Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, I ran to the toilet and threw up whatever little was in my stomach.

I’d been having issues with morning sickness since the beginning of the week.

The problem was that I could only keep down three things without getting up close and intimate with the toilet bowl: rice cakes, ginger candy, and diet coke.

Now, I was no nutritionist, but I was pretty sure those three things did not make for a balanced diet rich in vitamins and minerals for me or my baby.

They did, however, make for a lovely dieting plan that would result in my losing the extra five pounds I’d been struggling with for three years.

I plastered my forehead to the toilet seat, pathetically enjoying its coolness against my burning brow. I was sweaty and exhausted. My hair was stuck to my neck and hung in wet strands.

I blinked, white spots dancing across my vision as I tried to focus on the lime-green floor in my bathroom.

“Please, Baby Whitehall, let me eat a piece of toast with some cheese today. You need the protein and I need the variety. I get that morning sickness is nature’s way to tell women to stay the fuck away from all the bad stuff, but I promise, I’m not getting near coffee, alcohol, raw meat, or sashimi for the next nine months. Hell, I’ll throw in pickles and hard candy if you give me a break.”

Baby Whitehall, which according to a chart I found on the internet, was currently the size of a kidney bean and didn’t find my plea compelling. Sure enough, another bout of puking began.

With my last strength, I picked up the phone and texted Devon.

Belle: I know you said you want to be more involved. I’m thinking of booking an appointment with my OB-GYN.

Devon: ?

Belle: I can’t be farther than two feet from the bathroom at all times.

Devon: number 1 or 2?

Belle: three.

Belle: (puking).

Devon: I’ll have Joanne book an appointment and send a cab for you.

Ah, his trusted secretary. Because when he said he wanted to get involved, what he really meant was he wanted to control me until I produced him a healthy, chubby baby.

Belle: it’s fine. I can do it myself.

Devon: keep me posted.

Belle: screw you.

But I didn’t actually send that last message. It reeked of emotions, and I didn’t do those.

Simmering in a pool of self-pity, I dragged my feet across my shoebox apartment, glancing dejectedly at the place and wondering where in the world I was going to fit an entire baby. The baby itself wouldn’t take too much space, but her stuff would need a room.

And babies this day and age had all sorts of stuff.

My sister and all my friends had kids, and their toys and furniture needed acres of land. Cribs, changing tables, dressers, highchairs, bassinets, toys. The list was never-ending, and I was currently struggling to find a place for my coffee cups.

Too exhausted to figure out the accommodations, I spent the first half of the day binge-watching true crime documentaries on Netflix (because nothing screams a nurturing mother-to-be like following the chronicles of a serial killer). A knock on the door jolted me.

I groaned, flinging my feet off the couch. I threw my door open, only realizing I should’ve asked who it was when the memory of my trip to the Boston Common and my stalker resurfaced.

Well, crap in a basket.

I’d been meaning to call Sam Brennan and ask him what he charges these days for a bodyguard to protect a bitch, but my pregnancy brain fog took over my life. Besides, things had been calm the last few days.

“Sweven?” A pimply guy in an upscale chain store uniform smiled at me, holding approximately a gazillion brown bags.

Phew. Not a serial killer.

“I seem to be answering to that nickname recently, yeah.” I looked left and right to make sure he was alone and didn’t happen to have a serial killer with him.

“I have a delivery for you. Clean juices, exotic fruit baskets, and ready-made meals for a week by OrganicU. Where should I put this?”

I motioned with my head toward the kitchen, leading the way.

My baby daddy was a prick, but at least he was a considerate one.

I got to work looking like I’d been dragged there by an angry beaver. Bloodshot eyes, knotty hair haphazardly gathered in a bun, and a dress I lovingly referred to as The Period Dress. For a reason.

Ambling into the club, I noticed Ross was standing with three people I did not recognize. My heart immediately jerked in my chest. I wasn’t a fan of strangers, in general, but especially after the incidents with the strange man at my club and the other man who’d chased me in the Common.

“Oh good. Sleeping beauty’s here.” Ross turned to beam at me, handing me my coffee. I placed it on the bar, the mere scent of it making me want to throw up every slice of pizza I’d ever consumed in my lifetime.

“I’m only three minutes late.” I dropped my clutch on the counter and not so gracefully plopped into a seat. “No offense, but, um, who the hell are these people?”

“Your new employees, hired by a third party. Charming, right?”

That third party, I guessed, was Devon Whitehall. The man who managed to be a helicopter parent before the baby was actually born.

The first employee was Morgan, a vertically-challenged spitfire with pixie hair, a nose ring, and enough attitude to light up Vegas. She introduced herself as a certified mixologist with five years’ experience at Troy and Sparrow Brennan’s Michelin-starred restaurant and explained to me assertively that she was specifically hired to work double shifts.

The second was Alice, a forty-something-year-old with twenty years of experience running a bar in New York. Alice’s rough hands implied she was well-versed in throwing creepers and troublemakers out of bars if need be.

The third employee was a man named Simon Diamond (stage name, anyone?), who was approximately the size of a RAM truck. Simon eyed me the entire time like I was a prisoner he needed to keep from running away. When I asked about his work background, he offered a half-baked explanation. “Was a bouncer for a decade.”

“Oh. We don’t need any more bouncers.” I smiled politely, already planning to have Ross and Morgan teach him how to make cocktails.

Simon returned a smile—only it made my bones snap in fear. “I’m not here to be a bouncer.”

“What are you here for?” I took a sip of my coffee then immediately dribbled it back into the cup. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Baby Whitehall wasn’t impressed with my unkept promise not to touch caffeine.

“This and that. Everything, really.”

“Jack of all trades, huh? Well, that won’t be necessary.”

“I’ve already been paid for the next nine months, ma’am. You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

I didn’t know what I found more disconcerting. The fact that he forced his presence on me or the fact that he called me ma’am.

I also had no idea how Devon convinced these people to work for me. They were obviously overqualified. I was pretty sure he paid through the nose to compensate for the fact they were going to serve a lot of gin and tonics to middle-aged men coming to get an eyeful of the burlesque dancers.

“Belle, honey, a little more appreciation and a little less bitchiness would be great.” Ross materialized from the back office and strolled toward the bar, looking grim and a little put off. I didn’t even notice he was gone. “Devon brought me up to speed about the fact you’re eating for two.”

He put a hand on my shoulder and peered down at me. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me? I thought I was one of your best friends.”

“You are.” I licked my lips, not used to being called out, but appreciating it anyway because Ross had every right to be hurt. “I’m sorry, Ross. It’s just because … general health stuff. This is a high-risk pregnancy, so I didn’t want to announce it too early.”

“Oh.” I could feel him defrosting, but he still wasn’t happy that I’d kept it from him.

“Devon needs to be gagged. I’m surprised he didn’t commission a Times Square banner.” I looked around me dispassionately. Speaking of banners and billboards, my days posing naked were over. Baby Whitehall was going to have enough material for her future therapist without my nudity adding to the mix.

“Give him time. He might do that too.”

I flipped Ross the finger. He curled my middle finger back into my fist, but there was no anger in his voice. “I’ll let this one slide, because it seems like you’ve experienced many changes in the past few weeks.”

I gnawed at my lower lip, deciding to drop the ball-busting charade for a second. I mean, this was Ross. My Ross. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So … you’ve met him.” I didn’t put a question mark at the end of the sentence. My insides liquefied.

“I have.” Ross nodded cryptically while Morgan, Alice, and Simon pretended to look around the place and talk to each other.

“And … what did you think?”

“I think…” he flipped my hair, playing with it lovingly, “…he is hotter than the devil’s dick, talks like a Netflix duke, and is crazy about you. I approve of the arrangement.”

“Thanks for giving me the blessing I didn’t ask for.”

“You’re welcome. And while we’re on the topic—I know you’re going to manage to screw it up somehow, because you’re allergic to relationships, but please, Belly-Belle, puh-lease, can we keep him for just a little longer?” He clapped his hands together and gave me puppy eyes, like a child who came across a stray cat he wanted to adopt.

“No.” I produced a small mirror from my clutch and checked my red lipstick, using my pinky to wipe the lines. “His job is done.”

“You should tell him that. He threatened that if I let you work the bar tonight, he’d personally kick my ass. So I’m going to go ahead and send you to work in the office until no later than six o’clock, after which you’ll go back home.”

“Six o’clock?” I roared. “It’s four o’clock right now!”

“Four twenty. Don’t forget you were late.” Ross grabbed the small mirror, checking his own reflection. He raised his eyebrows to check his Botox situation. In my opinion, he had at least three more months in him before he needed to visit his dermatologist.

“You can’t kick me out of my own workplace.” I snatched the mirror and shoved it into my clutch.

“Wanna bet? Mr. Whitehall asked me to refer you to clause 12.5 of your contract—by the way, so hot that you have one—in which, if you endanger your unborn child, he may have grounds to sue you.”

Holy crappers. Why couldn’t I get knocked up by the Friendly Front Runner? He wouldn’t give two shits if I drank myself to death under a bridge.

There was no point arguing with Ross or Devon. Not because I was one to pass up a chance to quarrel, but because I could actually use a few hours of sleep. I was exhausted. As much as I hated to admit it, Devon was right—I needed rest.

Begrudgingly, I retreated to my office. Powering up my MacBook, I noticed a pile of envelopes sitting on the edge of my desk. I remembered what Devon had said about opening them to ensure they weren’t only just hate mail.

Maybe I won the lottery?

Maybe there’s some fan mail in there, telling me how awesome I was for celebrating the extravagant, fun, and sexually liberal wonders of burlesque?

I jerked the stack my way and began sieving through them.

A bunch of bills I’d already paid, two angry letters about my substantial role in corrupting the youth of Boston, and one thank you letter from a woman who came to see a show a few months ago and was inspired to quit her job as a marine biologist and join the burlesque cast of AMidsummer Night’s Dream.

I picked up another letter, this one printed.

To:Emmabelle Penrose.

I tore it open.

The letter was short and contained a return address for a PO Box in Maryland.

Emmabelle,

Are you worried for your life yet?

You should be.

If you only paid more attention to what was going on around you, you’d have noticed that I’ve been watching you for a long time now.

Planning my revenge.

I know where you live, where you work, and who you hang out with.

That’s the part where you get scared. You’d be right to. I’m not going to rest until you’re dead.

No one can help you.

Not your best friend’s husband, Sam Brennan.

Not your idiotic sister, Persephone, or her billionaire husband.

Not even that fancy man you’ve been hanging out with recently.

Once I made up my mind, your destiny was sealed.

You can take this letter to the police. In fact, I encourage you to. It’ll just give you more shit to worry about and disrupt your already messed up life.

I’m going to kill you for what you did to me.

And I’m not even going to be sorry about it.

Never yours,

The person you took everything from.

My stomach twisted, clenching around the stupid clean juice I drank for breakfast.

So that man in the Boston Common was there for me.

Was he the same person who thought I’d wronged him, or was he there just to spy?

Either way, someone was after me.

After my life.

An invisible enemy.

A noose formed around my neck.

Who could it be?

Taking inventory, I had to admit, I was far from being the nicest person on planet Earth, but I by no means had arch-enemies. I’d hurt no one, no one that I could think of. Certainly not to a point of such rage.

There was one incident long ago. But the only person affected was no longer alive.

Good thing I had a gun, which I was going to take with me everywhere from now on just in case, Krav Maga skills, and the badass bitch attitude with which to strangle this person with my own hands if they came anywhere near me.

Plus, I couldn’t exactly advertise what was happening to me. Telling Devon and my closest friends about this letter would only create more chaos.

As it was, my baby daddy was trying to take control of my life, and I didn’t want to give him more leeway than he already had to make decisions on my behalf.

No, this was another challenge I would have to meet head-on.

There was someone else I needed to take care of, and I was going to kill for her if need be.

My baby.