Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

“Of course not. You know how much they depend on me at work.”

His face brightened. “A promotion then?”

She gripped her fork, then set it down. “That would be nice, but … no.”

“Cindie …”

“Drink your wine,” she said, because clearly this wasn’t going as she’d hoped. Her plan had been dinner. Wine. A half glass for her, at least three for him. Her plan had been snuggling on the sofa. Making out. Making love. Then … then when he was half drunk and completely spent and relaxed in her arms she’d ask if he loved her. He would assure her that he did. The way he always assured her. And then, she’d tell him her secret. Beyond that, she had no clue.

But, as always, Patterson was running the show. Whatever Patterson wanted … whenever he wanted … wherever he wanted …

Cindie took a sip of her own and said, “It’s the good stuff in case you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed.”

She forced a smile. “Then drink up,” she said, reaching for the bottle to add a small portion to the half-filled goblet.

“Not until you come clean,” he answered, but his fork speared one of the potatoes.

She had to gain control. She had to … “Patterson,” she said, her voice strong. “Seriously. Take a sip of your wine. It’s delicious and I spent a great deal on it.”

Then, for reasons she’d never fully understand, he did. “Now,” he said. “What’s this about? Because I can tell when something’s up. If you are having a problem—with your job, with your bank account, whatever—tell me now so we can get it out of the way, and I can enjoy this evening with you. We don’t get nearly enough time, so—”

All right then. She’d have to skip ahead. No snuggling. No making love. “Do you love me?”

He rested his knife and fork on the edge of the plate, and she did the same. “How long have we been together now? You know I do.”

“Good, then we don’t have a problem.”

“Then it stands to reason that if I didn’t love you, we would.”

“Yes.” She picked up the utensils again, holding them the way he’d taught her. The way she made sure Michelle held them when they ate together—the one thing Westley had apparently failed to teach her properly. “You’re right. It stands to reason.”

“And why is that?” Patterson pressed.

“Because,” she stated, bringing her eyes to his. “I’m pregnant.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Nothing had gone as planned.

Patterson hadn’t swept her into his arms. He hadn’t caressed her. Told her that he loved her and that, “Somehow, sweetheart, we’ll work through this. I’ll leave Mary Helen tomorrow, I’ll file for divorce, and you and I will marry, and our baby will grow up in a loving home, happy with his sisters who will come every weekend and Michelle who will come when she can.” Instead, he became demanding. Ordering her about. Blaming her. She’d done this on purpose, he ranted. She’d not taken her pill at just the right time. She was a woman, he said. “You know the way these things work.”

She’d assured him otherwise, but he didn’t believe her—the worst sting of all.

“So then? What do you expect of me?” he asked, his hands splayed on his hips as he paced in front of her on the living room floor. “What do you want me to do about this? Because if you think I’m leaving my wife … my girls … my career … you’re sadly mistaken, Cindie.”

She sat on the sofa, feet tucked under her. They were freezing now; no amount of heat from the fireplace could warm them. In fact, her bones hurt, the whole of her was so chilled. She’d known he wouldn’t necessarily be thrilled, but she’d not expected this.

And, of course, she cried. Tears, unrelenting and uninvited, slipped down her cheeks in a cascade, which only riled Patterson more. He pointed at her, face red, eyes blazing. “Crying isn’t going to help.”

Even worse than being called a liar was the fact that she had somehow, inexplicably, found herself here again. In such a position. Telling a man she loved—or thought she loved—that she now carried his child, only to have him become angry. Unsympathetic to her needs. Her emotions. Her desires.

Always what they wanted. Always.

Well, she didn’t need him. She could have a baby on her own—she’d proven that—but this time she’d figure out a way to raise the child. Over her dead body would Patterson and Mary Helen bring her child up. It was bad enough that Westley’s wife had sunk her teeth into Michelle. Molding her into what she wanted her to be—like her. But not this time … no. And she sure as sunshine on a July afternoon wasn’t going to let her family know she’d gotten pregnant by another man—a married man—anytime soon. Velma would call hellfire down on her. Leticia, who flitted from one bad relationship to the next, would try to figure a way to make her older sister’s situation work to her benefit, and Jacko—who drank too much but still managed to marry a sweet girl and raise his kids halfway decent—Jacko and Jasmine would probably offer to make her child one of theirs. Then there was Lettie Mae who would, as she’d done the first time, call her a slut. Tell her she was only getting what she deserved, and then, in the next breath, try to find a way to extort money from Patterson much as she’d tried from Westley.

Patterson. A man she could kill right now as good as look at, but at the same time had to protect. The irony struck her, seeped into the soul of her. Somehow … somehow … she had to stop being a victim. Had to be on top and remain there. If only once in her life, she had to.

She stood. Faced him, her lips taut as a rope holding a rabid dog. “Get out,” she