Chapter Eight

I'm in some half-asleep state with Humphrey Bogart murmuring into one ear, and Ryan into the other. It's a lovely dream, especially since I know that even though Bogie is going to get on that plane with Louie, Ryan's still going to be beside me.

Jamie…

I clutch the pillow and turn my face into it, trying to slide back into the bliss of sleep.

Jamie!

A warm hand against my forehead. Ryan's hand.

My eyes flutter open, but it's hard to keep them open. I'm tired. So, so tired. But as my eyelids droop, I catch a glimpse of Ryan's face. A face I know even better than my own. I see the worry in his eyes. But I also see the tightness in his jaw and the tension around his mouth.

"What's wrong?" I ask, though I doubt he understands. It came out more like waz long. This is going to be the hard part. This bone-deep exhaustion. Thankfully, the doc said it would pass quickly.

I just need more sleep. I force my eyes open to look at Ryan, then murmur seep, as if that will explain everything. Then I let them flutter closed, only to smile when I feel the press of his palm against my forehead.

"Shit."

The word is harsh, and as I listen to his departing footsteps followed by the slam of our bedroom door, I know that something's wrong. I push myself up to lean against the pillows, mentally slapping myself back into consciousness.

So, so tired.

And while I wish I could stay in bed longer, I can't. I have to get up. I have to talk to Ryan.

I stretch, then reach for my phone, only to discover it's not on the bedside table. I frown, then remember that it had died on my drive to the clinic that morning—my bad for forgetting to charge it. And for having removed the charging cable from my car last week when I couldn't find the one in my home office.

I look around, intending to plug it in now, then realize it's in my purse, and my purse is in the entryway.

Sometimes, technology sucks.

I go the old-fashioned route and glance at the clock, frowning when I see it's almost three. I pull on a ratty pair of shorts and grab a tee from the pile on my dressing table chair. I'm already in my bra. I usually sleep naked, but my achy girls aren't enjoying that experience lately.

Dressed, I yawn and stretch in an attempt to clear my groggy head. It's not really working, but I ignore the lure of the bed calling me back, and head out into the wilds of the house to find Ryan.

It's not tricky. The huge sliding doors are open, and I can see him pacing the back patio, which will be my next stop after grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge, guzzling it, and surprising myself with a huge burp.

Apparently, I have a lot of things to get used to.

I'm trying to organize my thoughts as I cross the den, but when Ryan turns to face me, my mind and body go entirely numb. His expression is blank. A zero. Completely unreadable. His eyes flat. His body tense, as if he's having to work to hold it up.

I've seen him like this before, but only when he's deep in an investigation, and usually when he's got his sights on some bad guy or when one of his team's been injured.

Right now, he's looking straight at me.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong. And I hurry toward him, not wanting to know what happened, but terribly afraid that someone I love's been hurt.

"Ry—" I begin, then stop cold when those flat, emotionless eyes meet mine.

"Are you okay?"

"I…" I trail off with a shrug. And before I can ask what's bothering him, he steps closer to me. And for the first time I can remember, I take a corresponding step back. Or I try to. His hand on my shoulder holds me in place. Gentle, but firm enough that I'd have to shake free.

That's exactly what I do.

"Dammit, Jamie. Just answer my question. I know you went to the clinic. So tell me. Are you okay?"

"Yes." My knees go suddenly weak, and I settle onto a nearby chair as Ryan paces in front of me. I feel sick to my stomach. This isn't at all how I wanted him to find out.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I was planning to tell—"

He holds up a finger, cutting me off. "Just—just don't say anything, okay. I need a minute to wrap my head around this."

I nod, wishing now that I'd told him before I went. At the time, it had seemed like the better way to go. Go see Dr. Albright, then come back with all the information. But I never once expected he'd find out before I had a chance to tell him.

"I wanted to tell you before, but I guess I also needed to be alone. I had to know if I could really do it. But that was wrong of me. I'm so sorry."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, then takes a seat on the footstool. "So that's it? You go and do something like that without even talking to me and all I get is that you're sorry?"

"Like that? Like what?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Jamie." He drags his fingers through his hair then stands up and starts pacing again.

I watch him. The pain on his face. The fury, too. I don't understand it. I mean, yes, I should have told him, but this is out of all proportion. All I did was go—

Wait a second.

"How do you even know where I was? I didn't tell you." And since my phone died only a mile from the house, I know he couldn't have tracked me, either.

"I think the not telling me is pretty much the center of this whole clusterfuck, don't you?"

"Dammit, Ryan, how did you even know where I was?"

For a moment, I think he's not going to answer me. Then he pulls his phone from his back pocket and hands it to me, open to a screenshot from a ridiculous Hollywood gossip site.

For a moment, I just stare at it, entirely unable to comprehend. It's me. It's the clinic. And that horrible headline is hinting that I—

Holy shit.

I don't even remember standing, but somehow I got halfway across the room and right in Ryan's face. "You believe this? You think I got a fucking abortion?"

I turn away from him, my entire body cold. Not from the thought of terminating, but from the knowledge that he actually believed that I would.

My back is to him, and I'm focusing on breathing. It's not easy.

"Jamie." I hear him draw a breath. "Jamie, I'm sorry. I—"

I whip around. "Fuck you, Ryan." Tears are streaming down my face, but I barely even notice. "How the hell could you think that little of me?"

"Jamie, I—"

"I was at the clinic because Nikki's OB volunteers there every third week, and, I wanted to see her right away. I wanted to know how far along I was. And, you know, get checked out. I didn't go there to get a goddamned abortion, and the fact that you think I would do something like that without talking to you first…"

I let my words trail off, because it's just so horrible. "How could you?" My voice is barely a whisper.

"Jamie, please." I hear the contrition in his voice, but I don't care.

I'm already walking away.

* * * *

I'm a complete mess as I storm out of the house, taking nothing but my purse and my still-dead phone. I consider grabbing one of the charging cables that is among the clutter on the table in the garage, but I don't. I don't need the map; I know exactly where I'm going.

And I don't need Ryan tracking me or calling me. Not now. Not while I'm this pissed.

I regret the decision when I reach the end of the private street that we share with Nikki and Damien. He'd built it a few years ago, essentially extending his already long driveway, for the primary purpose of keeping the public further away. Today, however, further isn't better. Because the only way I'm going to get off the property is to go through the crowd of camera-clicking fiends who are gathered at the gate, just waiting to snap a picture.

Fuck.

I have an old ball cap on the floor, and I consider putting it on. But I don't. Fuck them. They're reporting bullshit, and they'll know it soon enough. Maybe some will have a conscious and feel bad. I doubt it, but I tell myself I don't care. That's the price I have to pay if I want this life, and considering the expectations for Dead Certain, I might as well start getting used to it.

From the paparazzi. But from my husband? Assumptions and accusations?

I tell myself to stop thinking about it. All that will accomplish is making me cry again, and that's definitely not the look I want as I drive past the parasites.

Instead, I roll down my windows, crank up The Rolling Stones "Satisfaction,"and keep my eyes straight ahead as I navigate the Ferrari through the crowd of human leeches, then toward the Hollywood Hills.

I keep the music on as I drive, the radio tuned to classic rock and me singing along. Not only does it keep my mind from replaying that bullshit conversation with Ryan, it keeps me from thinking about all the other bullshit, too. Just me and the music and the wind whipping my hair as I take the hills and curves of Mulholland at a speed that would make Ryan cringe.

Well, too fucking bad.

I arrive at the house a full five minutes earlier than my best time when there was no traffic at all. Of course, that extra five minutes is wasted by the fact that I have to park around the curve since everyone else in the neighborhood has grabbed all the good spaces. For a moment I just sit in the parked car, my hands so tight on the wheel that my knuckles are white.

That was an old Jamie thing to do—taking the curves at that speed. New Jamie knows better. New Jamie's getting her shit together. She's married. She's pregnant.

She doesn't need to take a curve too fast and fly out into space.

I shiver, only then realizing that I've pressed my hand over my belly. I pull it away, grimacing, then get out of the car and walk to the frosted-glass front door. I ring the bell, and when no one answers, I let myself in.

Ollie—the third in the me, Nikki, Ollie BFF trifecta—bought the house for a song a while back when he quit practicing law and moved back to Los Angeles to work for the FBI. The fact that property in the Hollywood Hills rarely goes for a song is testament to what a dump this place was when he bought it.

It's not a dump now. It's absolutely stunning and the view is incredible. He'd been single when he bought it. Now he lives with his husband, Trevor, who works under Ryan at Stark Security.

And as far as I can tell, neither Ollie nor Trev are here.

Damn.

I make myself at home, taking advantage of the charging station in the kitchen to plug in my phone. I raid the pantry and find a package of Chips Ahoy, so I pour myself a glass of milk to go with them. I take my snack back to the living room, stretch out on the couch, and waste thirty minutes scrolling through the infinite choices on the various streaming services.

In the end, I wind up watching myself in Intercontinental, over-analyzing the delivery of every line, the purpose of every expression.

The movie did well—very well. But I want Dead Certain to do better. And that means I have to do better.

I was never one for over-studying. That was Nikki. Although to be honest, she didn't actually need to study. Me? I needed to. I just didn't. Like I really cared if I could solve a differential equation or diagram a sentence.

But acting? Yeah, I'll dive deep to study that.

I'm rewinding the first love scene back to the beginning for the third time when I hear the beeps of the entry code and the whir of the lock. I look up, then watch as Ollie and Trevor enter together, arm in arm.

"Look what the cat dragged in," I say, making Ollie jump.

He runs his fingers through his wavy hair. "Dammit, Jamie, you scared the shit out of me." I'm still not used to him without glasses, and the worry—and relief—is right there in his eyes. "And why haven't you answered our texts?"

"Shit." I leap to my feet then hurry to the kitchen to retrieve my phone. I power it on, and notifications start pinging like machine gun fire. Apparently everyone I've ever met—including Matthew and Carson—saw the stupid photo and headline that has now gone completely viral.

I'm about to call Nikki when I hear, "Are you okay?" The question's from Trevor, and I turn around to face him, those dark eyes looking at me with such sympathy, that I go to him for a hug.

"Is it true? Did you—"

"No. But I am pregnant." I sigh, then flop down on their sofa. "The whole fucking world knows that I'm pregnant, and my husband—the man who loves me—goes off the rails and assumes I had an abortion without telling him. I mean, what the fuck is up with that?"

"He saw the photo. He reacted."

I glare at him. "My side. After all these years, you're supposed to be on my side."

"Do you really want to have sides?" That's from Trevor, who I've come to love. But he has the infuriating tendency to be way too fucking reasonable.

"Maybe," I say. "I mean, I find out I'm pregnant. I don't know what to do with that. So I try to be responsible. I mean, I should at least know how far along I am, right?"

"Sure," Ollie says. "So how far?"

"About eight weeks. But that's not the point. I go to get checked out, and the entire world assumes I'm terminating. The world and Ryan."

"So you're keeping the baby?" Ollie sits by me on the sofa.

"I don't know. Maybe. I guess? I mean, how do I know? This whole thing kinda slammed me upside the head, you know? But Ryan's dying to have a kid, so…" I trail off with a shrug, wondering when that glorious I'm going to be a mommy feeling will settle in.

"What about the movie?" Trevor asks, the question making me a little queasy.

"I don't know," I say, then frown. "That's probably why Matthew and Carson called. To fire me."

"They can't," Ollie says. "They can't fire you for being pregnant. They'll have to work around it. Use CGI. Whatever. But firing because you're pregnant? No can do."

I nod, realizing I'd heard that somewhere before. "So, that's something."

"You should go home," Trevor says gently. "You both had a shock today. Ryan wasn't at his best, and you know it."

I shrug. "He immediately thought the worst, and I'm not even talking about terminating the pregnancy. He thought I'd made a decision about us on my own. He didn't trust me to be his wife. His partner." I meet Ollie's eyes. "He still looks at me like I used to be. Wild Jamie who'd go off and do anything."

"I don't think he does," Ollie says, his voice as gentle as I've ever heard it. "I think he was blindsided. I think you were, too." He pauses, then takes my hand and squeezes. "And I think you should go home."

I draw in a breath, nodding slowly. Then I turn and look at Trevor. "Can I crash in the guest room?"

I see the flicker of his eyes as he glances toward Ollie. Then he nods. "Yeah," he says. "Of course you can."