The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(12)

“What does that mean?” I demand.

Ben’s brow raises, irritated at the tone I’ve taken with his wife, as if Gemma is some fragile flower in need of his protection. “What do you think it means? She’s pregnant and she isn’t telling anyone who the father is.”

It can’t be mine. She’d have told me by now.

Which means she’s having someone else’s child. I know I should simply be relieved…instead it feels as if something is lost.

“I did not see that coming,” says Gracie, my stepsister. “When’s she due?”

“October,” Gemma replies.

My mother’s eyebrows raise. “She must have gotten pregnant right around the time of your party.”

The cup I’m holding cracks in my hand.





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9





KEELEY





I meet up with a group of friends for dinner, the burgeoning swell of my stomach cleverly hidden by a tiny, waistless dress that ends at the top of my thighs. I pair it with the highest, strappiest heels I own. Perhaps appearing to be all legs will distract from the fact that I am now, at nineteen weeks pregnant, built like a Barbie doll—the anatomically incorrect version whose weight is so off balance she defies gravity just by staying upright.

I still haven’t told work that I’m pregnant. How can I when they’re so backlogged from the previous departures? How can I not, when I’m bursting out of every bra and can barely button a single skirt? I won’t be able to pass it off as bloating for much longer.

I also haven’t told Graham, of course. It’s not like the kid is here. It’s not like I’m depriving him of something. And I already know how he’ll react if I call, as if this is all some scheme I’ve sucked him into. And why should I have to put up with that?

I order a seltzer with lime and let everyone think it’s a gin and tonic. I could tell them the truth—unlike my family, unlike Graham, they won’t insist I’m too incompetent for motherhood—but they’d find the whole thing hysterically funny, a lark, and I don’t think it’s funny, or a lark, so I’m keeping it to myself until I do.

They regale me with what I missed while I was in DC, but their stories aren’t nearly as hilarious as they think. There’s the night Jason had a threesome and later found out one of the girls had just turned eighteen, which is a little disgusting. Then there’s a story about them getting misspelled tattoos on purpose, which I’m glad I wasn’t around for because I’d probably have done it.

These were my wildest friends, the ones who made me feel like adulting was a waste of time because there was too much fun to be had, but our fun was clearly alcohol-induced. Sober, I realize their jokes are stupid, their stories are barely engaging, and they’re kind of shitty to the waitstaff.

“Keeley, what’s wrong with you?” demands Erik. “You used to be the life of the party!”

I did. And if they bored me, I drank more or made everyone go dancing.

I force a smile. “I just need another,” I say, shaking the ice around in my empty glass.

I go to the bar, and some guy in a suit tries to buy my drink for me.

“It’s just seltzer but thanks anyway,” I tell him. What I want to say is “you’re not my type”, but who knows if that’s even true? Because somehow, I chose a guy in a suit last January over much better options, twice, and I haven’t wanted anyone else since.

When I return to the table, they’re prank calling someone’s ex, which seems like the kind of shit we should have outgrown around middle school.

“Keeley’s too quiet!” shouts Candace. “Which means we need shots!”

I shake my head. “None for me. Work tomorrow.”

“Why does DC make everyone lame?” Aaron complains. “Snap out of it.”

I blink. “You know I’m a doctor, right? I don’t have the kind of job where I can just fuck around all morning because I got no sleep.”

“Never stopped you before,” he says.

He’s an asshole—they all are—but he’s also not wrong, which leaves me wondering if maybe I was an asshole too.

I leave by midnight, painfully early by my standards, but pregnancy is honestly…exhausting. I used to think pregnant women were kind of sandbagging when they’d complain about the fatigue. The baby plus all the extra crap is maybe twenty pounds at best, so how bad could it be? I was wrong, though. Just the act of getting out to my Uber has me breathing like I just ran a 5k. Which is, coincidentally, something I’d never do by choice.

I yawn as I grab the mail downstairs and take the elevator to the sixth floor, shuffling the bills behind the catalogues so I can pretend they’re not there.

Turning toward my apartment, the mail falls from my hands.

Graham Tate.

Stands at my door.

And he looks really pissed off.

I don’t know if I should kneel to pick up my mail or simply make a run for it. I do neither. Instead, I just stare in shock as he walks toward me.

Did he grow? He looks even bigger than I remember, and I already remembered him being big. I’m not sure my body was built to carry offspring his size. My vagina definitely wasn’t built to deliver it.