Mob Daddies: A Contemporary Romance Box Sex

by Alexa Hart

  I knew the first day back would be hell. I knew that every day for a long time would be hell. I didn’t know that seeing Gia would feel like someone stabbed me through the heart and then asked me to act normal.

  She seemed slightly less enthusiastic than usual, and I could tell she was really trying to pull even that much off. She smiled at me. No hug. But she was wearing the locket. I didn’t know what she knew – what he had told her – but she knew enough. I gave her my most encouraging smile, and pulled a hall monitor into the classroom so that I could retreat to the supply closet and cry as carefully as possible into folded up Kleenex.

  By the end of the day, I had nothing left. The January air was frigid and cutting, but somehow that felt appropriate. I walked. By the time I got home, my hands were numb and my face stung. It didn’t matter. I was going straight to bed, and I could lose multiple fingers for all I cared.

  I had barely put my things down when there was a quiet knocking at the door. I hadn’t checked in with Felicity before I left, and that was probably a mistake. Considering that I still wasn’t taking phone calls, I should have figured she would stop by to make sure I wasn’t slitting my wrists.

  It wasn’t Felicity. It was Marcello. He literally must have been waiting outside for me to arrive home. Three days had improved his wounds slightly, but he was still scarily battered. I didn’t invite him in, and refused to open the door any wider than was necessary for me to see him.

  “Abby. Abby, please let me talk to you,” he pled. My body nearly shook from the intense desire to embrace him.

  He loves me.

  I shook my head. “There is nothing to talk about, Marcello. Please leave.”

  “Abby. You can’t end this. It won’t just go away. You’re not alright with this. I can see you – I can watch you at school. You’re not okay. You love me. You need me,” he stated all of these things calmly, but I heard the desperation edging every word. He was heated and focused, and I knew if he were to grab me – kiss me – I would surrender.

  “You should really stop. Stop. Watching. Me.” I returned, growing angry. “And call off your fucking security dogs. I don’t need your protection. I don’t want your protection. Leave me alone.”

  His eyes went hard, and he shook his head slightly. “You know I won’t do that.”

  Now I was borderline infuriated. How – how could I ever heal with Marcello’s life hanging over my own every single goddamn day? And didn’t I at least deserve that much – didn't I at least deserve the chance to recover?

  My hands went to the ruby necklace that I had still worn that day like a pathetic addict, tucked quietly beneath my shirt. I yanked it, breaking the clasp and freeing myself as though it were a shackle. I held it out to him, and I could see the pained, surprised expression overtaking his face.

  “I will be okay. I don’t need you.” I paused. “And I'm not fucking yours.”

  I saw the tears pooling in his eyes, his misery mixing with anger and desire. I swiftly dropped the necklace, closing my door and locking it – even the deadbolt for good measure. I didn’t wait to hear his tortuous descent out of the building. I nearly ran to my bedroom and smothered my face in a pillow, screaming violent sobs that wracked my body and left me limp and numb by the time they had subsided.

  I won’t be okay. I won’t ever be okay.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, I had gone to work early – packing a hammer in my purse. I wasn’t sure what goddamn switch controlled Marcello’s feed, but I knew it was on the thermostat, thanks to good-old-probably-dead Charlie. I went straight to the small contraption and swung the hammer. Once. Twice. Three times. The box hung off the wall by several multi-colored cords. I decided those should be cut.

  It was one of the most satisfying things I had ever done in my life – momentarily, that is. I had apparently really fucked up the actual temperature control for my classroom; and when Principal Sanders had asked me in extreme exasperation “Why?!”, my only answer had been that I was trying to fix it. I had nearly burst into insane laughter after I said it, and I quickly earned my second warning for the school year.

  After that incident, I had done my best to appear mentally sound. School was a required performance – and I was playing the part of Miss Greene, first grade teacher. I had no idea if Marcello’s camera feed had been repaired – or if I had ever even interrupted it to begin with. But I knew that whatever image of me he saw would be pulled together, pleasant, and fucking fine.

  There was plenty of time to close the curtains and weep every evening when I arrived home to my dark, camera-lacking apartment – alone and very fucking aware of it. I was beginning to wonder if I was the one who would end up surrounded by gnomes and cats.

  Weeks passed and snow came. I had given in to Uber season, and felt the winter cold settle somewhere deep inside my soul with calm acceptance.

  Gia had gradually regained her enthusiasm and the hugs had resumed. The pain they caused me never seemed to dull this time, but I had found a new inner ability to “grin and bear it” that I wished I hadn’t ever needed to become familiar with.

  Even coffee time had resumed. I knew Felicity still tiptoed carefully around every word that she said, making sure it wouldn’t cause me unplanned pain. I sometimes felt like a psych ward patient, and she was my visitor, trying to not speak too loudly as to agitate me or send me into hysterics. Gradually, we both seemed to loosen up a bit. The jokes were more frequent, the humor more carefree.

  The actual pain I felt inside refused to diminish even a little.

  Overall, January passed without any remarkable events, and I was thankful at least for the quiet. And then the stomach flu hit Winston.

  Ever true to his ill-fated existence, James O’Connor was the first to come down with the hateful bug. One minute he was turning in an assignment, dropping it sweetly into the basket on my desk, and then he was simply spraying vomit across everything within a five-foot radius with absolutely no warning.

  After that, students started dropping like flies. So many of them succumbed to what Felicity had labeled “The Winston Plague” that within a week I had an actual attendance count of only five students. Felicity had seven.

  Mrs. Bonaparte informed us all that something like this had happened nearly every year she had been a part of the Winston faculty as far back as she could remember. “It’s to be expected, just as the turning of the seasons or the ticking of a clock,” she had preached at our emergency staff meeting. “But it does normally keep itself confined to February, and it seems a bit rude to change the schedule on us this year.”

  Felicity and I had looked at each other, swallowing our laughter – both amazed and simultaneously not surprised that Bonaparte expected the flu season to arrive with polite punctuality, like any proper visitor should. As February actually did come, the Winston Plague seemed to be well on its way out, in spite of the scheduling conflicts this had created for Mrs. Bonaparte.

  In celebration of our seemingly successful, unscathed survival of the epidemic, Fel and I decided drinks and a meal at our pub were quite appropriate. I couldn’t completely forget the last time we had been there – how we had laughed ourselves into a fit, and how different things had been concerning one Mr. Marcello Morano – but I was ready to try to at least make some new memories. We’d been coming here for years. He didn’t have the right to ruin that.

  I was trying to pinpoint where exactly the off-putting scent was coming from when Felicity’s mozzarella sticks arrived, steaming and leaking out the ends. They hadn’t been the original offender, but their overpowering waft of grease and cheese made my stomach turn somersaults.

  “Gross,” I covered my nose and mouth, feeling a dry gag climbing up my throat.

  “If by gross you mean delicious!” Felicity took an unabashed bite and the creamy goo stretched from her mouth proudly.

  “No, like, I mean gross. So gross. Oh my god.” I was up and nearly running to the restrooms. There wasn’t time to make it
into a stall – I forcefully puked into the sink a split instant after closing the door.

  Fuck. The Winston Plague.

  That had ended the evening’s merriment pretty much immediately. Fel had waved and given a sympathetic grimace as we got into separate Ubers and abandoned the evening. I spent the remainder of it munching Saltine’s and promptly vomiting them back out in a series of nausea waves that came and went with ruthless severity.

  The morning wasn’t better. The morning was, in fact, much worse. There wasn’t anything in my stomach to actually come out, but I dry heaved until nearly noon regardless. There seemed to be a respite then, and I lay in bed mildly irritated that my perfect attendance for the year had been marred. By evening I thought perhaps the sickness was lifting all together. I was hungry, and the thought of eating didn’t instantly make me gag.

  Opening my fridge, searching for something acceptable, I caught the abnormally strong presence of onions. Incredibly irritated, as I had just bought them a couple days ago and they obviously had gone bad already, I turned to deposit them in the trash. As soon as the bin opened, I was hit with old leftover pad thai, and an entire new wave of revulsion coursed through me. I defiantly tied up the bag and made my way to the giant outside bins at the back of my building. As I heaved the bag over the side, I was hit with so many repulsive smells that my body could no longer handle it. I immediately was throwing up – publicly and with mortifying embarrassment.

  I spent the next three days doing more of the same. Munching, puking, feeling like puking, feeling slightly better, munching, and puking again. Felicity called Thursday night, wanting to check on me but not daring to do it in person and become the next victim.

  “I start to feel better, and then I just... Then I’m just not better,” I whined, exhausted from the days of physical toll.

  “Ha. That’s what Tyler said in class right after he shit his pants. He thought he had felt ‘better’,” Felicity informed me, giggling a little but trying to be sensitive to my plight.

  “Well I definitely haven’t had that problem yet,” I exclaimed, giggling a little myself and feeling slightly lucky again.

  “Really? Like seriously – that's been everyone’s main complaint. Tyler was only like one of the four of my students that shit themselves right there in the classroom. So fucking disgusting. Charlotte told me Principal Sanders had the same experience in his office, mid make-out session. By the way she talked, their affair wasn’t seeming so appealing anymore,” Felicity shared, laughing now.

  I laughed as well, and thought over the past few days. Absolutely none of that type of incident had been going on with me. And I was far past the 48 hours that had seemed almost unanimous in the infliction of this particular flu.

  Felicity had gone silent too. Our brains seemed to synchronize in their thought path, and she suddenly demanded, “Abby, when was your last period?”

  I frantically searched my memory. The birth control made my periods so incredibly light that I barely had to use more than a couple of panty-liners for maybe two days. But I hadn’t even bought the liners this month. I hadn’t needed them since December.

  I sucked in my breath, willing the panic away. “Fel - I’m on birth control. That’s not even possible,” I protested, knowing her response before she shot it out.

  “That’s never 100%, Abs! Never!”

  I shook my head. “But it’s like so incredibly close to 100%. The odds of that – you know the odds of that are ridiculous – ”

  “Get a pregnancy test. Tonight. Do it,” Felicity commanded.

  I however, felt a fresh bout of nausea coming over me and knew I would never make it to the store. “I’ll just go to my doctor tomorrow – if she can get me in. This is just the flu. This is just the flu and maybe she’ll have something that helps me feel better. Fel, I gotta go. I’m gonna throw up.”

  “Abigail, the good news is that these should curb the worst of your symptoms,” Dr. Jain said pleasantly, gently handing me a sample box of medication. “Zofran is really your best bet with the nausea.” She sat on her little doctor’s stool then, with an impassive look upon her face. I held my breath. “The other news is that, according to your urine sample, you are very much pregnant. I’d say about eight weeks, judging from the date you gave for your last menstruation.”

  “Oh,” was the only response I could manage. My heart was beating wildly fast and my body had completely frozen.

  “I’m going to judge from your reaction that this comes as a surprise for you, Abigail. So please keep in mind, before you become too overwhelmed, that you have options. This isn’t 1905,” she assured me, patting my leg.

  An intense bolt of indignation shot through my mind.

  I will NOT abort Marcello’s baby!

  She was writing on her chart then, still speaking in a good natured, nonchalant manner. “I’m going to refer you on over to your OB. This is the point where the specialists really should take over. They’ll be able to do an ultrasound, give you an estimated due date, and go over those options with you more in depth.”

  But I took the damn birth control. I took it for years. I took it FOR YEARS.

  “Conception date looks to be on or very near Christmas Day. So, I guess you’ll have to decide if this is a present you’d like to keep.” Dr. Jain stood and eyed me cautiously. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Abigail? Will you be okay? I can have my nurse give you a few moments to yourself before showing you out.”

  I met her semi-concerned gaze and wondered how much doctors really were capable of caring about things like this after years of seeing it over and over again. Was I just a lab specimen that needed carefully released back into the wild from the viewpoint of Dr. Jain?

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I offered sweetly, standing myself. I put a hand mindlessly to my lower stomach. Baby. I was growing a baby.

  Marcello’s baby.

  “You have to tell Marcello,” Felicity declared, nodding her head in apparent agreement with herself.

  I dug my toes into the couch cushion and put a hand over my face. “I’m not... I’m not sure that’s the best thing, Fel.”

  “Not the best thing for whom?!” She nearly shouted. Her face softened. “I’m sorry. But seriously. Who is that not best for?”

  “The baby? Is it best for the baby? You know what he does, or at least what he’s involved in...” I trailed off, confused and sleepy. The medicine had actually helped, rather quickly, and I felt like maybe I could get a good night’s sleep. Finally.

  Felicity leveled her gaze with mine. “I do know what he does. And I do understand your concerns, as they are the same as the ones I had for you.” She paused. “But Abs, it’s already been done. That’s his baby. Do you really have the right to keep it away from its own father?”

  I tilted my head to one side, fascinated. When exactly had Felicity and I switched positions in our opinion of Marcello? I thought maybe she’d feel differently if she had seen him that night, beaten and bloody. That wasn’t an image I could forget, and it wasn’t an image I was super happy to reconcile with that of my baby’s father.

  I then thought of Marcello with Gia. How he doted on her – how he loved her so much it beamed out of him when he was with her. Gia was loved. Gia was deeply loved.

  But was Gia safe?

  Marcello obviously hadn’t been.

  I sighed, frustrated with the constant back and forth. The only thing that remained true through my mental debate was that I was carrying Marcello’s child. It had already been done. Felicity wasn’t wrong.

  “I’ll call him, okay?” I finally spoke, and Felicity nodded.

  “You have to, Abs,” she agreed, pulling me to her and hugging me tightly. “And whatever happens, that baby is going to have one awesome Auntie Fel.”

  I smiled then, picturing Felicity with a baby. My baby. Marcello’s baby.

  I was having a baby.

  “Abby?” He picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi,” I spoke qu
ietly.

  “Hi.” And then silence. I knew he was in shock that I had called. I was still surprised myself.

  “I needed to talk to you about something, Marcello,” I blurted out.

  “Meet me, Abby. Can we please talk in person? Please? I’m out of state (of course you are) for the week. I’ll be back Friday night. Let me take you to dinner. Please? I’ll pick you up myself. Seven p.m. Please, Abby?” He was shamelessly begging.

  I closed my eyes. What difference did it make anymore? Apparently, I wasn’t going to be able to avoid him for the rest of my life, as I had previously planned. I had to interact with him at some point.

  “Fine, Marcello. Friday at seven,” and then I quickly hung up, feeling emotions I had been desperately trying to kill off creeping up my spine. I looked at my calendar listlessly.

  Friday is Valentine’s Day.

  Chapter 15

  “So which outfit says ‘Hi please don’t touch me you broke my heart but hey I’m carrying your baby so that’s a thing now but seriously please don’t touch me’?” I managed to say this with a straight face, but Felicity was unable to stop herself from bursting into laughter.

  “Well,” she began, eyeing the two choices laid out on my bed, “They’re both pretty bland, Abs. Don’t you wanna make him suffer a little?”

  I surveyed the pants and sweaters neatly awaiting my decision. “No,” I said finally. “I want him to take me seriously.”

  Felicity guffawed. “I don’t think once the word ‘pregnant’ pops up that you’ll have a problem with that.”

  She had a point.

  In the end, I decided on middle ground. Jeans, but cute jeans. A V-neck black sweater, snug but not tight. Hair down, smooth – the way he preferred it. Maybe I wanted him to suffer a little. I tried to tell myself it did not matter what I wore underneath these clothes, because it wasn’t that type of a date. It wasn’t a date at all. This was a meeting, with serious subject matter to be discussed. But I still picked a rather attractive matching pair of black lace lingerie.