by Sara Ney
HARD LUCK
Sara Ney
Hard Luck
Copyright © 2021 by Sara Ney
Editing by Caitlyn Nelson
Editing by Jennifer VanWyk
Proofreading by Julia Griffis
Proofreading by Shauna Casey
Cover Design by Okay Creations
Formatting by Casey Formatting
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without “express “written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the “author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Here’s to new beginnings…
Contents
1. True
2. Mateo
3. True
4. Mateo
5. True
6. Mateo
7. True
8. Mateo
9. True
10. Mateo
11. True
12. Mateo
13. True
14. Mateo
15. True
16. Mateo
17. True
18. Mateo
19. True
20. True
21. Mateo
Epilogue
Read Chapter 1 from Jock Row
About the Author
Also by Sara Ney
One
True
I am nauseated.
As I kneel over my big brother’s toilet like a drunk girl at a college party, my gut clenches with the telltale sign that more bile is about to rise from my stomach.
I groan into the crook of my arm miserably.
Somewhere above me, a pair of hands gathers up my long hair and holds it back to keep the strands from falling into the toilet and getting soiled with puke, but it’s not in me to glance up to see who it is.
Instincts tell me it’s a girl based on the gentle way she’s holding my tresses and the gentle way she’s rubbing my back.
There’s something strangely familiar about having some random standing over me in a bathroom that feels oddly…nostalgic.
Comforting.
Soothing, even.
The girl is doing everything she can to soothe me as I rest here, except I’m too sick to raise my head and properly thank her.
I simply do not have the energy.
It’s so laughably reminiscent of my past, of the good ol’ days when I was in college, knocking back my second or third Sex on the Beach (a grotesque drink that’s sugary sweet) then barfing it all back up again in the bar bathroom toilet, any nameless, faceless collegiate holding back my hair so I don’t get barf in it.
Except this time, my hair isn’t long and wavy down to my ass. Now it hits my collarbone just past my shoulders and is flat-ironed into submission. Sleek. Clean. Blunt cut.
Professional.
I’m a grown woman with a career—not a naïve girl at university.
And I’m not puking into the toilet because I’m drunk.
I’m puking because I’m pregnant.
When the girl walked into the bathroom earlier, I think she was looking for my brother’s dog Chewy; I vaguely remember hearing her calling out for him. Sort of. Vaguely remember her cautiously approaching the kitchen, then the bathroom, as if something sinister lay in wait for her.
I’ve never met her, but Tripp talks about her all the time; I’m assuming it’s his neighbor girl soothing me and not an axe murderer who let himself into the house, me on my knees too weak to defend myself.
“Who are you?” I moan in her general direction. She’s pulled back and looms in the doorway next to a discarded baseball bat.
Huh. She must have thought I was a murderer, too.
“Who are you?” she asks, accusatory, the scowl hurting my head. “A psycho fan who broke into the house?”
I find the energy to roll my eyes. “And is using the toilet to barf in? Not likely.”
“Maybe you’re so worked up and nervous about meeting Tripp that you made yourself sick.”
That’s actually a great theory.
But it’s false.
“I’m True.”
The teenager crosses her arms, nonplussed. “Are you on drugs?”
That makes me push out a low chuckle. Drugs? “No, I’m not on drugs.”
“Then why are you on Mr. Wallace’s bathroom floor?”
Mr. Wallace? Is the kid talking about my dad or my brother? I can’t picture Tripp being referred to by the moniker Mr. Wallace, and it makes me groan out a chuckle.
“Who did you say you are?” As sick as I am, my voice is authoritative.
She straightens her spine. “Molly. I live next door.”
“Ahh, the dog walker.” My body goes slack as I hug the toilet bowl with both hands, basking in how cold it is against my burning skin.
So good.
“I’m not just the dog walker. I’m also the house-sitter.” Her foot taps the hardwood floor impatiently. “Who did you say you are? All you did was tell me your first name, which tells me nothing. You didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”
I moan, resting my cheek on the white toilet seat cover. “Well, well, well, aren’t you just a little ray of Pit Bull Terrier. Does my brother know he has a guard dog living next door?”
Her brows go up and she ignores my comment. “What are you doing in Mr. Wallace’s house?”
“I’m his sister.”
Molly takes a few seconds to digest this new information, then nods as if confirming its validity.
Still, she’s not done cross-examining me. “Why are you puking?”
“I’m…” I swallow past the lump forming in my throat, willing the words to come out. “I’m…”
“Do you have the flu?”
No.
“And you’re not drugged up?”
No.
No.
Why on earth would she assume I was high or drugged up on something? Then again, what do I know about drugs or smoking pot or anything besides alcohol that would have me tossing my guts out?
“You swear you’re not some looney-toon, strung-out superfan?”
“No! I’m not some whacko lady fan who broke into Tripp Wallace’s house. Wouldn’t I like, crawl into his bed or something if I was obsessed with him? Isn’t that what those women do?”
Molly gives me another validating nod. “Fine. I believe you. But that explains nothing.” She pointedly eyes the toilet and my spot on the ground next to it with her brows raised as if to say, Well?
She needs to stop nagging me. This whole conversation is making my head spin even faster than it needs to, and it’s making me dizzy.
“I’m pregnant.”
I gasp after my declaration—this is the first time I’ve said the words out loud, and it feels so…we
ird.
So strange.
I’m pregnant.
Pregnant.
Twenty-something, single, and preggo.
My brothers are going to kill me, therefore I haven’t told them or anyone; Molly is the first person I’ve uttered those two little words to. Well, Molly and Chewy, who’s curled up beside me next to the toilet, and he certainly isn’t going to tell my secret.
He snorts as if refuting me.
“Pregnant?” She enunciates the first half of the word, tone slightly higher pitched. My brother’s neighbor girl stands over me, stepping closer to hover between me and the door, worrying her bottom lip. “How old are you?”
I don’t see why that matters. “Twenty-five.”
“Oh. You look seventeen.”
I don’t, but I don’t know a single woman on this earth who doesn’t enjoy being mistaken for someone half her age—and if I wasn’t bent over this loo, I’d probably toss my hair back arrogantly.
“How old are you?” I ask in kind.
She looks to be between fourteen and sixteen years old, possibly a sophomore in high school, but then again, what the heck do I know about teenagers these days? She just told me I look like one myself.
This kid could be twenty for all I know.
And what’s Molly doing home from school in the middle of the day?
I go on to guess that she let herself in through the garage door, which means she must have the code. Guess she isn’t going to keep my secret—not if she’s working for and has a loyalty to my brother.
“I’m fifteen, but I have my temporary license.” Molly is obviously proud of that fact, chin raised with importance.
“You seem very mature.”
It’s becoming obvious to me why my brother values this relationship, despite the age difference. She seems dependable and smart—two assets people in the public eye look for in friendships. It’s not easy finding someone you can trust; everyone wants something.
“Pregnant.” Molly ignores my compliment. “Are you sure?”
She sure is a skeptical one, this strange teenager with the frowning, furrowed brow—she actually looks like Tripp when she makes that face.
I shoot her a look, in no mood to argue. “Yes. I’ve taken at least a dozen tests.” All of them in the bottom of a dumpster, no doubt on their way to the nearest landfill.
All except for one I kept as a souvenir. No idea why since I peed on it.
But…isn’t that what women do? Keep things as mementos so they can say, Look, baby, this is the test I took when I found out I was pregnant with you.
Baby boy or girl Wallace.
Except the baby isn’t all Wallace, is it?
Molly has her arms crossed and she’s gazing down at me. “How long have you actually been down on the floor? Maybe you should get up—drink something.”
She’s right, I should get up.
Drink something with bubbles.
Smart one, this Molly girl.
I’ve heard tidbits about her from our mother, know she is in charge of walking Tripp’s dog (who wags his tail beside me slowly). Every so often, Molly will assist Chandler at the stadium with small tasks to earn extra cash. Gets the mail when my brother and his girlfriend are out of town.
Putzy things, but important tasks nonetheless.
Chewy is thrilled I’m down on his level but senses I’m sick, every so often nudging my arm with his wet nose, wanting to let me know he’s still there.
The dog nudges me again.
“Yes, I probably should get up and drink something.” I pause, rethinking my earlier blurted-out confession, not wanting the entire world to know I’m having a baby before I’m ready to tell them, not trusting this girl, even though my brother certainly does. “Or maybe I’m not pregnant. Maybe it’s…food poisoning?”
Food poisoning.
That sounds perfectly reasonable, and perfectly legitimate.
“Food poisoning.” Molly looks dubious, narrowing her eyes. She knows I’m full of shit but doesn’t know me well enough to say it to my face. “What did you eat last night?”
Crackers, ginger ale, and more crackers.
It’s definitely not food poisoning.
“Um. Raw meat?”
“Raw meat!” she practically shouts. “Raw meat? First of all, who eats raw meat? Second of all, that’s disgusting—if you think you might be pregnant, you shouldn’t be consuming raw anything. I hear you’re not even supposed to eat shrimp!”
Not eat shrimp? That’s preposterous!
I loves me some seafoods.
I groan and roll my eyes, hugging the porcelain god, wondering out loud how she would know anything about pregnancy, given that she’s fifteen.
“What are they teaching you in health class? Have you covered the birds and the bees yet?”
“Lady, no offense, but the average age for initial sexual activity is twelve. Trust me, there’s more to learn on the internet than there is in health class at school.” Molly snorts, adjusting her stance, resting her hip on the doorjamb. “So like, not to be rude or anything, but why are you here? Did you come here just to puke? Was your brother’s toilet the closest possible toilet, or are you on the run? Are you hiding from someone?” She pauses. “The baby’s dad maybe? Are you safe?”
She volleys questions in my direction, arms falling to her sides as she vocalizes this last part, the possibility that I’m here hiding out a sober reality for Molly.
“No this wasn’t the closest toilet, no I am not on the run from anything or anyone, and no I’m not hiding from the baby’s father.”
“Ahh, so it’s not food poisoning.” Her eyes sparkle at me knowingly, the little smartass. Did she just trick me, or am I just an idiot with a big mouth?
Yes.
“I’m between apartments.”
Not that it’s any of her business. But if I’m going to be staying here, it’s probably a good idea to get along with the neighbors.
“Between apartments…what does that mean?” the kid asks. “Does it mean you got kicked out of your place?”
Does this teenager trust anyone? Sheesh! I’m getting the third degree here, and this is none of her concern!
“It means I don’t have a place to live. It means my roommate failed to pay the rent so the landlord graciously offered our home to his beloved niece.”
Molly’s mouth puckers disapprovingly. “I’m sure it was nothing personal. He’s a businessman.”
Wow.
Just…wow. The way this girl’s brain works is blowing my mind.
I glare up at her. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Does Tripp know you’re crashing here?”
I roll my eyes. “Tripp is my brother—I don’t need his permission to stay in his guest bedroom.” I glance at her again. “Are you an only child?”
“Yes.” Molly seems confused by my question, so I go on to explain.
“I’m the baby of the family—Tripp is the oldest, then Trace, then me. They’ve always spoiled me rotten even when they tease and make fun of me. I’ve always been able to crash with them when I need to without an invitation.” To appease her, I add, “And trust me, I am very aware that my brother has a new girlfriend and I would never interfere with that. I’m just…”
Desperate.
“Besides,” I moan, “I’ve helped both those yahoos plenty—with job contacts, relationship advice, mediating arguments between them and our parents, buying gifts for other people, making sure they don’t look like assholes during the holidays. Birthdays. Pet sitting.” I give Molly what’s probably a groggy, half-lidded smile. “I am his sister, and this is what brothers do. They let their loser sisters crash in their spare rooms.”
He won’t care that I’m here.
What he will care about is that I’m sick, and along with that will come questions—if I thought Molly was nosey, she has nothing on my brother.
Skeptical is Tripp’s middle name.
“Maybe we shouldn’t say anythi
ng to my brother about my feeling sick.” I run a hand over my tummy, no baby bump yet forming there, still as smooth as it was weeks ago. “He tends to overreact.”
Our other brother Buzz is a thousand times worse, which is the reason I’m not at his house instead. ’Cause that would be the worst idea ever.
He’d be all up in my business, and it wouldn’t take him long to sniff out the truth.
“Mr. Wallace, overreacting?” Molly grunts. “Ya think?”
I’m sensing some sarcasm. “It’s not that I want to keep secrets from my brother—I know I should tell him and I will—but I don’t want him freaking out.” I pause, biting on my lower lip. “I have to figure it out before I blurt it out. He’ll have a heart attack. I need to ease into this like a pair of leather pants.”
The teenager’s brows go up. “Leather pants?”
“Um, never mind. Bad joke, ha ha.” And a bad Halloween outfit, one that ended in lots of baby powder inside the pants and plenty of bellyaching. “I just worry he’s going to make this about him.”
The teenager laughs. “Have you met your brother?” Another laugh. “Food poisoning he may be able to handle. You being preggo? He’s going to freak. Out! Especially if he sees you down there holding on to the toilet. Mr. Wallace is so high-strung.”
“Tripp thinks he has to know everything. Try being related to him.” Plus, he’s used to being dominant and in charge, and this house is his house and therefore his domain, so naturally he will want to know what’s going on under his own roof.
“I just don’t think it’s wise keeping secrets from him, especially if you can’t keep your cookies down. I don’t want to be fired if he finds out I knew about this.”
Cookies down?
Oh, she means barf.
I groan, the thought of anything sweet making my stomach want to lurch again.