The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(22)
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KEELEY
“Graham’s the father?” Gemma shouts.
So I guess we did have things to discuss. Like when we’d be telling his brother and my best friend.
I sink onto the floor of my closet where an entire emptied rack of clothes now lies. I pick up the Alaia dress I only wore once, trying to think of a use for it, but no…I was in an electric blue phase and it’s probably not happening again.
“You can understand my predicament. If I told you, you’d have to tell Ben.”
There’s a click, click, click from her side of the line, which probably means her foot is tapping repeatedly against something. She does that when she gets fired up. “But how? You guys hate each other. You’ve always hated each other.”
“Obviously, alcohol was a significant factor. I have no idea how it happened.”
Which is sort of true, but also…not entirely true. I remember tiny slivers, and the more I’m remembering, the more real it becomes to me. I’m beginning to suspect I might really have enjoyed everything that led to this pregnancy. Maybe it’s for the best that I don’t remember.
“And you’re letting him move in? The two of you will kill each other.”
I rise to look at a white pantsuit that is cut all the way to my navel. Obviously, I won’t be wearing this anytime soon. I toss it onto the discard pile. “In all likelihood, only one of us will die. And as long as it’s him, there really isn’t a problem.”
She groans. “It troubles me when I use a metaphor about murder and you take it literally.”
The old Gemma would have laughed, but the old Gemma wasn’t related to Graham. Which leads me to Ben. I like her husband. He’s always been nice to me, even when I grabbed her phone and set her up on a date with someone else because I thought he was cheating.
But our past, coupled with my efforts to exclude Graham from the pregnancy, isn’t a great look for me, overall.
“Is Ben…pissed?”
“He’s worried,” she replies, which sounds a lot like yes to me. “You know how protective he is of his brothers. They went through a lot when they were little.”
I snort. I’ve seen photos of his mother’s house, and I’m not going to feel sorry for any of her offspring. “Yeah, it was so hard for them, being raised in a mansion in Newport. That one time the electric gates didn’t work must have been super traumatic.”
She laughs, but it fades quickly. “That house was a recent purchase. You know their dad died, right? He was in a car accident right after Colin was born. Graham was only eight and it was a mess for a long time.”
Oh. Shit. I knew their father had died, but I didn’t realize it was quite so…tragic. I was half-prepared to let him go through life without knowing about his own kid when he spent most of his life without his dad too.
If I allowed myself to do so, this might make me feel guilty. But life’s too short for guilt. My life, in particular.
I wake in a good mood on Sunday and feel energetic enough to clean for once—a necessity since my cleaning lady is arriving tomorrow. She’ll quit on the spot if she sees my place in its current state. I walk down the street to my favorite bakery and get two Sunday muffins—one for me, one for Mark. It has frosting and three kinds of chips: white chocolate, butterscotch, and peanut butter, but it has cranberries and is therefore healthy. Once I’m done savoring every last bite of it, I get to work. The dishwasher is loaded, and I dispose of this week’s donut boxes. I get my luggage moved out of the family room and am dancing around the kitchen with music blasting when Graham walks through the open door.
He raises a brow at the song lyrics. “Big dick energy?” he repeats. “What an excellent role model you’ll make.”
I pick up a half-eaten Oreo and throw it in the trash. “Don’t let it make you feel bad about your shortcomings. I’m sure you have other qualities.”
His mouth lifts, just a hint, and so fucking smugly as if that’s the one thing he doesn’t have to worry about. I think of how I woke feeling after those two nights with him, and a muscle tightens in my stomach.
Yeah, I suspect he has nothing to worry about.
He walks to the closet—now guest room—and groans when he opens the door. “Keeley, I thought you were going to clean this out.”
“I did.” I point at the two trash bags in the corner. “It’s all right there.”
I got rid of so much stuff, but the room still resembles the backstage of a fashion show.
He goes to the first rack. “You’ve got to get rid of this shit. More of this shit. I mean, do you really see yourself wearing a leopard-print bodysuit in the near future?”
“If we ever learn how to time travel to the 70s, I plan to seduce Eric Clapton and Don Henley, and that’s the outfit I’ll wear.”
“I’m not sleeping in a room full of clothes you’ve kept because our species might learn to time travel.”
I really hope our child does not inherit Graham’s relentless practicality. “What if he or she wants to wear it to school for dress-up day?”