I'm Having my Father's baby ?!?

Chapter 7

I quietly push open the front door of the house to find my mom curled up on the couch in her pink fuzzy robe. She must have been waiting up all night for me.

"Mom, I'm home," I whisper, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. Her eyelids flutter and she softly exhales. We make eye contact. Startled, she jumps upright.

"Melody where the hell were you?!" She screeches, her face contorted with rage. Her eyes focus like lasers at mine.

"I was out?" I explain sheepishly, turning to avoid her gaze. I remembered I was thirsty and, using the problem to avoid further questioning, I tell her, "I need to get a bottle of water." I walk past her into the kitchen and open the fridge.

"You could have called! I was worried sick," She says, jumping up and following me.

"Mom!" I say, throwing the bottle up in frustration. "I'm eighteen years old! I don't think I need to call you; I'm a big girl." I roll my eyes and close the refrigerator door, knowing that there was nothing I could do to make this situation end.

"You think you're a big girl?! You make me stay up all night, wondering if you were alive or dead, worrying how long it would take for the police to knock on my door and tell me they found your body! What if you actually were with a murderer last night, Melody?! How would I know? And you wonder WHY I expect you to call me! Since you think you're such a 'big girl,' you can now call every hour you're out! If you don't, I'm taking your birthday gift back!"

I was clenching my fists in rage. How dare she? "Oh, you think you're some great parent, pretending to care about me! How about I DON'T call you, and you can just get the fuck over it!"

"If you want to live under this roof, you will call me!" She screamed, shoving an authoritative index finger at my face.

I smack her hand away. "Then I guess I'll get my stuff and leave! I'm not going to be treated like a baby," I tell her, crushing the bottle of water in my other hand.

Shocked, she stood in the same spot, unmoving but watching as I walked up the stairs, entered my room, and slammed the door shut.

I felt no guilt.

I pull a pink suitcase from my closet and neatly roll and pack all of my clothes, fitting them snugly in with each other. I grab a duffel bag and assemble all my assorted toiletries and a favorite stuffed animal into it.

I take out my phone and hurriedly dial Daniels number. I get his voice mail, and whisper, "I accept your offer."

I wipe a loose tear from my eye, and grab my keys from the desk. I stop at the sight of the little decorative box my dad put together for me. I put a finger out to feel the grain of the wood and the glossiness of the paint before running down the stairs and tossing the bags in my car. When I arrive at Daniel's house, I remember that I have no key, and knock loudly on his door.

"I'm coming! I'm coming," I hear him yell, as I hear his footsteps beat on the padding of the carpet. There is a small click and the door swings open.

My mouth falls open when I see him; he is dressed in nothing more than a towel, and he doesn't look concerned by it. His hair is stuck to his face in wet clumps, with the occasional drop of water falling from a small strand, caressing every curve of his perfectly sculpted face, reaching his chest and outlining each muscle it descends upon. I had never seen him like this with the light on, and I found myself staring.

He is confused by my mindless stare for a second, and then realizes. "You like what you see?" He smirks taking my bags from me. I am surprised and blush, and follow him inside to my new home.