Page 62 of Torqued

Spencer: You alright?

Rush: Yeah, missing you.

Rush: But you need rest.

Rush: I love you.

Spencer: Tired of me already.

Spencer: Alright.

Spencer: I love you.

Rush: Not even right.

Rush: I love you.

Rush: Night.

My eyes close of their own accord, and it isn’t until the next morning that I realize I fell asleep. You know, when my alarm doesn’t go off, and I’m running late for work.

I sprint into the office after a few stops along the way. The second the elevator opens, I run to my office. I need to pee and vomit at the same time. How in the hell does this even work?

“Alright, let's do this.” I open my purse, pulling out the test. A quick read of the directions, and I rip it out. The stick is between my legs and getting wet before I can chicken out.

My phone is going off with incoming texts and calls. “I don’t know why I came in today, I just can’t with life.”

I lay it down, clean up, and wait. The pacing seems to be the thing to do in times like these, but all I can do is lose my morning juice. I splash my face, rinsing my mouth after I dry it.

“What do we have here? Is he a Baby Daddy or a Mack Daddy?” I peer over at the little stick, searching for the right lines. Because there are lines for negative and lines for positive, but I’ll be damned if I can see any lines.

“Wait… what am I looking for?” I snatch the box from the trash and hold it close for comparison. My eyes dart from the box to the stick, squinting to see if anything changes. It doesn’t.

“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Rush Hatcher crosses the finish line to take the trophy of Baby Daddy.” I clasp my mouth and clutch my belly—a hand on each, trying to hold myself together.

This time when my cell goes off, I lose my shit. I stomp over, raging that I can’t have a moment to freak the hell out all on my own. I yank my phone off my desk and punch it to answer.

“Yes, you’ve got Spencer Woods.” There’s a long pause, and then the one voice I don’t need to hear right now.

“So good to know I’ve got Spencer Woods.”

My hand goes to my stomach, instinctually. “Lane, what do you want?”

“That’s a loaded question, better-answered face to face.” His voice is so low, it’s almost unrecognizable.

“Never gonna happen, tell me now.” I snap, tired of him, and his childish shit.

The line is silent for far too long, and I’m afraid I’ve pushed too hard this time. Until it crackles. “You, Spencer. I want you.”

“No, now stop playing games.”

“You have mail. I’ll be waiting at the track.” The line goes dead, and I fire up my computer.

“Fuck! Just load.” I beat on my desk, as my hormones and anger pulse through me. My stomach pitching and rolling with every move I make. Finally, my emails pop up, and there’s one from Lane.

I click it more times than needed. Once it loads, the images on the screen sicken me and hurt me beyond repair; it plays like a video, or porn, whichever you prefer.

When the last one flashes across the screen, I lose my ability to stomach anything and bolt to the bathroom. I spend several more hours running back and forth, losing my mind, heart, and stomach contents.