Reaching into my cardigan pocket, I pull out my phone, curious to see if I missed a call or text from him but there’s nothing there. I find his number and call him, but it doesn’t even ring before his voicemail picks up.
I feel a prickling at the back of my neck, something isn’t right. I decide to call Crooner, in hopes that he’ll know where Pres is. Thankfully he picks up on the second ring. It sounds like there’s a concert happening in the background.
“You okay, Ging?” he shouts.
Clearing my throat, I ask where Prescott is.
“Snake’s at the clubhouse, babe. I’m at the bar, oh fuck, there’s a fight. I gotta go,” he yells and then the phone goes dead.
I’m not that woman. I swear I’m not that woman who has to know where her man is every second of every day, but right now, I need him. I need Prescott to come home. I don’t feel safe, and I have to have him with me. I scroll through my contacts finding Free and dialing his phone.
“Free,” he murmurs, his voice light and easy.
He sounds high, and I roll my eyes. “I’m looking for Prescott,” I announce.
He chuckles and that’s when I know for sure that he is high. How annoying. Although I kind of wish I could be too at this moment. It would make the stress of that fucking yellow envelope a little easier to handle. I patiently wait for him to reply and am lucky that it doesn’t take too long.
“He’s here at the club, in full-on celebration mode. Congrats on the little girl, babe.”
I close my eyes, I used to know what celebration mode was. I’m afraid to ask exactly what it means today, because of the previous meaning. He used to get a girl, drink and fuck all night when he was celebrating. If he’s doing that now, combined with that letter, I might have a panic attack.
“He’s just drinking and hanging with the boys, babe,” Free announces as though he can read my mind.
“I’d like to talk to him, anyway,” I whisper.
He grunts and I can hear him shuffling around and then a few minutes later, Prescott’s voice is on the line.
“Hey Georgia peach. Oh fuck, am I late?” he slurs. “I was tellin’ the guys about the baby and we started drinking.”
A small smile plays on my lips. When I didn’t think he was excited, I was worried, now I know he is indeed excited. I just wish he was at home celebrating with me.
“When will you be home?” I ask.
“Not too late, I’ll have Crooner or someone drive me home.”
Clearing my throat, I tell him okay. Someone shouts that it’s time for another round and he ends the call, but not before he tells me he loves me.
I shove my phone back in my cardigan pocket and scoop a bowl of food. Then I take myself over to the sofa and turn on the television. I feel anxious still, but I hope to immerse myself into some mind-numbing TV will help.
SNAKE
I stumble into the house. “Fucking shit,” I curse when I cut the corner too close and end up slamming my shoulder into the corner of the doorway.
Shutting the front door closed, I stumble toward the staircase. The house is really quiet, and I laugh a little as I try to keep myself from falling over.
Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I tip my head back slightly. I don’t remember there being so many fucking stairs. I lift my foot and plant it on the first step, then the next.
Gripping the handrail, I take another and then another. I sway at about halfway up and I try to calm the fuck down. The last thing I need to do is fall backward on these fucking stairs.
It takes me longer than it should, but I eventually make my way completely up the stairs. Then I turn and fumble into the bedroom.
The light is on in the bathroom, thank fuck. Glancing over to the bed I see Ginger lying there on her side. Her dark blonde hair is splayed out behind her and the sheets are pulled up to her breasts as she clings to them.
I strip my clothes off, my cock going hard at the sight of my woman, my wife, and the mother of my daughter. Fuck, a daughter. I can’t believe that it’s all real, that it’s happening. I can’t fucking wait.
Once I’m completely naked, my clothes strung out all over the room, I crawl into the bed behind my woman. I shift her hair to the side, and press my lips to her neck, right in the center of my road name tattoo.
Wrapping my hand around her hip, I bunch the fabric of her nightgown in my fingers before I drag it up her body as far as I can. Slipping my hand down, cupping her between the legs, I groan when I find her sans panties.
I drag my finger through her center, swirling around her clit, then back. My lips stay against her neck, nipping and licking her skin as I try to rouse her from her sleep.
Ginger moans, lifting her top leg slightly. Sliding my knee between hers, I shift her leg, widening her for my hand. Thrusting my hips, I glide my cock between the cheeks of her ass with a groan.
“Prescott,” she breathes. She reaches her arm up, gripping the hair at the back of my head, tightly.
I dip my finger inside of her center, feeling her wetness coat me before I move to swirl it around her clit again. Her hips shift, and I grunt as she presses her ass harder against me.
Unable to wait another minute, I align my cock with her center and glide inside of her wet heat. I shift my hand to her clit, pressing two fingers against her and rub in firm circles as I fuck her.
“Oh God, so good,” she moans gripping my hair tighter.
I grunt, my mouth still working her neck, while my fingers work her clit and my dick works her cunt. Ginger shivers, pushing her ass back with each thrust forward I make. It’s good, so fucking good, just like she moaned.
My eyes slip closed as I take her.
“I’m close,” she sobs.
I give her clit a gentle tap, which floods my cock with even more wetness. She’s so slick and tight, I won’t be able to last much longer. I hope to fuck she’s ready to come. I continue tapping her clit, then rub it, before I tap it again.
Thank fuck, it doesn’t take long, her pussy squeezes me, and she gasps as she comes around me. I thrust up inside of her, two more times, before I groan against her neck with my own release.
Shifting her legs, to rest back together, I glide in and out of her slowly. She’s so tight this way, that I almost see stars. She sighs contently, and I stay rooted as deeply as I can, while I slip my hand around her belly, my lips against her neck.
“You’re home late,” she sighs, again.
I know she won’t freak the fuck out, but I should have come home when I said I would have. I shouldn’t have partied and drank all night. It was inconsiderate, and it was irresponsible.
“I’m sorry, peaches. I should have come home,” I admit.
She sighs, shifting her body and rolling over to face me. I mourn the loss of her wet cunt, but the consolation prize of staring into her pretty brown eyes satiates me, for a moment. “You should have, but it was a congratulatory thing, so I get it,” she smiles sadly.
Reaching out, I cup her face, running my thumb along the apple of her cheek. “One shot led to, too many,” I grunt. “I meant to come home, swear to fuck.”
She nods. “No women?” she asks, her voice almost small.
My fingers flex against her face. “Never,” I bark. “Not ever, Ginger.”
“Don’t be mad,” she all but begs. I feel like a dick for the harsh tone I use, but I can’t believe she would even question me.
“Not mad, peaches. Just know, that isn’t something you ever have to worry about. You’ve got my ring on your finger, you’ve got my baby in your belly, and you’ve got my heart. As long as this bed’s warm, I’ll always be here with you.”
She arches a brow and I can see her fightin’ side starting to appear. “As long as this bed’s warm?” she asks.
I roll my eyes, not wishing to get into an argument. I’m drunk, freshly laid, and tired. I move my hand from her face, allowing it to travel down to her hip, gripping her tightly.
“Wouldn’t expect y
ou to stay celibate if I cut you off, you can’t expect the same.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she hisses.
I laugh, full-on laugh. “Fuck yeah I am, peaches. You just figure that shit out?”
“No, but swear to God, Pres. Your assholeness astounds me almost daily,” she huffs.
I shift my hand from her hip to her ass, and give her a rough squeeze. “Get used to that shit, peaches,” I smile.
My eyelids feel especially heavy, the room is bathed in scents of my woman, sex, and shrouded in darkness as I pass out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GINGER
A heavy weight presses against my back and I wake up, hot and hungry. Prescott snores in my ear, louder than normal and it comes back to me, in a rush, that he came home drunk as shit last night—completely tanked.
Then everything else from yesterday afternoon comes back too, including that fucking envelope and its contents. I hate it. My stomach rolls at the thought. I sit up in bed, quickly running to the bathroom to empty my stomach.
I shouldn’t be feeling sick, my morning sickness has been gone for weeks now, but I know that this is nothing but stress.
Quietly, I leave Prescott alone and asleep in bed, deciding to make some breakfast. Once I’m downstairs, I look around, frightened that someone will be waiting for me, even though I’m sure they won’t.
This feeling that I have, this fear, it means that whoever this person is, they’re winning. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. I will not let them win. I refuse.
I click on the television, searching for something that will fill the room with noise while I make some breakfast. Rebel Without A Cause is on and I turn up the volume. Deciding to make a hangover breakfast for Prescott. I pull out the pancake mix, eggs, and bacon. Then I start cooking.
I’m lost inside of my own head, trying, and failing, not to think about the dreaded envelope. I should be thinking of happy things, like baby names and nursery decorations but I can’t. The experience is completely dulled by the fear and panic that is surging throughout my entire body.
A noise from behind me causes me to jump with a small scream. Slowly, I turn around and see Prescott sitting at the bar, his head in his hand. I attempt to act unaffected and go back to the pancakes that now need to be flipped.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
He grunts before he lets out a moan. “Like a fucking asshole,” he surprisingly admits.
I plate the finished pancakes, throw some crisp bacon and eggs on the plate and walk it over to him. Then I turn to the refrigerator and grab butter and syrup before I reach into the drawer and get silverware.
“Looks good, peaches,” he murmurs as he just stares at the plate of food.
I watch him for just a moment before I speak. “Are you going to eat it?” I ask.
His green eyes look up at me and damn, he looks pale and sick. “I gotta sneak up on it. I drank way too much last night,” he admits.
With a nod, I turn back to the food and prepare my own plate. My stomach is seriously demanding food right now.
Prescott reaches across the bar and takes my plate from me, setting it down next to him on the counter. I hurry to his side and sit down, immediately beginning to fix my pancakes, no butter but tons of syrup.
“You pissed about yesterday?” he asks in almost a whisper.
I think about his question, and last night I probably would have answered yes, but not because I was mad, because I was scared.
If I had told him about the letter and photos, he would have dropped everything to be here, though. The fact is, I didn’t tell him, and I don’t plan to either. So, I can’t really get mad at him. Not when he hasn’t done anything but celebrate the fact that he’s excited to be a father.
I shake my head, lifting my face to give him a smile. “I’m not mad. I wish you would have called me though, can you do that next time?”
He smirks, wrapping his hand around my thigh and giving me a squeeze. “You worried about your Old Man?” he asks.
He sounds so cocky, and I let out a laugh. “Yeah, I was a little worried,” I admit.
Prescott leans forward, pressing his lips to the underside of my jaw then slowly drags them over to my ear before he whispers, “I’ll try not to worry you again, peaches.” I shiver as his breath washes over me, my stomach fluttering and my pussy clenching with desire.
He pulls away and returns back to his plate, slowly eating the food in front of him, while I devour my own at twice his pace.
“I’m not going into the clubhouse today, what do you want to do?” he asks, leaning back in his chair once he’s finished his food.
Turning to him, my eyes widen in surprise. Prescott goes to the clubhouse, every day, at least once. I’ve never known him to not at least stop by, not unless he was out of town. “I don’t know,” I admit.
“How about we get some baby shit?” he asks, arching a brow.
I press my lips together and try not to cry, because even though he’s called it baby shit, it’s so freaking sweet. I could use some time away from this house, and away from my panty drawer which is like a big beacon of doom.
“Let’s do it,” I nod.
Prescott reaches to grab hold of the back of my neck, tugging me closer to him and presses his lips against mine. “Go get dressed, I’ll clean up,” he whispers against my mouth.
He gives me a quick, hard kiss. He releases me and stands, walking into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I shake my head, unbelieving that he ate breakfast in his underwear, but as hungover as he was, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me.
Turning away from him, I walk upstairs to get dressed. I take a quick shower, shaving my legs even though it isn’t the easiest task on the planet with my growing belly. Then I hurry to my panty drawer and take a pair out as quickly as I can, slamming the drawer closed.
Once I’m in my bra and underwear, I stand at my open closet and look around. I’ve worn all of my leggings, and I can’t button any of my jeans.
I have absolutely nothing to wear. I reach for a long sweater dress and slip it on, but it looks more like a really short tunic now, rather than a dress, my ass pretty much hangs out of the bottom. I need to go shopping, it’s not a want anymore, it’s a need at this point.
“You gonna let that ass hang out all day?” Prescott asks from behind me.
I turn around, my hand on my hip and my eyes narrowed at him. He’s got a smirk on his face, but he still looks a little pale. His head is probably still throbbing, and if I yelled at him, he’d certainly cry. “Nothing fits,” I grumble.
“Then we’ll get you some clothes today too, do you need a pair of my sweatpants until then?” he asks with a grin.
I flip him off and start to rummage through my things. I’ve got to have another pair of leggings somewhere. I feel like I’ve discovered the holy grail when I pull out a pair from the bottom.
The size says small, but hopefully the top I have will cover enough of my ass that you can’t tell they’re screaming tight, which I’m positive they will be.
Ignoring Prescott, I pull my feet through my leggings, bending my legs, twisting, and turning to get them all the way on. Thank Jesus for Lycra, that’s all I can think as I finish pulling them up.
I walk over to the full-length mirror and cringe. Everything I have on is so tight, I look terrible. “Can we go to the clothing store first?” I ask.
Prescott’s eyes scan my body and he grunts. “Yeah, but not because you look bad, but because I don’t want every guy on earth staring at your tits and ass.”
“What?” I laugh.
He shakes his head once. “Pregnant or not, you look sexy as fuck, peaches. You’re also not anybody else’s to look at. So, yeah, we can go clothes shopping first.”
I smile at my Old Man. His little chauvinistic comment would have pissed me off a year ago. However, now, I get it. He’s not trying to control me and hold me down, he just doesn’t want the world looking at
me as if I’m available.
I know that if I pushed the issue, he wouldn’t force me to dress any certain way, but his request isn’t outlandish. I personally don’t feel comfortable in the skintight clothing I’m wearing right now, so it’s not a hardship to get some more comfortable clothes.
While I finish getting ready, Prescott takes a shower and dresses for the day as well. He looks sexy as shit, his damp hair slicked back and his green eyes on mine. “Think I’m going to cut my hair and shave some of this beard off,” he mentions as he grabs hold of the bottom of his beard.
Tipping my head to the side, I ask him why.
“Just thinking about the baby coming. She won’t be able to really see my face,” he mentions.
I bite the corner of my lip and try to keep from smiling, but I fail. My smile breaks out at the thought of him, shaving for his baby. “I think that would be good, especially since she’ll probably just grab at it and pull,” I grin.
We don’t say anything else, Prescott reaches for my hand, wrapping it in his and together we walk downstairs. I’m surprised to see that the kitchen is spotless.
Usually, when Prescott cleans, he just kind of piles everything into the sink. This time, he actually put everything away, and I’m pleasantly surprised, and seriously impressed.
He helps me into his pickup and I look around for his motorcycle. “Didn’t drive home trashed, peaches. It’s at the clubhouse, we’ll pick it up later or tomorrow,” he shrugs as he starts the engine.
I glance around, looking for signs of another yellow envelope as he backs out of the driveway and I’m glad when I don’t see anything. Reaching for the radio, I try to distract myself with music, or at least flipping through the stations.
SNAKE
Ginger seems nervous and has since I woke up this morning. I don’t know what’s bothering her, but I don’t ask—she’ll tell me when she’s ready. Driving toward town, I think about our baby, our girl. I haven’t really thought of names, and I guess I should. Reaching for the radio, I turn it down.
Laced with Fear (Cash Bar Book 1) Page 8