The Art of Starting Over

Bonus (CUT) #1 - I'm Pregnant

JEREMY (THE OLD)

I wake up to the sound of the unrelenting doorbell. My head threatens to split in two as soon as I sit up.

What time is it? Fuck, what day is it?

I close my eyes against the bright sun spilling judiciously through the open screens as my hands wander blindly through the sheets in search for my phone. Monday, fifth. Nine fifty-seven a.m.

Right.

I peer through my heavy eyelids and take a sweeping look around the room. My clothes are strewn everywhere and the chair at the desk is knocked over.

The doorbell rings again and is quickly followed by rapid banging on the door. I put my hands over my ears as my head cracks. I groan and get up, grabbing my pants from the floor and putting them on as I walk out into the living room. I open the door to the balcony on my way out to air the room.

There's an undeniable odour hanging about. A mix of alcohol, cigarette smoke and sex. The kitchen cupboard is littered with empty whiskey and shot glasses and a toppled-over bottle of Jack.

Memories of yesterday come to me in flashes and I smile to myself remembering the two hot blonds making out on the kitchen island.

I open the front door to see who is trying to knock it down. "Stephanie. To what do I owe the pleasure?" I growl, eyeing her up and down.

She looks upset. Her eyes are feisty, her curls are standing on edge and her body is wrapped in a tight, short dress and giving off a vibe that's shaking me out of my sluggish state.

"Where were you? I was calling you all night last night."

Racing. Then the bar. Then the clubs. Then I'm not sure... but it ended with me fucking two girls in the living room.

I walk over to the kitchen without answering, leaving the door open for her to come in. I pour a glass of water and scan the drawer for some hangover aid. Nothing.

"Do you have some paracetamol on you?" I ask her.

She slams the door angrily, making my head pound and shoots daggers at me from her eyes. Christ! This girl really needs to cut down on her soaps.

"Fuck you, Jeremy!"

Actually, scratch that. She's too hot when she's angry. I chew on my response, thinking that 'with pleasure' is not the answer she's looking for.

"What happened in here?" she asks taking one quick look around the room.

Her eyes travel slowly from the mess on the island to the cushions on the floor, up to the couch and then widen in disbelief. She reaches over and from between the cushions, she fishes out a purple lace thong and holds it out in front of her, a look of pure disgust on her face.

Oh, right! There were three girls!

"What do you want, Stephanie?" I ask her drearily, the irritation clear in my voice. I have to find something for this headache.

I see her eyes flicker fearsomely, partly with pain, partly with anger, but I let it wash over me. I don't need her opinion about how I live my life.

"I want to talk to you," she replies scathingly.

I sit down on the barstool, stretching broadly and looking at the time. I should probably start getting ready for work. The big guy won't be happy if I don't show up. Although, how I'm going to last all day in that hellhole with this cracking migraine is beyond me. "So talk."

"You haven't called me in a while," she says meekly.

I narrow my eyes at her trying to suppress the urge to yawn. I have to admit I never thought she'd be the clingy type. She definitely didn't strike me as needy when I saw her behind the counter at my mother's store otherwise I wouldn't have fucked her in the back room. On the contrary, she seemed fun, impulsive and wild, three of my favourite qualities in a woman.