The Trap (Prequel)

  THE TRAP

  Beverley Kendall

  Copyright © Beverley Kendall 2014

  Published by Season Publishing LLC at Smashwords

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  www.theseasonforromance.com

  www.beverleykendall.com

  Cover Design © Okay Creations, Sarah Hansen

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Smashwords Edition License Statement

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  Note From Author

  There are some stories that need a beginning. Mitch and Paige's story, TRAPPED, initially started in the aftermath of the pregnancy. But I found myself wanting to go back in time and tell how they came to be in that place. And that's how THE TRAP was born. I wanted to give readers more than just a flashback in time. I wanted to take the journey with them. As usual, what was supposed to be a 15,000 word prequel turned into a story closer to 20,000 words. I can't seem to write short. :)

  I hope that after reading THE TRAP you'll want to follow Mitch and Paige to their HEA in TRAPPED, which is scheduled to be released early this summer. Also, this book (soon-to-be-series) is connected to my first new adult series, Unforgettable You. You'll be able to catch up a bit with Zach and Olivia, the hero and heroine of ONLY FOR YOU.

  Happy Reading!

  Bev

  THE TRAP

  Looking back, I should have seen it coming.

  Paige didn’t like that I went so far away to university. But it was going to only be for two years. She'd join me after she did her two years at community college. I thought we could swing that no problem. We were solid.

  But she hated the distance. She hated not seeing me every day. She complained that I didn’t come home enough. She hated that for months on end, texting and phone calls were our only form of communication. It wasn’t enough.

  She'd ask about the girls on campus. She’d gotten it into her head that girls were always making a play for me. I laughed and told her, even if that were true, I’d never cheat on her. She didn't seem completely reassured by that.

  The bottom line is, Paige thought she was losing me. She wanted me home with her. But I could never imagine the level she'd sink to—the trap she’d set to make that happen.

  And like an idiot I walked right into it.

  And it’s a mistake I'm going to have to pay for the rest of my life.

  Chapter One

  Paige

  Three weeks ago I peed on a stick. What followed were ten of the most agonizing minutes of my life, before one plus sign turned my whole world upside down and inside out.

  Six hundred seconds.

  That’s literally how long it took for my life to implode.

  You want to know what’s so ironic about this?

  Four months ago I became an adult and six months from now I’m going to be a mother. Talk about being plunged into adulthood with a vengeance.

  The thing is, as weird as this might sound, I want this baby—Mitch’s baby—more than I ever thought I would under the circumstances.

  I mean he’s it for me.

  The one.

  And I’m pretty sure we’d have come to this at some point. Of course it would have been after we’d both graduated from college and were married.

  However, the situation is what it is. Now I just have to tell him. The thought of which causes the nausea I’ve been suffering the last two weeks to return in rolling waves, heating my face and turning my already queasy stomach. But being sick right now is a luxury I can’t afford.

  I inhale a deep breath, wipe damp palms down the sides of my frayed jean shorts and try to compose my expression into something that doesn’t reflect the dread and terror making mincemeat of my insides.

  As I’m mustering up the nerve to knock, the door to Mitch’s apartment flies open and his gorgeous face is the most welcome sight I’ve seen since the last time I laid eyes on him.

  Without giving me a chance to do or say anything, he tugs me into his arms. He makes a grumbled sound in his throat and then his mouth is on mine.

  Instantly, my fears and gut-churning anxiety fall away. Going up on the balls of my feet, I wrap my arms around his neck and allow my senses to take over. For the moment, I’m more than happy to be led by them.

  We haven’t seen each other in what feels like forever. Ten weeks. Phone calls, text messages and skyping can’t compare to this—being able to actually touch him.

  There’s a rough urgency to his kiss as our tongues and lips get down to the more serious business of getting reacquainted.

  Wild is the only way to describe the way we go at each other, our breaths labored when we can come up for air long enough to take one. The kiss itself is toe-curling hot and I give as good as I get, sucking his full lower lip into my mouth. I know how much that turns him on.

  Mitch emits a guttural groan and soon we’re on the move. He practically drags me inside and I vaguely hear the door thump closed behind us.

  He breaks the kiss and growls in my ear, “C’mon, let’s go to the bedroom.” At the same time, his hands skim down my sides and then cruise back up to cup my breasts. My super-sensitive, swollen breasts that have grown almost half a cup size in the past month.

  A pained gasp escapes me before I can bite it back, and with it, I’m dropped on my head back into reality. My inescapable reality.

  Mitch’s head jerks up and back. My fingers have his dark-blond hair in a sexy disarray and his green eyes are still heated from the effects of our kiss as they widen in surprise before immediately narrowing in concern.

  “What’s wrong? Was I too rough?” he asks in the same deep baritone that’s been setting me on fire since our sophomore year in high school.

  “No,” I croak, trying not to wince. “They’re just a little sore.” To put it mildly.

  Mitch’s gaze lowers to my more-prominent-than-ever chest.

  It’s bad enough that my current condition has me spilling out of my B cups, but my boyfriend’s smoldering gaze isn’t helping any. Under my fitted, white t-shirt, my nipples perk up at the attention. Shameless and clearly masochistic.

  He curses softly under his breath and raises his gaze to mine. “Is it that time of the month?”

  The weight of the disappointment in his voice is flattering and agonizing. There’s nothing I’d love more than to spend the first couple hours of our reunion catching up between the sheets of his king-sized bed. But my news can’t wait. It’s the bomb that’s been ticking for three weeks now.

  “Kind of,” I reply evasively, taking a small step back. Wait until he finds out that it won’t be that time of the month for a very long time.

  His shoulders drop as he expels a breath. Gradually, almost painfully, his mouth hitches up at the corners. “I gotta tell you, the timing sucks.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, forcing a smile.

  God, he doesn’t even know the half of it. But I deliberately co
ntinue to let him think what he’s thinking because I’m worse than the lion from The Wizard of Oz.

  I haven’t kidded myself that this is something he’s going to be happy about. But it’s not as if I think he’ll bail on me. Actually, I know he won’t.

  How do I know?

  One, because Mitch loves me. Yes, the last year has been hard because of the distance. Mitch is going to Warwick University, which is an eon away in upstate New York. To save money, I’m attending the local community college for two years here in Georgia. But the plan was that I transfer to Warwick after that. At least that used to be the plan.

  The other reason I know Mitch won’t bail on me is because he’s not that type of guy. He’s too mature and responsible. My mom thinks his parents’ death matured him far beyond his years, and coming from Maureen Nichols that’s saying a lot. Single mothers tend to judge men much more critically.

  No, he won’t be happy at first but he’ll come around. And he’ll want this baby as much as I do…eventually.

  Mitch will make a great father. I know he will.

  And I know we can make this work.

  “Mitch.” I don’t mean it to, but his name comes out a scratchy whisper. I nervously clear my throat and step out of the circle of his arms. Grabbing his hand, I lead him down the hall.

  After the car accident that took his parents’ lives, Mitch went to live with his older sister, Diane, which is how a not-quite-seventeen-year-old, self-proclaimed jock managed to get his own apartment.

  His sister married into an old-money Georgia family—and I’m talking big bucks. Her husband, Dan, is the CEO and owner of Tolston Homes, which is one of the premiere builders of luxury homes in the country. So you can imagine what their house looks like, right? Yeah, it’s massive and luxury personified. I still try not to get all bug-eyed whenever I’m in the main house.

  The thing is, Mitch has a five- and three-year-old nephew and niece, whom he adores. They, in turn, think Uncle Mitch is cooler and more entertaining than any amusement park or Pixar movie. You know what that means. Yep, they always wanted to be with him and were constantly underfoot. And in a house with more space than three families can possibly utilize, they made Mitch’s bedroom their personal playground.

  Dan suggested they renovate the house and add an apartment over the garage to give Mitch his own space.

  My boyfriend thought his brother-in-law walked on water after that. And Dan, who is an architect by trade, doesn’t do run-of-the-mill. Nope, he designed the kind of apartment that could be featured in his company’s monthly magazine.

  The place is absolutely gorgeous. The kitchen has a make-me-want-to-die-of-envy island and contains a large eating area. There are two bedrooms—one being the master suite—two bathrooms, a loft upstairs, and a huge family room with a vaulted ceiling.

  In said family room, I make a beeline for the couch. It’s chocolate brown, Mitch’s favorite color.

  “What’s going on?” he asks lightly but there’s a wariness in his eyes.

  I sink onto the couch and tug on his hand to pull him down beside me. He acquiesces but continues to eye me, his forehead lightly creased.

  My hands are starting to tremble so I release his and ball mine into tight fists on my upper thighs.

  “O-kay, you’re officially starting to scare the crap out of me. What’s going on?” Mitch’s stare is intense, like he’s trying to see—or more appropriately—hear whatever’s going on inside my head.

  At this point, all he’d hear is a jumbled, scared-to-death bunch of nonsense. My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear the slosh of rushing blood in my ears. It’s the beginning of June and a hot eighty-five degrees outside, yet goose bumps have formed on my bare arms and legs. My tongue takes refuge at the roof of my mouth.

  The silence that follows is the oppressive kind.

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Mitch’s eyes narrow, his expression becomes guarded and his jaw goes tight.

  “Paige, are you breaking up with me?” His voice is low and very controlled. He looks as if he’s bracing himself for a physical blow…or a fight.

  I almost laugh at that. Almost. But the fear in his eyes strikes too close to my own. “No. Oh God, no. Never. I love you,” I say softly, my voice reassuring and heartfelt.

  Relief softens the line of his mouth and his hand engulfs mine completely. He gives me one of his half smiles. “Well thank God for that.” After a beat of silence, that look of concern is back on his face. “Then what is it? Because I know it’s something.”

  And it’s that look, so naked and raw with emotion, that loosens the words lodged in my throat.

  Swallowing hard, I bravely hold his gaze and say in a small voice, “I’m pregnant.”

  Chapter Two

  Mitch

  Pregnant.

  The more the word echoes in my head, the less sense it makes, and the less right it sounds. And when I picture the word in my mind, it just looks plain wrong. So I reject it. The meaning. The implication. Everything.

  Paige may as well be on the other side of the country because that’s how removed I feel from this whole situation. My body might be here but my mind is…not.

  I don’t even realize I’m shaking my head—denial the only thread I’ve got to hang on to—until Paige counters by nodding just as emphatically. “I am, Mitch. I’m pregnant,” she says, her voice faint and raw, while I grapple with the reality of it.

  The pregnancy my girlfriend just dumped in my lap.

  This is right about the time the world can stop spinning and I’d gladly jump off. I didn’t sign up for this.

  Air. God, I need some fuckin’ air.

  I inhale but there isn’t enough oxygen on this earth that can ever make breathing easier ever again.

  My vision must have gone hazy because Paige’s face comes back into focus. She looks alone and afraid. But as much as that lost-girl expression makes me want to hold and comfort her, right now there’s nothing I want more than to put as much distance between us as I can.

  I put my thoughts into action and stand, taking a couple steps back. Agitated, I run both hands through my hair, resisting the urge to yank the strands out by the roots.

  For what feels like an hour, I simply stare down at her.

  “Jesus Christ, Paige,” I finally mutter, before turning and walking over to the kitchen counter. I need the damn thing for support. Elbows locked, I transfer my weight to the heels of my palms braced against the black-and-brown-speckled countertop. My shoulders are slumped and my head is down.

  I’m so in my own head, I’m not even aware of Paige—don’t realize she budged from where she was sitting—until I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “Talk to me.” Her voice is as soft as her touch.

  Do I really have to? That’s what I want to say. But of course I don’t. It’s not as if not talking about it is going make the problem go away. Plus, I want to know how this happened.

  Pushing off the counter, I turn and face her. “So this happened the one day I was home during spring break? That one night?” If there’s a note of disbelief in my voice, it’s because she’s on the Pill and we had sex exactly two times on my surprise trip home. At ten the following morning, I was on a return flight back to New York. I was home eighteen hours.

  Before that, Paige and I hadn’t had sex since Christmas break. If she’d gotten pregnant back then, she’d be at least six months along, which clearly she isn’t. My gaze drops to her narrow waist, and then lowers to her slim, lightly tanned thighs. If anything, Paige has lost weight since I last saw her.

  Did I forget to say she’s on the Pill?

  She gives a hesitant nod.

  “But how? You’re on the Pill.” We’d stopped using condoms when she went on birth control halfway through our senior year in high school almost two years ago.

  “Nothing is one hundred percent effective, Mitch. You know that,” she replies as if she’s reading the warning straight off the box. “Women
have gotten pregnant on the Pill.”

  For crissakes. The last thing I want to hear is that we’ve become some unfortunate statistic.

  I let out a heavy sigh and tip my head back, my gaze going to the wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling in the family room.

  Fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit. How the hell did she let this happen? Did she miss a day? Goddammit. How hard is it to swallow one fuckin’ pill the same time every day? This is what I want to ask her but I can’t bring myself to. Not when she looks like she’ll break if I so much as look at her too hard. I give my head a mind-clearing shake and lower my gaze to her. “What are we going to do?”

  She gives me a sharp look. “I’m not going to have an abortion,” she states as if preparing herself for a fight.

  Great, she’s reading my mind. Now I feel like a complete asshole. I know how she feels about that. We’ve talked about it in the past—one of those theoretical discussions of course. Paige hasn’t taken a political stance on the issue but it’s something she said she wouldn’t personally be able to do herself. She’d rather give the baby up for adoption than abort it.

  “I know that,” I say, playing it off as if it wasn’t something I’d been considering. At the end of the day, we’re in this together. “I meant do you want to keep it or put it up—?”

  She’s shaking her head before I even finish the question, her dark-brown hair whipping over her bare shoulders. “I want to keep it. I ju-just can’t give our baby away.” Now her voice is choked with tears.

  Our baby.

  Those two words cause a swell of guilt so overpowering, it’s almost debilitating. I don’t want to be reminded that this is my kid. Our kid.