Broken

by Tia Sirrah

  I tightened my arms around Conner’s neck. "I’m heavy," I said through a sleepy fog.

  He lightly chucked. "Hardly." He tugged the covers back with one hand and gently placed me between the cool sheets.

  "What time is it?" I asked as I turned towards him. He sat on the edge of the bed.

  "A quarter after 10." He smoothed my curls out of my face and brushed his knuckles along my cheek. "You’re so fucking beautiful."

  "Thanks, but you have to say that. I’m growing your seeds," I joshed while yawning.

  "Indeed, you are. And I must admit, that’s hot as hell." He placed a kiss to my nose before brushing his fingers along my freckles. "Go back to sleep. I’ll go. We can hang out tomorrow."

  "Don’t go," I said a little too eagerly. "I mean, you can stay. If you want," I coolly said with a slight shrug of my shoulder.

  A small smile flitted across his lips. "I’m pretty beat actually. You mind if I crash on your couch?"

  "Yeah, sure. Or…you can sleep in here. This bed is big enough for both of us." My blinks were becoming slower from fatigue, and I focused on Conner’s luminous green eyes that practically glowed in the darkened bedroom.

  "Cool." He brushed his thumb across my bottom lip before standing up and pulling his shirt over his head. "Try not to seduce me. My morals are shit."

  I smiled and tugged my bottom lip between my teeth. Conner undressed down to his boxer briefs. Even in the darkened room, I could see the hard planes of his sculpted body. Thank goodness it was too dark for him to see me blushing. I cleared my throat and turned away from him. I soon felt a slight dip in the mattress, then felt the heat and hardness of his body as he pressed against my back and draped an arm around my waist.

  "Goodnight, angel," he said before resting his palm on my extended belly.

  "Goodnight, Conner." I laced my fingers through his and drifted off to sleep.

  My full bladder woke me up in the morning. A long muscular arm was strewn across me, Conner’s large hand still splayed across my bare belly. His breath lightly tickled my neck as he snored softly. I managed to turn and face him without disturbing him from his slumber. Conner looked like a fallen angel. His bed hair was an unruly mass of silky strands that I was tempted to run my fingers through. His bare chest rose and fell with each breath. The contours of his face were relaxed, and he looked so peaceful. The dark stubble on his jaw looked both scratchy and soft. My eyes trailed lower to his morning wood, in all its glory. I felt like a creeper, staring at him unabashedly while he slept. I couldn’t resist, however, having this unobstructed and uninterrupted view of him.

  Still in a deep sleep, he fitfully turned onto his back, one hand now splayed across his stomach, and the other up above his head. I bit my lip, as I got an eyeful of his body. The sheets were now tangled around his lower waist, exposing his delicious V muscle that led to his happy trail. As much as I wanted to stay and ogle him, duty called. I had to pee, like five minutes ago. Careful not to wake him, I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bathroom.

  After washing my hands and brushing my teeth, I climbed back in bed and snuggled against Conner, curving my body to the side of his. I rested a hand along the ridges of his defined abdomen and draped a leg on top of his muscular thigh. He stirred slightly in his sleep and dragged an arm around my waist, pulling me even closer to his side. I rested my head on his carved chest and felt him nuzzle his face into my large mop of curls. His light snoring resumed, and I fell back into a deep slumber, feeling hopeful and at peace.

  Chapter 22

  FULL CIRCLE. CONNER AND I sat down for lunch at the country club where we first met. Typically, country clubs were not my scene, as my parents were members of a similar one, but Conner swore by their veggie burgers. I was twenty-seven weeks into my pregnancy, and the smell, texture, and taste of meat made me nauseous.

  "Good, right?" Conner smiled easily before taking a swallow of his mineral water.

  "The best. Thank you," I beamed, before finishing my fries. "You are the real MVP for recommending this place."

  Our waiter approached our table, and Conner settled the check. "I need to go to the ladies’ room before we head out," I said, dabbing the corners of my mouth with my cloth napkin. "Why don’t you get the car from valet and I’ll meet you out front."

  "Sounds good," he said, as he stood and pulled my chair out for me. After planting a gentle kiss to my forehead, we headed in separate directions.

  ∞∞∞

  I EXITED THE RESTROOM and came to a standstill at the sight of Martina Brathwaite. Mrs. Brathwaite was dressed in tennis garb, sporting a small white pleated tennis shirt and a white polo. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. When she noticed me, her piercing blue eyes narrowed. Her lips thinned into as much of a frown as her Botox would allow. As I approached her, my smile became forced as she eyed me with a lethal cold stare that only she and her son could pull off.

  "Hello, Mrs. Brathwaite, ma’am."

  "Novalee," she curtly said, her inspective stare eyeing my orange Jimmy Choo heels and my periwinkle sheath dress that hugged my curves and accentuated my pregnant belly.

  "What a pleasant surprise." Okay, maybe I lied about the pleasant part, but manners were instilled in me by my parents. I had a feeling, however, that Mrs. Brathwaite was about to test my southern hospitality.

  "Indeed, it is. I didn’t know you were a member here." There was skepticism in her tone, and a smirk played across her lips.

  "Actually, I’m not. Not really my scene." I nonchalantly shrugged a shoulder and ran my hand through my curls, which were on point today, by the way. Pregnancy hormones were doing wonders for my hair. "I’m here with Conner," I said and smiled sweetly.

  "Having lunch with your ex? Hmm. That break up must have been devasting for you." She feigned compassion. "What happened, Novalee? Did the real baby daddy come forward?"

  Oh no this bitch didn’t. I smiled easily and turned on my nice-nasty. "Oh, okay. We’re really doing this, huh?" My voice was sweet like honey, and I chuckled as though I was amused and unfazed. I refused to let her ruffle my feathers and get an emotional rise out of me, but I also refused to be a pushover. "You’re proudly wearing your bitchy today. Good for you." I mockingly clapped twice, to which her nostrils flared. "I’m not going to dignify you with a response to your ignorant question. And not that it’s any of your business, since…you know, you and Conner are barely on speaking terms," I pouted and feigned sympathy. "But Conner and I are good. Never better. Now, if you’d excuse me. I’m so over this conversation." I give her a wink before turning away, only to be stopped by her sudden grip around my arm.

  "You're not special. My son will see you for the gold-digging piece of trash that you are," she hissed.

  I yanked my arm out of her hand. "Let’s get some things straight. One. Don’t you ever put your hands on me," I warned as I invaded her personal space by stepping closer. I was red hot with anger. Her hand around my arm triggered something in me that up until this moment, only Keisha was able to elicit. "Two. Please don’t mistake me for someone who gives a damn about you not liking me. Trust me. I’m not losing any sleep."

  Mrs. Brathwaite’s olive skin turned a molten red as she glared at me. "He’s my son. Mine," she seethed in a somewhat hushed tone. "You, like all those other sluts, think you can just spread your legs take him away from me."

  I was getting weird Jocasta complex vibes here. Creepy. "Get a grip. Seriously. No one is trying to take your son away from you. You’re doing that all by yourself." Luckily, there were no bystanders around who were privy to our heated exchange. Many were too busy looking down at their phones to notice our interaction. Which was for the best, because I had no doubt that a side would be picked, and I would be seen as the aggressor. I was the outsider.

  Unflattering images of me already had people talking. A video of my fight outside of the Chicago restaurant with Conner had circulated. The unappealing video showed me cursing and flipping off paparaz
zi as they flashed their cameras in my face. There was also a cringe-worthy photo from that same night of me in my drunken state, spreading my legs haphazardly as I got into the car. Zoomed in pictures of my bare lady bits were on full display for everyone to see. And let’s not forget about the infamous kissing photo with Amy. Although all the aforementioned pictures and videos were scrubbed from the internet within twenty-four hours of them being uploaded, the damage to my reputation was done. Ice queen or not, Mrs. Brathwaite was practically royalty in this town. The last thing I needed was a photo of me shouting in the face of the Billionaire heiress, Martina Brathwaite. "Stop focusing on me and learn how to be a fucking mother to your son." The words tumbled out of my mouth with no regret.

  Before I had time to register it, Mrs. Brathwaite’s open palm slapped me hard across my face. On autopilot and not even a split second later, I swung my open palm toward her face and struck her with enough force that made her head snap to the side. Conner picked that exact moment to appear in the corridor. A bright flash in my peripheral vision alerted me to the unfortunate fact that Scandalous Image #4 had just been captured.

  "What the fuck is going on here?" Conner stalked towards us.

  I faced Conner as Mrs. Brathwaite’s back was to him. At the sound of his voice, she smirked at me before turning to face Conner. As expected, and on cue, she began to cry as she cradled her cheek with both hands. I squeezed my eyes shut and exhaled deeply before schooling my features. He just watched me bitch-slapped his mother. And now there is a photo of me bitch-slapping his mother.

  "Conner," Mrs. Brathwaite whimpered as she stepped to him. "She slapped me! You saw her! She’s classless and ghetto!" Mrs. Brathwaite had that whole damsel in distress act down pat.

  "Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave." A middle-aged man with a management tag on, dressed in a blue blazer and white polo, had approached us and directed his comment to me.

  "Fuck off," Conner barked at him. "Are you alright?" he asked me tenderly, searching my eyes with concerned etched on his face.

  I smiled faintly and nodded.

  "I’ll handle this, Tom." Conner clasped my jaw and turned my head sideways to inspect the redness that I was sure was imprinted on my fair skin. The murderous scowl on Conner’s face that followed was even more lethal than his mother’s. The 2.0 version.

  "Thank you, Mr. Brathwaite, sir. I didn’t know she was with you. Perhaps you could take this conversation somewhere more private? I’d really appreciate it, sir." Tom gestured to a nearby door.

  Conner gave a curt nod before taking Mrs. Brathwaite by the arm and forcefully leading her to the gestured door. He none to gently jostled her inside. I followed closely behind. We were in what appeared to be Tom’s office. He gently closed the door behind us.

  "Cut the shit, Martina." Disgust was evident in Conner’s tone, and by the way he looked at her.

  Mrs. Brathwaite immediately went from a distraught victim to an enraged ice queen in seconds flat. "Don’t be stupid, Conner. She’s only using you for your billions. Who’s to say they’re even yours." She gestured to my belly.

  I bit the inside of my cheek until it hurt to keep from calling her every name but a child of God. "You fucking bitch," Conner seethed at her. "Stay the fuck away from my family." I grab Conner’s hand, partly to offer support and partly to calm his increasing rage.

  "I’m your family. Not her." She jammed her manicured finger into his chest. "I taught you better than this."

  His eyes were cold and lethal as he looked down at the woman who gave birth to him as if she were dog shit. "You taught me a lot of things, Mother, for which none of those things you should be proud of."

  Her eyes cut to me guiltily. I looked from mother to son. Her icy blue eyes narrowed and locked in on his cold green ones. They were carbon copies of one another. Their physical resemblance to their sheer viciousness was stifling in the small office. Things were left unsaid as they glared at each other. Tension, rage, and dysfunction suffocated me, and I barely breathed as I watched the horrific scene unfold.

  "You still blame me for Colton," Mrs. Brathwaite finally said as real tears trailed down her face.

  I gently nudged him. "Conner, let’s go, baby," I quietly said. His eyes didn’t waver from hers, and though he didn’t acknowledge me, his hand firmly held mine. I felt invisible as they both tuned me out, which was probably for the best. I suddenly felt like I was an intruder who shouldn’t have been present for this tragic moment between mother and son.

  "I lost two sons the day Colton died," she croaked, barely above a whisper. She reached out to touch Conner’s cheek, resulting in him jerking his head away from her. She attempted another connection by placing her open palm on his chest, which in turn, Conner instinctively took a step back and squeezed my hand to the point of pain. I audibly winced as my knuckles cracked, which seemed to snap them both back into the reality that I was present. Conner immediately loosened his grip on my hand. Mrs. Brathwaite looked at me, her face pale, her eyes pleading.

  "Conner, let’s go." I moved to stand in front of him. I had a strong desire to shield his body from his mother. I felt wetness on my cheeks. "Conner," I repeated.

  Conner looked down at me and nodded. His eyes were as bottomless as the ocean, harboring so much pain. I had to look away before I broke down in tears while beating the shit out of Mrs. Brathwaite, pregnant and all.

  "Conner," Mrs. Brathwaite said on a sob. I wanted to scratch her eyes out for the damage she did to her son. For being responsible for the brokenness in his life.

  Conner looked beyond me at his mother and spoke with a somber finality. "I don’t ever want to see you again." Conner’s eyes were dead, and his face was grim. I looked back at a sobbing pitiful woman. Her shoulders shook as she wrapped her arms around herself. Conner and I laced our fingers together and walked away, not bothering to close the door behind us.

  ∞∞∞

  I LEANED BACK AGAINST Conner’s chest as we sat horizontally across the sofa. His long legs were entwined with mine. One of his hands rested on my belly while the other leisurely threaded through my hair. There were no words exchanged during the car ride home, and now we watched television absentmindedly. The sounds of The Office sitcom faded into the background, and we both seemed to be in deep thought and not concentrating on the funny antics of Michael Scott. I reached my arm back and scraped my nails along the short silky hairs on the nape of Conner’s neck. He planted a kiss to my shoulder blade.

  "We need to talk," he said gravely.

  I turned my head to look up at him. I nodded before I responded. "Okay."

  The buzzing of Conner’s phone sliced through the tension in the air like a yielding knife. The phone screen displayed his publicist’s name. Calls from his publicist at this late of an hour were never a good sign. "I need to take this."

  I attempted to get up from the couch, but Conner tightened his arm around me. I snuggled back comfortably against his chest.

  "Conner," he answered, his voice clipped. There was a pause. "It’s trending?" Another pause. I turned off the television. Conner took the phone from his ear and held it out for us both to see. A video clip had been sent to him. We watched the five-second clip of me slapping Mrs. Brathwaite across the face.

  "Oh, my God," I said as I palmed my face.

  Conner cradled the phone back up to his ear. "Take care of it. I don’t want this shit out there," he barked. Another pause. "Novalee’s been raked through the coals enough by the media." Another pause. "What the fuck do I pay for? Call Chlo from IT and make sure she scrubs it clean. I don’t want to see this goddamn video anywhere. Am I clear?" Another pause. "Let me know when it’s done." Conner disconnected the call.

  I leaned my head back against him. "I’m so sorry, Conner. I know how bad this looks for you. When she hit me, I lost it."

  "Are you kidding me? I don’t give a fuck about how it looks for me." He turned my head towards him with two fingers under my chin. "My only concern is yo
u. This video will go away."

  "I appreciate it. I really do. But you can’t always be my knight and shining armor, coming to the rescue every time something unflattering about me is said or shown."

  "The hell I can’t. I got you," he said, his sharp eyes boring into mine. I nodded and snuggled against his chest allowing him to hold me tight. He felt and smelled so good. It had been over two months since I last felt him inside of me, yet the connection we shared, especially as of late, seemed to only intensify. "I love you, angel."

  "I love you too."

  We resituated on the sofa, now both lying down, Conner spooning me from behind. He was propped up on his elbow. His lips brushed along the sensitive spot behind my ear.

  "I was 17 when my brother committed suicide. It was my fault. I failed him."

  I turned to face him, which wasn’t an easy feat with my belly between us. I propped up on my elbow, as well. I willed myself not to blink, in fear that the tears would freefall. Conner’s face was expressionless. If not for his weary eyes, one would have thought that he was discussing the weather or what he ate for dinner last night. It would have been odd if I hadn’t known that Conner was an expert at suppressing his emotions. When his survival mode kicked in, he knew how to effectively clink his psychological body armor into place.

  I knew the last thing he wanted or needed was my pity or my tears, though the latter would be a challenge. I cleared my throat before calmly asking, "Why do you think you failed him?"

  Conner didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved to lie flat on his back, tucking an arm behind his head. I snuggled against his side and placed my hand over his, which rested on his abdomen. Staring up at the ceiling, he replied, "I should have done more to protect him. He had it way worse than I did." I watched him intently, but his gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. I watched the column of his throat. His Adam's apple moved up and down as he visibly swallowed. "He was her favorite."