His Nasty Little Pussy

TESS

A week after I’d discovered I was carrying Brady’s twins, I still hadn’t talked to him. Laying on my bed at my dad’s house, I called him one last time and told myself it would be exactly that-the last. When his voicemail came up, I left my first and only message.

“Hey, Brady, it’s me. I got your voicemail…a week ago. It sounded like everything went well, and…um…well, I hope that’s the case since I haven’t heard from you again. Kind of weird since I’m not really sure what we’re supposed to do next. Anyways…I’m not sick anymore…. and, I guess, I just hope you’re not dead.”

My eyes closed in embarrassment as the words slipped out of my mouth.

“Okay, bye. I guess you’re just busy, but I won’t bother you anymore.”

I hung up immediately and collapsed backward onto my bed, screaming bloody murder into a pillow.

I should have gone to the meeting with the advertisers. I had promised him I would be there, but at the time, I just couldn’t justify it. I needed time to process the fact that I was not only pregnant but also carrying twins.

I knew myself.

If I had gone to the meeting, I would have acted weird. For all I knew, I could have blown everything. From his texts and voicemails, it was clear that it had gone well-better than well.

I had texted him back that night. This is awesome. Still under the weather, I’ll call you tomorrow.

I had called him the next day, and his phone had gone straight to voicemail. It didn’t really surprise me-Brady was busy, his company thriving. For all I knew, he was in the middle of more meetings for Perkins Formula.

But when my phone call went unanswered the next day and the day after that, I knew something was off. I’d spent the last seven days being tortured with the fear that he’d somehow figured out I was pregnant and that he wanted nothing to do with me anymore.

My only saving grace was that I had already signed the contract. Kate was right about that. Unless Brady found some way around it, the contract kept me safe, at least as far as I knew.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Even worse, I still hadn’t really accepted the fact that I was about to have his children. Logically, I knew it was happening…but emotionally… I didn’t even know what to feel.

Surprise? Excited?Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

All I felt was absolutely fucking terrified.

I grabbed the photo of my mom off of the side table and kissed her picture. “I wish you were here, mom.”

Downstairs, the front door burst open, and I heard my dad scream. “Tess! Tess, get down here! Where are you? You’re not going to believe this!”

I bolted up from bed, threw open my door, and stumbled into the hall.

My dad was at the base of the stairs in his pajamas. The whole front of his white shirt was stained brown with spilled coffee. He was wielding the newspaper in one hand like a sword and dangling his empty coffee cup with the other hand.

“What? What is it?” I gasped.

“It’s you!”

“Huh?” I asked, utterly confused.

“I saw you!” he gasped, waving the newspaper at me.

I groaned, sighing. “Dad, are you okay? How’d you spill your coffee?”

“You’re not listening to me, Tess!” he shouted, his New York accent extra pronounced. It always came out when he got worked up. He spun on his heel and turned for the kitchen.

I tossed my head back and begrudgingly stomped down the stairs, not addressing my fears. I walked into the kitchen, my dad swabbing at the stain on his shirt with a handful of paper towels.

He pointed out the window. “I was outside, and I saw you.”

Morning light spilled in from the breakfast nook in the corner of the townhouse kitchen.

“I’ve been inside all morning, dad.”

“I went to get the newspaper. The bus stopped at the Stop sign on the corner, and I saw you on it.”

I sighed, crossing my arms. “Dad, seriously… Are you okay? Maybe we should call Dr. Lyons?”

He glared at me. “Don’t you do that,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “I don’t need a therapist, and I haven’t in years.”

“I’m not saying you need it because of mom, but you know, if you feel like you’re lonely, if you’re imagining seeing me because I’m not here enough, then maybe Dr. Lyons could help.”

“Now, you listen here,” my dad said. “I’m not crazy. Or seeing things.

You weren’t inside the bus. You were on it. On the side of it, specifically.”

I blinked, my arms dropping. “What?”

“It was a photo of you in a blue shirt…in your under-thingies.”

“My under…oh, fuck.”

“It was an advertisement for Perkins Formula.”

“He put it on a bus?” I gasped. I bolted out of the kitchen and sprinted up the stairs so fast that I slipped on the carpeted steps and scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs with my hands and feet.

Ripping my laptop off the bedside table, I opened the search engine and typed in “Perkins Formula.”

To my shock, a dozen articles immediately appeared on the screen. And they weren’t just about my product. My name was on the headline of every single one. I clicked on the first article, skimming the headlines.

Tess Perkins, the twenty-seven-year-old inventor of Perkins Formula, is making a statement. Her miracle product has officially been lauded as a doit-all cream, ideal for helping acne, eliminating wrinkles, and adding moisture. Head of Marketing Brady Wyler, CEO of Wyler Marketing, has initiated an intense campaign, displaying the photos on billboards, buses, and even benches.

“Nice alliteration,” I grunted as I continued reading.

The impressive before and after comparative photos of Tess show

My soul whisked out of my body. “Before and after? No,” I whispered. “No!”

I scrolled to the bottom of the article and gasped at the image. On the right was the photo Brady had taken of me in the beach house. On the left was an image of me from high school-acne and all.

“Mother fucker,” I hissed. How the hell did he find that photo? And how did he not even tell me this was his plan?

I yanked my phone off the bed, and after one ring, it went to voicemail again.

“Oh, hell no,” I snapped. After the beep, I lost it. I stood on top of my bed, my adrenaline racing, and nearly hit the fan. “Did you just send my fucking call to voicemail? Brady, call me back right now! You never told me you were going to use a photo of me from high school. And put it on buses? You said you would be here for me through this whole thing. That you would have my back. And now you’re ignoring me for a whole week and sending my calls to voicemail? You have some fucking nerve to-”

I glanced up, and my voice immediately cut off.