21. Heidi

After Trick leaves in the morning, I busy myself around the house, but I’m a little slower and out of sorts than usual. I don’t feel great.

When I put Sophia down for her mid-morning nap, I go to bed myself, and within seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I’m out like a light.

I wake feeling a little more human but only marginally. Worried, I call my doctor and make an appointment.

I don’t feel right, and I don’t miss how much I shake as I lift Sophia out her cot and carry her downstairs.

At fifteen months old, she’s really flourishing, her personality coming to the forefront more every day.

Soon, the clubhouse will be full of more little ones. Both Hope and Skye are getting close to having their babies, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the other women start their families, too.

I talk to Sophia as I bustle around the kitchen, getting her lunch ready, and she talks back to me. Her words are getting better every day, but I can only understand about half of what she’s trying to communicate.

As I open the fridge to make her lunch, the smell inside turns my stomach. There’s nothing nasty in there, just the usual groceries, but nausea bubbles in my throat and that sickly feeling I have had all morning suddenly turns into something worse. Leaving Sophia in her highchair, I barely make it up the stairs, my hand clamped over my mouth as my stomach convulses. As I drop in front of the toilet, the first wave of vomit spills up my throat. Wave after wave of intense contractions hits my stomach as I vomit up every single thing I’ve eaten in the last twenty-four hours.

By the time I’m finished, I am a shaky, sweaty, trembling mess. I lean against the toilet, trying to catch my breath as my stomach aches. If this is a virus, it’s a nasty one.

It’s not a virus.

That thought slides through my mind, and as soon as it does, I know why I feel so unwell. The symptoms aren’t exactly the same as last time, but I know I’m pregnant.

How the hell can I be pregnant?I take the shot.

Cold spreads through me. When was the last time I had it?

Shit.

I lift myself off the floor, using the basin to lever myself up. The room spins around me for a moment, and I have to close my eyes to steady myself. I don’t remember feeling this bad with my first pregnancy. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am sick.

I brush my teeth to get rid of the taste of acid on my tongue before pulling my phone out and scanning my calendar. My stomach sinks as I find the date of my last appointment. I’m late, and not just late, but overdue by more than three weeks. How did I not get a reminder for this?

I pull up my messages and see one from the doctor’s office. There it is in black and white—a note to make an appointment. Checking the date, I see it came in around the same time I got shot.

I guess… I guess I got sidetracked.

My pulse flutters wildly as I pull open the doors to the cupboard and move bottles of shampoos out the way. In the back, I find an old pregnancy test that I came across when I was cleaning one time. I don’t know why I didn’t throw it out, but at this moment, I’m glad I didn’t.

I’m so anxious, I can’t pee for a solid minute, but eventually, I take the test, capping it and placing it on the edge of the sink counter. And then I wait for the longest minutes of my life as the test does its thing.

Do I want to be pregnant? How will Trick react? What if he thinks I did this on purpose? He asked if I was covered, and I told him I was. I thought I was.

All this time, we’ve been having unprotected sex while he thought I was on birth control.

What the fuck have I done?

This thing between us is still new, and while I have no doubt he loves me, there’s a big difference between loving someone and having a child with them. Sophia is still so young. Will he want two kids under three?

I chew my nails as I wait for the test to do its thing, and I’m so scared to look, but I force myself.

The little plus sign in the window makes my heart skip several beats. Pregnant. I’m fucking pregnant.

The wash of emotions that flow through me are jumbled.

Fear. Joy. Terror. Happiness. Hope. Despair.

I press my hand over my belly. There is a life growing inside me.

What if I miscarry again?

What if I can’t carry a baby to full term?

What if…

Fear clutches me, abject terror of all the things that can go wrong sits in my gut. I stuff the test into the box and head downstairs, trying to calm my stormy thoughts.

As I enter the kitchen, Sophia twists in her highchair to see me, her cheeks wet, and guilt tears through me. “I’m so sorry, baby,” I coo at her as I toss the test into the trash, burying it under a few boxes.

She makes a grabby hand motion as soon as I get close to her and I lift her out of the highchair, pressing her against my chest.

Having another baby is going to completely change the dynamic we have in the house. It’s going to change everything…

Despite all the uncertainty, all the fear I have, there is a small part of me that is elated. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want another baby, but will this time have a happier ending?

A knock on the front door breaks me out of the moment, and I warily move into the hallway, still holding Sophia. No one comes to the house without prior warning, and Bobby usually intercepts any delivery drivers.

If it was someone dangerous, he would have stepped in, right?

That is the only reason I continue to the door.

When I look through the peephole, I see Bobby standing in front of it. Relief floods me and I open the door.

As soon as I do, I realise my mistake.

A tall figure steps out from around the side of the house, his gun pointed at Bobby’s head. I swallow down the scream that wants to leave my mouth as Bobby is forced inside.

I have no choice but to step back into the hallway as I try to put distance between me and the man holding the gun. I clutch Sophia to me, protecting her from the scene in front of us.

“You’re making a mistake,” Bobby grinds out as the gun is pressed harder into the back as head.

His hands are raised at his sides, but I don’t miss the way his face contorts into an angry snarl at being pushed around.

“Shut up,” the man growls. His accent is distinct and definitely from Birmingham, but his appearance is so similar to Skye—and also Sariah—that I know instinctively he is Desmond Richardson.

The suit he’s wearing is rumpled, as if he has been sleeping in it for a month, and his beard is ragged and unkempt, so different from Trick’s.

His bloodshot irises pin me with a glare that seems unhinged, and I feel the knock of death on my door.

“In there.” He points towards the kitchen.

Sensing my fear, Sophia fusses in my arms. I rock her slightly, making shushing sounds as I move as far away from the danger as possible.

Desmond keeps his gun trained on Bobby as he moves to the window, twisting the blind shut. My heart is racing so fast, I feel lightheaded, and the nausea that churns through me is no longer morning sickness. I don’t want to die in this house with one of Trick’s babies in my belly and the other in my arms.

Think, Heidi. How do we get out of this?

I put as much distance between me and Desmond as I can, shielding Sophia with my body. I can’t stop a bullet, but I will do what I can to keep her safe for as long as possible.

I risk a glance at Bobby, whose teeth are gritted so hard together, he must be hurting his jaw. I have no doubt he will be the first of us to die. Prospects don’t last long around here… just as I’d predicted.

I stare at him, memorising every inch of his face. I don’t want to lose anyone else, and I have come to care about Bobby. Even if I didn’t, he is a human being and he does not deserve to die.

Richardson forces Bobby down onto his knees on the tiled floor, the gun pressed to the back of his head.

I hold my breath. All it will take is a slight movement of his finger and Bobby’s life ends. How is that fair?

“This isn’t how to get what you want.” It’s a risk, a desperate attempt to distract him, which sort of works because his head lifts to me.

“And what is it you think I want, little girl?”

“What everyone wants. Justice. The Sons took your daughter from you. They killed your soldiers and left you with nothing. I understand why you would want them to pay for that.”

“I don’t give two fucks about my daughter. She betrayed me the moment she let that biker cunt touch her.”

The gun moves from Bobby’s nape, waving around erratically. My pulse skyrockets as Sophia cries. I rock her in my arms, trying to soothe her, but she doesn’t stop.

“Okay. Okay, just… please, stop waving the gun.”

“You’re a dead man, Richardson,” Bobby grinds out, and I want to tell him to stop fucking talking.

Richardson again presses the barrel of the gun against the back of Bobby’s head, forcing him farther forward.

My pulse leaps, fear dancing inside me. There is no way I can stand by while Bobby dies, but it’s not just me I have to think about. I have Sophia to protect… and the unborn baby I just found out about.

Hopelessness washes through me as Bobby lifts his head ever so slightly to meet my gaze. His eyes flash with anger, and that scares me.

What is he considering doing?

“If you don’t want Skye, then what do you want?” I ask this question even though it is obvious what he wants. He came specifically to Trick’s home.

“I want to make that little bastard pay for what he has done. My organisation is in tatters. My men no longer trust me to lead them. I have no power in my city anymore.” He gestures at me with the gun. “Call him.”

There is no way in hell I want to call Trick here to die. I won’t have that on my conscience, but when he cocks the gun, I slowly pull my phone out my pocket, my gaze never leaving his.

“She doesn’t need to call me. I’m here.” Trick’s voice has my head snapping in its direction. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his expression like thunder. His kutte mocks me, a reminder of everything I’ve lost, and I refuse to lose him too.

Fear surges inside me as my gut ties itself into a knot, and my mouth is so dry, I can’t swallow.

“Let them go and we’ll talk.”

Desmond lifts his gun and points it at Trick’s head, and my world tips on its axis.