Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
It’s only logical that I moved on, creating a life for myself without room for him in it. It’s also logical that Blue finally came to his senses and realized that we’re perfect for each other. Because we are.
It could have been so easy, so beautiful.
Instead, it’s like trying to dance a waltz to a rap song.
“With a bum leg,” I say, wincing as my injured foot begins to protest the ridiculous amount of pacing.
I’m feeling much better—I don’t need the crutches at all anymore—but I’m pushing things. I know that. But moving is the only way to purge the hunger from my skin. Hot baths are off the table for pregnant women. The high temperature isn’t good for the baby, and lukewarm baths are lame.
I still take them, but I don’t enjoy them…not unless I bring my waterproof vibrator and spend half the bath thinking about Blue fucking me in the water, which is the last thing I should be doing right now.
Not that I let that stop me this morning…
Though, to be fair, I had to do something after Blue burst into the apartment as I was making breakfast, sweaty and shirtless from his morning run, looking like the star of a high-budget porno. Super high budget. His body is a work of art. Those broad shoulders. That buff as hell chest. All those sweat-slick abs…
I wanted to lick them.
So much.
Even now, standing in this spooky room, stressing about the future, the thought is enough to make heat pool low in my belly. It’s ridiculous, and it’s past time I pulled myself together.
Bean kicks my cervix, making me wince at the force of her agreement.
Before I can assure her that I’m not about to drop the ball—any of them—the door opens and Checkers walks in, flashy as always in Gucci jeans, Balenciaga sneakers, and a bright blue tee from one of his favorite local streetwear designers.
I’ve worked with Devaughn Charles, Checkers to his friends, for nearly a year now. He was the one who helped me launch my first single after all the shit went down with Kai. He has three Grammy nominations, a wall of gold records, and is still on his way up in the industry. He’s going to be a star-maker, no doubt in my mind. I just hope he still wants to make me a star by the end of this meeting.
And once he realizes I’m pregnant.
I haven’t broken that piece of news yet, either.
I expect his eyes to widen when he sees my belly, his infamous cool to crack, at least a little. But as his gaze rakes up and down my frame, he doesn’t look surprised. Or particularly interested.
He takes me in with a detachment that sends a wave of unease whispering through me, even before he says, “Hey, Bea, welcome home. Sorry, I’m late. But since I am, and I’m sure we both have other places to be, I’ll spare us any more wasted time and get straight to the point.”
I blink, struggling to remain calm as I say, “Sure thing. Tell me what’s on your mind,” but inside, my pulse is already racing.
This level of directness isn’t Checkers’ style. He’s not a “get to the point” kind of guy. He pops weed gummies like other people pop slices of chewing gum. Sure, he can be a shark sometimes, but a super laid-back one, the kind who circles his prey for hours, joking and telling random stories, lulling them into a false sense of security before he strikes.
He never just…strikes. And he’s never sharked out on me before.
He’s been on my side—socially, musically—since the beginning.
But maybe things have changed while I was away…
“I heard about the accident,” he continues, leaning against the other side of the board, about as far from me as he can get. “Super glad you and Clover are okay, but the video after the wreck… Well, that’s how I found out about that, too.” He gestures, briefly, to my midsection, the dismissive gesture of a man who isn’t a fan of the miracle of birth. Or maybe it’s just me he’s not a fan of, I think, as he adds, “I should have heard about that from you, though, right? Like, six months ago or whatever? But at least before I signed off on the plans for the photo
shoot. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I understand why you’re upset,” I say, meaning it, but I anticipated this kind of pushback might be an issue. I didn’t think he’d be this angry, but I’m ready, either way. “But you’ll remember that our contract states I have final approval of all images used for cover art, advertising, promotion, etc. In the end, the version of me that shows up on that cover was always going to come down to what I thought was best. And I know this version can be incredible, Checkers. The swamp goddess energy is even more intense now that I’m pregnant.” I risk a hopeful smile as I add, “And I’ll definitely stand out in the new-release crowd of skinny girls in tight jeans, right? I mean, this could be a good thing. Even a great one.”