hung up the phone then, without thinking – just hung it up. I guess we knew whose side my mother was on. And it wasn’t mine.

  I had to wait until the end of the school day to call Becca back. Of course, she didn’t pick up. So I called, and called, and called.

  “Can you not read? Are you that stupid? I said we’re done,” my sister snapped, picking up the phone finally.

  “Can we talk about this?” I know I should have sounded more contrite, but after the long day and the conversation I’d had my mother, I couldn’t help but sound exhausted.

  “What is there to talk about?” Becca was furious.

  “Everything,” I said. “I feel terrible.” And it was true. Becca had divorced Dash and was dating someone else, and yet I still felt miserable about the whole situation.

  “Well, you clearly didn’t feel bad enough to not fuck my husband.”

  “He wasn’t your husband. Your divorce had gone through…”

  “And that makes it better!”

  “It should,” I said, losing my patience. “It should make it better that I didn’t even conceive of doing anything with Dash until you two were finished…”

  “How do I know that? How do I know this wasn’t something that was happening behind my back?”

  “Because you know me,” I said. “You know I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “I didn’t think you’d go and sleep with Dash either, and yet…” said Becca. “I didn’t think you’d go and have a baby with my ex-husband, but you went ahead and…”

  “None of this was planned!” I said.

  “And that makes it better?! Do you know how it felt to have Dash throw your pregnancy in my face? To know that my own sister would betray me like that?! Fuck, Anne! I have to worry about the entire world talking shit about me, but to have my own sister go behind my back! To hear about it from my ex-husband. He threw you in my face like you were some trophy!”

  “Becca, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry! You’re supposed to be my big sister. You’re supposed to watch out for me…” Becca’s voice broke on a sob, and I had to wait while she cried, while she struggled to compose herself.

  “Becca…”

  “No,” my sister said. “No, you’re going to listen to me. You think Dash wants anything to do with you? You think you are anything to Dash other than a way to get at me? I feel sorry for you. Dash Barnes has never cared about anyone but himself. He only cares about appearances and about how good you make him look. He dates actresses and models. He doesn’t date high school English teachers.”

  “Becca…”

  But she’d hung up.

  I felt as though my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I dialed her number again and again, but she wouldn’t pick up.

  In the end, I called Dash. When he didn’t pick up either, I left a voicemail. “How could you?” I said into the phone. I was sobbing, my words barely comprehensible. “How could you tell her like that? You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  24

  Dash

  I don’t think I’ve felt worse in my entire life. Not even during the Super Bowl against the 49ers, when LaShawn Robbins had intercepted the game-winning touchdown pass. To hear Annie like that on the phone was pure torture. Annie was a sweetheart, and she didn’t deserve what I’d done.

  To be honest, I don’t remember saying anything, but apparently, Burke had witnessed the whole affair. He repeated our conversation verbatim. I’d told Becca about the pregnancy – bragged about it, in fact. According to Caz, she’d been wrecked. She’d left immediately with her rocker boyfriend.

  I didn’t care about Becca’s hurt feelings, but I knew I’d hurt Annie, and I
felt terrible about that.

  You’re not the man I thought you were.

  Those words humbled me, ran through my head all the way to airport, and beat against my skull like a pulse until we landed at Ronald Reagan. I’d called Annie, but she hadn’t picked up. Go figure. She had work tomorrow, no doubt, and was probably asleep.

  I should be asleep, too. I was still suffering the lingering effects of a terrible hangover, and our season started in just two days’ time. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I’d been doing a lot of thinking today, and I’d come to one obvious conclusion: Annie and I should be together.

  I’d woken up feeling miserable, and all I’d wanted were Annie’s cool fingers against my skull and Annie’s sympathetic lips at my temple.

  And when I’d gotten her message, I’d wanted to throw myself at her feet and apologize. Her family had disowned her? That was fine. I could be her family.

  My assistant had a car waiting for me the minute I got off the plane, and I gave the driver Annie’s address. On the car ride over, I tried to think of what I was going to say to her when I got there. I tried to compose at least a dozen texts and erased them all. What I had to say was better said in person.

  I arrived at Annie’s apartment around 11 p.m. I had to ring her doorbell four times before I heard the latch of the front door open. I took the stairs two at a time.

  Annie met me at her door, looking sleep tousled: red hair tangled and mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Her eyes looked red and swollen from crying. I swear to God, it broke my heart.

  “Dash?” Annie blinked, as if trying to bring me into focus. “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk,” I said. Only, I didn’t push my way into her apartment. I waited.

  “Come in,” she said after a moment, stepping aside.

  I walked into her apartment, taking stock of the small space. God, when was the last time I’d ever lived in a space this small? College, probably. My freshman year, before the team had gotten me off-campus housing in a spacious townhouse. I probably made, in one game, more money than Annie made in an entire year.