Keep Me If You Can (If You Can #3)

22. Donut Fuck With Me

Chapter twenty-two

Donut Fuck With Me

“Y ou know, just when I think I can’t be any more impressed by your ass, it goes and shows how talented it is by learning how to make phone calls on its own,” JP said.

“I didn’t butt dial you,” I replied in a hushed voice.

There was a breathlessness to his voice and in the background, I could hear clanging sounds over pounding music.

“Damn,” he said. “It almost sounds like it’s speaking to me.”

“I am speaking to you.”

“If only it was a little louder. I can barely hear it.”

I gritted my teeth. “I can’t talk louder right now. Maybe you could go somewhere quieter.”

“Why would I pause my workout because an admittedly fantastic ass is on the other line?”

“JP, stop. I called you on purpose.”

“Really?” he said. “Well, you have to understand my confusion, since it’s been, oh… two weeks now?”

My stomach ached and I curled over the arm I had crossed across my lower body. “I know.”

“Seriously, I can barely hear you. Can I call you when I’m done working out or—”

“No,” I said. “I need your help.”

“Is it the kind of help that involves your ass in some way? Because I could be persuaded.”

I hated him.

I hated that he could somehow call me out the way he was while still being playful. That he was clearly bothered that I’d ghosted him—which was fair—but that his words, while tinted with sarcasm, didn’t cut the way I probably deserved.

If he could’ve just been the asshole I knew he was capable of being instead of the person threatening to make me smile even as he teased me, this would be a lot fucking easier.

“I need you to be serious right now,” I said.

“Uh… okay,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

I glanced up. My ensuite bathroom at my dad’s house was reasonably large, but even though I was sitting on the edge of the tub at the far end of the room, the door seemed like it was right in front of me. And yes, it was closed. Yes, it was locked. Yes, I’d shoved a towel against the crack at the bottom and turned the tap and fan on and could hear the music playing in my bedroom loud enough to cover the way I was whispering.

But it felt like the person on the other side was waiting with an ear pressed right up against the door.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I had literally any other option,” I said as loud as I could manage. “Seriously. Your… Anne-Marie is here and I can’t leave and I just, I can’t… I need—” I closed my eyes, grimacing. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?” he asked.

I jabbed my fingernail into my thumb so hard I thought it might start bleeding. “And don’t laugh at me.”

“I mean, is it funny?” he asked.

“JP!”

“Okay!” he said, not bothering to mask his chuckle. “Even if it’s funny, I won’t laugh loud enough for you to hear it.”

I scrunched my eyes closed.

“Nell?” he said after a moment. “Are you still there?”

“Never mind,” I whispered. “I’ll deal with it myself.”

“Wait,” he said. “Are you crying?”

I buried my face in my free hand, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Because yes, I was crying.

That wasn’t the part I was embarrassed about. People cried. Whatever. And I wasn’t all that embarrassed that JP knew I was crying. He’d seen me cry before, though mainly when we were kids.

But as an adult, he’d had his tongue in my ass on more than one occasion, so him knowing I was crying didn’t really get to me.

I was embarrassed because it all started over a donut.

“I am sorry, but we are sold out,” the cashier had said in French. “It is the most popular flavour. You need to come earlier in the day.”

“I couldn’t get here earlier in the day,” I’d replied, staring at the display case.

“That is not my problem,” the cashier said.

Which was true, but for one, they didn’t have to say it. And for two, it didn’t change the fact that all I wanted to get through the rest of this godforsaken day was a goddamn creamsicle donut from Trou de Beigne and they didn’t have it.

I’d planned to leave Ottawa to drive to Montreal for my dad’s dinner party before rush hour started, but then Glitch had handed back our midterm papers in Forensic Science and Law.

“Sorry,” they murmured as they slipped me not the printed-out copy of my paper like everyone else was getting because the professor liked to leave notes scrawled in red pen when he was marking, but a single sheet of paper requesting I meet with Bruce Shelby immediately after class.

I’d stared down at it, confused, then glanced up at them. “What does this mean?”

But they just grimaced and moved to the next student, leaving me sweating until Shelby dismissed the class.

“You asked to talk to me?” I’d said, showing him the paper.

“Who are you?” he’d asked.

“Nellie Belanger.”

“Belanger. Right.” Shelby took the paper. “You have your laptop with you?”

“Uh… yeah,” I’d said.

He’d pulled a folder out of his briefcase and flipped it open. On top was my paper, a red grade scrawled in the corner of the cover sheet.

A good grade.

A suspiciously good grade.

“This was well written,” he said casually.

I knew too many lawyers too well to believe he’d made me sit through an entire lecture sweating through my hoodie just to tell me I’d done a good job. “Thank you. What was the problem, then?”

He slid the paper to the side, revealing a print-out of my grades from the rest of the semester, which aside from the case study JP had helped me with, were all significantly lower than the one on my paper. “I’m sure you understand how it appears to go from the grades you’ve been averaging to a grade like this. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know that before getting the university involved, there are easier ways to ensure the work is legitimate.”

“Okay,” I’d said. Despite knowing I’d done nothing wrong—aside from buying drugs, but that wasn’t the kind of thing that would make my work illegitimate—my heart rate spiked. “What am I supposed to do?”

He’d nodded towards my backpack. “If you consent to let my TA check the program you wrote the paper in on your laptop, we can have this settled in the next few minutes.”

And like, of course I did. I knew I didn’t have to let either of them go through my personal stuff, but I also had nothing to hide and he wasn’t wrong. Getting the university involved and proving I hadn’t cheated could take months.

But Glitch was busy dealing with other things, and Shelby said I couldn’t leave until they’d looked because then I might fake the information or delete the file or something, so I’d had to stand there until they were done.

Thankfully, once Glitch pulled up the file, it was clear from the version history that I’d typed and retyped and edited the whole thing myself. Shelby did raise his eyebrows at the fact that I’d done the paper in one day, but said it was enough proof for him that I hadn’t cheated.

“Good job,” Glitch had whispered after Shelby gave me permission to pack my laptop up and walked away. “Your study buddy helped a lot, then?”

I shot a glare at them. “I don’t want to get into it.”

They’d pressed their lips together, amused. “It helped more than you thought it would? Because if that’s the case, you should know—”

“Shut up.” I’d zipped my bag closed. “I know what it was, I know what that means, and I don’t want to hear it.”

They’d raised their hands in surrender. “Either way, congrats on your mark.”

I’d rushed back to my apartment, but I still ended up leaving almost an hour later than I’d planned. Traffic out of Ottawa had been bad, and it got worse the closer I got to Montreal. And since the only things stopping Montreal drivers from being mistaken for Formula One drivers were the existence of a designated racetrack, an ability to follow the actual rules, and talent, I was a bit on edge.

And since my dad had planned dinner later than usual so I could be there, I decided to treat myself to a snack and detoured to Trou de Beigne.

But the donut I wanted wasn’t there. And between that and the stress of someone nearly rear-ending me for the grave sin of not wanting to plow my car into a group of daycare kids being led to the park on the other side of a crosswalk, it was the last thing I’d needed.

“Miss, if you’re not getting anything, I need to help the next person,” the cashier had said.

“I’m still getting something,” I muttered, trying to ignore the way my eyes were stinging. “I’ll take, um… one of everything.”

The Bourbon Fruit Loop donut I ended up munching on as I drove the rest of the way to my dad’s did cheer me up quite a bit. But the universe was conspiring against me because it turned out I’d been delayed the exact amount of time it took to make sure I was walking up to my dad’s front door just as it opened so Della Kinsley and Jean-Luc Marchand—JP and Anne-Marie’s parents—could walk out.

“Nellie!” Della had said, her voice bright. “How good to see you. Kimberlee said she was starting to get worried that you hadn’t arrived for tonight.”

“I got stuck in traffic,” I’d replied.

Della glanced at the white donut box in my hands, but graciously ignored it. “Well, I am so glad we got to say hello since we cannot attend the party tonight. Kimberlee had invited us to her soiree, but we had a last-minute obligation come up.”

Mr. Marchand had scoffed vocally. “That’s a polite way to say our son hasn’t managed to remove his head from his ass.”

I looked at him, shocked. Della grabbed her husband’s arm like she’d gone to slap it but realized it would look bad, so dug her fingers into his sleeve.

“Darling,” she’d said, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. “That was incredibly inappropriate.”

“I’m not wrong,” Mr. Marchand had grumbled.

She forced another loud, awkward laugh. “Well, we must be going, Nellie. JP had to bow out of a work-related event so we are going in his place, but Anne-Marie will be here in our place. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived so she can come over and spend time with you before the party!”

I’d tried to say that wasn’t necessary, mainly because I couldn’t tell Anne-Marie’s mom that I didn’t want to see her and was already trying to figure out how I was going to avoid her during the party, but Della had yanked her husband off the front step and started marching across the yard to their house.

So of course, before I’d even finished saying hi to my dad and Kimberlee, I had a new text from Anne-Marie.

Annie

I know you are still mad, chérie. But may I please, please, PLEASE come over? You can pretend I am not even there if you don’t want to talk to me.

I’d frowned at my phone as I closed my bedroom door. That didn’t sound like Anne-Marie at all. And I just…

She was still my friend.

I hoped.

Me

If we don’t have to talk about what happened, then sure

She sent about eighteen hearts and kiss emojis and said she’d be right there, and I’d barely finished reading the message when the doorbell rang.

“Thank you so, so much, chérie ,” Anne-Marie had gushed as she entered my room after my dad’s assistant let her in. “If Remy was not away again this weekend, I would not be home, I swear. I cannot tell you how awkward it has been lately.”

“What’s going on?” I’d asked.

She’d opened her mouth, started to say something, and then stopped. “I… ah… I actually cannot tell you.”

I’d stared at her, confused, until her face started turning red and she shifted uncomfortably.

“Because you would not like to talk about what happened?” she added quietly.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“Do your parents know?” I asked.

Anne-Marie shook her head quickly. “Not that part of it. But the… the reason I…” She’d stopped, distress on her face as she tried to think of a way of saying what she needed to say without saying the things I’d said she couldn’t say.

And of course I gave in.

“Just say it,” I’d said. “I don’t want to hear anything about, like… me… and him. But what else is going on?”

She’d bit her lip.

Then her eyes started to water.

“Nellie, it was horrible ,” she’d whispered. “I have never seen my father so angry. But Jean-Paul… he quit .”

“Oh,” I’d said, not surprised, then reminded myself I wasn’t supposed to know. “Oh! Shit. He’s not working with your dad?”

She’d nodded, grabbing a tissue off my vanity and dabbing at her eyes. “Remember I came to Ottawa because I found out my dad’s firm was defending Clinton? And I said Jean-Paul was on the defense team? It turns out my brother was so disgusted with my dad for the whole thing that he found another job.” She sniffled, her blonde hair swishing as she shook her head. “I said those horrible things to him when I caught him with you and it turned out he was planning to leave the entire time.”

“Wow,” I said.

“When he told my dad he got a new job, the fight they had… I don’t know if you know, but my parents, um…” She shifted uncomfortably. “My mother got pregnant before they were married and my father’s family was very unhappy. My grandfather cut them off, actually, at one point. Not forever, obviously, since”—she gestured vaguely around my room, which I took to mean she was referring to them being well-off now—“but my dad finished law school and started his firm and all of that on his own.”

“That’s impressive,” I said.

She let out a watery laugh. “Yes, well, my dad told Jean-Paul there is no way he could ever build something like this and that he’s going to come crawling back one day after he loses all his savings or knocks up some poor girl or something. And my brother told my dad that he was perfectly capable of building something even better, since unlike my dad, he’s good at managing money and smart enough to use a condom.”

Which was funny. And badass. And I was secretly so, so proud of JP for standing up to his dad like that, even though I would never say that to his face even if I was planning on ever talking to him again.

And I probably should have been listening as Anne-Marie talked, since that’s what a good friend would do, and she needed a good friend just then. The Marchands may not have been a perfect family, but where I’d spent most of my childhood hearing my parents hurl horrible words at each other, Anne-Marie hadn’t.

And I hadn’t been there for her to lean on during any of it because of what I’d done with her brother.

But the guilt wasn’t enough to overshadow the insistent little warning bell that was ringing in the back of my mind.

It was quiet, at first, barely louder than my thought that JP didn’t always use a condom.

And then a bit louder as I told myself it was fine, since I was on birth control.

And louder still when I realized I couldn’t remember if I’d taken my pill that day.

And then louder as I tried to remember if I’d taken it the day before, and the day before that.

It rang quieter as I checked my phone and breathed a silent sigh of relief, realizing I couldn’t remember taking my pill because I was supposed to be on my period.

And then it fucking screamed at me.

“Annie, hold that thought,” I’d said, because Anne-Marie was still talking. “I have to use the bathroom.”

I’d closed the door, locked it, and double-checked the lock before grabbing my toiletry bag and digging out the ratty old pad I always hid my birth control in so my dad wouldn’t find it.

And then I’d sat on the edge of the tub and called JP, fighting back tears.

“Babe?” JP said, the worry in his voice bringing me back to the present. “Are you actually crying?”

“Do not call me babe,” I snapped, a hot tear spilling down my cheek. “I’m not your babe. I never have been. We are—were—friends. Just because we sometimes fuck doesn’t mean that you can call me babe. Just because I haven’t texted you in two weeks doesn’t mean you can call me babe. Don’t call me babe.”

I wasn’t sure if it was because of or despite the heat in my voice, but JP chuckled. “Alright, jeez. Just take a breath and tell me what’s going on. Otherwise I’m gonna start thinking you’re pregnant or something.”

Because of course.

Of fucking course he had to say it.

When I didn’t respond, JP chuckled again, the sound nervous.

“Nellie?” he asked. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to bring me a pregnancy test,” I whispered.