Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
“Sure,” I told him. “So long as I get a chicken sandwich on the way.”
“You got it!” he called back through his closed bedroom door.
I stood to my feet and went to put the food I was snacking on away. After changing into a pair of stretchy jeans and a baggy band t-shirt, I slid my feet into a pair of combat boots, grabbing my jean jacket afterward.
John was waiting for me by the front door, spinning his keys around his finger. I arched a brow at him. “Did you even bathe?” I asked.
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I bathed. Not everybody takes hour-long showers, Montana.”
This time, it was my turn to roll my eyes. I yanked open the passenger door of his car and dropped into the seat. He winced when I shut it. “Easy on the car.”
“You should marry the fucking thing at this point,” I grumbled. Swear, sometimes he cared about his precious car more than he did me.
He cracked a grin. “I would if it was legal.”
I laughed softly. I had no doubt in my mind that he really would.
* * *
I watched, my eyes glued to the fight in front of me, as John jabbed his fists out in quick succession, battering his opponent.
John was quick on his feet. What he lacked in muscle, he more than made up for in speed. I used to love watching him fight when I was younger, and I was actually a bit happy to see that I still enjoyed it.
He had been my protector when I was little. I worshipped the ground he walked on. And I was glad that hadn’t changed.
My stomach churned. I groaned. This morning sickness shit was bullshit. Who decided to call it morning sickness anyway? I was sick off and on all goddamn day. Calling it morning sickness was fucking misleading.
I watched for as long as I could before I had to push my way through the crowd to find a trashcan. I bent over it, my hair wrapped in one fist as I emptied my stomach. A large hand settled over my back, making me flinch. A cloth appeared in front of my face.
“Here,” Blaze gruffly spoke from behind me.
I stood back up straight and slowly grabbed the cloth from him, using it to wipe my mouth. His eyes ran over my face, not giving anything away. Finally, he reached out and tucked some of my hair out of the way.
“No fighting tonight? You’re sober.”
I leaned against the brick wall near the trashcan. I was exhausted. “Been sober three weeks,” I told him.
He arched a brow at me. “You were pretty adamant about being high all the time, Montana. What changed?”
I shrugged, not giving him an answer. I wouldn’t tell him I got sober because Jonah made me feel okay again. I wouldn’t tell him I decided to get sober because John was pleading with me to.
And I wouldn’t tell him that I was remaining sober because I was pregnant.
“Life,” I said finally. “Just had a wake-up call.”
Blaze nodded. “Good.” CJ called his name. Blaze’s lips tilted up into the tiniest smirk. “Wish me luck, sweetheart.”
“Your cloth—” I said.
He shook his head, waving me off. “Keep it. And feel better, yeah?”
With that, he strode off toward the ring. He said something to John in passing who had just collected his winnings. John’s eyes found mine, and he nodded at whatever Blaze said to him before heading my way.
“Blaze said you’re not feeling good.”
I shrugged. “Morning sickness.”
John sighed and wrapped an arm around my shoulder, leading me away from the fights. I leaned into his side. “Don’t know why they call it morning sickness when you’re sick all the time.”
I laughed quietly. “I was just thinking that while you were in the ring,” I confessed. I poked his side, making him jump. “Good fight, by the way.”
He grinned and squeezed his arm around my shoulders. “Thanks, little sis.”
12
Montana
John ran his hand over my hair. He had already called out of work, too worried to leave me by myself. I’d assured him over and over that I would be fine, that apparently most pregnant women went through this, but he wouldn’t hear any of it.
And, in his defense, I was violently sick this morning.
I groaned and leaned over the side of the couch, throwing up into the bucket John had placed there. He pulled my hair back for me, silently waiting until I was done getting rid of my stomach acid before he stood up and took it to the bathroom to throw out, rinse, and bring back.
This would make his fifth round.
“You need to see a doctor,” he told me quietly when he came back.
I groaned. I didn’t want to see another damn doctor for as long as I lived. The last time I went to see one, I’d been informed I was pregnant. Might have seemed childish to anyone else, but that experience had been scarring.