Chapter 19: The Ultimatum
The Mustang’s headlights cut through the deepening twilight, painting the familiar houses of Lexi’s neighborhood in stark, fleeting relief. The burger sat warmly in her stomach, a comforting weight, but as Ace pulled up to the curb two houses down from hers—his usual spot to avoid the obvious rumble of his engine—an old, cold trepidation seeped back in.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you to the door?” Ace asked, his hand resting on the gear shift. His blue eyes scanned the quiet street, then her face.
“I’m sure,” Lexi said, forcing a smile. “A brooding sentinel on the porch might send the wrong message.”
He didn’t smile back. His thumb stroked the back of her hand where it lay on her thigh. “Text me. The second it’s done. Or if it gets weird.”
“It’s a ‘talk’ with my dad and Dede. How weird can it be?” The lie tasted bland on her tongue. They both knew.
He leaned over, catching her mouth in a kiss that was more promise than passion—a solid, grounding pressure. “I’ll be right here,” he murmured against her lips. He didn’t mean just physically.
She slid out, the cool evening air a shock after the car’s warmth. She walked towards the house, her boots scuffing on the pavement, and didn’t look back. She could feel his gaze on her, a protective burn between her shoulder blades.
The house glowed, a picture of suburban normalcy. Through the front window, she could see the dining room table set with the good linen, candles lit. It was a stage. She took a breath, squared her shoulders with a resolve she’d borrowed from the boy in the car behind her, and went inside.
The scent hit her first: burnt garlic and overly sweet tomato sauce battling with Dede’s distinctive floral perfume. The combination was strangely nauseating.
“Alexis? Honey, is that you?” Her father’s voice came from the kitchen, tight with false cheer.
“Yeah.”
She dumped her bag by the stairs and followed the smell. The kitchen was too bright. David stood at the counter, pouring red wine into two glasses, his back rigid. Dede was at the stove, transferring a lasagna from a pan to a serving dish. Her strawberry-blonde curls were pinned up, but a few damp tendrils stuck to her neck. She wore a silky, cream-colored blouse and sleek black pants that highlighted her toned figure. She looked like she’d stepped out of a catalogue for stylish, attainable stepmothers.
“Smells… intense,” Lexi said, leaning against the doorframe.
Dede jumped slightly, turning with a wide, practiced smile. “Lexi! Perfect timing. I just pulled it out.” Her green eyes swept over Lexi, taking in her jacket, her jeans. “Have a good afternoon?”
“It was fine.” Lexi’s eyes went to her father. “You wanted to talk?”
David handed a glass of wine to Dede, avoiding Lexi’s gaze. “Let’s sit down first. Dinner’s ready.”
They moved to the dining room in a stiff procession. The lasagna, a towering, browned monument, was placed in the center of the table. They sat. David at the head, Lexi and Dede across from each other. The silence was broken only by the clink of serving spoons and the scrape of china.
For a few minutes, they ate in that heavy quiet. The lasagna was dry at the edges, the middle soupy. Dede picked at hers, moving noodles around her plate. She took a tiny sip of wine, then pushed the glass aside, reaching for her water instead.
David ate methodically, his eyes on his plate. He cleared his throat, set his fork down with a definitive clatter. The sound made Lexi flinch.
He looked directly at her, his jaw working. “There’s no easy way to say this, Lex. So I’m just going to say it.” He took a deep breath. “Dede’s moving in. Permanently.”
He said it like a challenge, his eyes daring her to object, to cry, to reenact some scene from a teenage drama. He was braced for impact.
Lexi looked from his tense face to Dede’s. Dede’s smile was strained, her knuckles white where she gripped her water glass. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, a plea. Lexi felt a sudden, unexpected ping of sympathy for the woman. She wasn’t the villain here; she was just another person trying to carve out a piece of happiness in the wreckage her parents had left.
The tension in the room swelled, thick enough to choke on. David’s shoulders were hunched near his ears. Dede looked like she might be sick.
Lexi took a bite of lasagna, chewed slowly, swallowed. She set her own fork down gently. She looked at Dede, then back at her dad, a slow smirk touching her lips. “Oh, okay,” she said, her voice light. “I assumed Dede already lived here.”
The air rushed out of the room. David blinked, his defensive posture slackening in surprise. Dede let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, her hand flying to her mouth.
“I mean,” Lexi continued, picking up her fork again, “her toothbrush is here, her weird kombucha is in the fridge, her yoga mats are in the living room…” She shrugged. “Seemed like a done deal.”
David stared at her. Then, a real, weary laugh broke from him. He ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. “Smartass.”
Dede reached across the table, her fingers closing over Lexi’s hand. Her palm was damp, cool. “Oh, Lexi,” she whispered, her voice thick with an emotion that seemed genuine. “I want us to be a family. A real one. I care about you so much.” Her other hand drifted down, resting almost protectively on her own flat stomach for a fleeting second before returning to her lap.
Lexi registered the gesture, filed it away. “I know,” she said, and found she mostly meant it. Dede was trying. In her own high-maintenance, slightly suffocating way, she was trying. “Just… maybe warn me next time you use three bulbs of garlic.”
The meal continued, the atmosphere palpably lighter. David spoke more freely, about his latest book draft, about finally getting the signed divorce papers from his lawyer. Dede listened attentively, interjecting with soft, supportive sounds. Lexi watched them. Her father looked younger when he looked at Dede, the perpetual grief in his eyes softened by a flicker of something like hope. It was complicated, seeing him seek comfort in someone who wasn’t her mother. But it was better than seeing him hollowed out and alone.
After dessert—a store-bought tiramisu Dede had “dressed up” with mint leaves—Lexi helped clear the plates. In the kitchen, as she scraped leftovers into the bin, Dede sidled up next to her at the sink.
“Thank you,” Dede said softly, not looking at her, focusing on rinsing a plate. “For how you handled that. He was so nervous.”
“It’s your house too, I guess,” Lexi said, the words feeling strange but not entirely wrong.
Dede paused, her hands in the soapy water. She looked out the kitchen window into the dark backyard. “I want you to feel at home here, too. Really. I know I’m not your mom. I’d never try to be.” She turned, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “But I’d like to be… a friend. Or something like it.”
Lexi nodded, drying her hands on a towel. “Okay.” It was all she could offer, but it seemed to be enough.
She escaped upstairs soon after, pleading homework. In the sanctuary of her room, she finally let out the breath she felt she’d been holding for hours. She texted Ace: Alive. Lasagna was a war crime. Dede is officially a resident.
His reply was almost instantaneous: Told you. My offer to hide you in my garage still stands.
She smiled, leaning against her door. It was okay, actually. Weirdly okay.
You’re okay? he asked.
Yeah. She typed, then added, Because of you.
Don’t give me credit. You walked in there yourself.
She knew what he meant. He’d given her the strength, but she’d chosen to use it. It was a new feeling, this quiet sureness. She changed into sweats, flipped open her sketchbook. Her fingers itched to draw the lines of his profile, the way his jaw tightened when he was worried, the unexpected softness of his mouth when he looked at her.
Downstairs, she heard the low murmur of the television, then the creak of the stairs. Her father’s heavy footsteps passed her door, heading to his bedroom. A few minutes later, lighter footsteps followed. A door closed softly down the hall.
Silence settled over the house, a different silence than before. It was no longer empty. It was occupied. Changed.
Lexi’s phone buzged again. It was a picture from Ace: a dim, poorly-lit shot of his dashboard, the digital clock reading 10:47 PM. The caption read: Still here. Just in case.
Her heart squeezed. She typed back: Go home. I’m safe.
A moment later: I am home.
She understood. His home wasn’t a place; it was a state of being, and she was currently it.
His home wasn’t a place; it was a state of being, and she was currently it.
The words glowed on her screen, a hot brand against her palm in the dark room. The clinical antiseptic smell from earlier seemed stuck in her sinuses, a ghost she needed to exorcise. She needed something real, something to overwrite the sterile blue walls and hushed voices still echoing in her skull.
She didn’t tell him to leave again.
Her thumbs moved over the screen, the text simple, a direct line to the boy in the car whose presence was a tangible warmth against her back even through walls and distance. Do you want to come upstairs?
The response was immediate. AT THE FRONT DOOR.
A jolt, electric and liquid, shot straight down her spine. She moved on silent feet, heart hammering a wild rhythm against her ribs. The house was quiet, just the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. She paused at her bedroom door, listening. Her father’s deep, even snore rumbled from down the hall. No light under Dede’s door.
She descended the stairs, each creak of the wood sounding like a thunderclap in the silence. The front door lock turned with a soft, oiled click. She pulled it open.
He filled the doorway, a silhouette cut from the night itself. The streetlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. He smelled like leather, cool night air, and engine grease. Wordlessly, he stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him, sealing them in the dark foyer.
His hands found her face instantly, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head back. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his gaze a physical scan in the gloom.
“You’re sure?” His voice was gravel, low enough to vibrate in her chest.
“Yes.” The word was a breath, no hesitation.
That was all he needed. His mouth crashed down on hers, a claiming, not an ask. It was nothing like the gentle kiss in the car. This was hungry, devouring, all tongue and heat and the faint taste of coffee. She kissed him back with a desperation that matched his, her fingers clutching at the worn leather of his jacket. The anxiety of the day, the waiting room terror, the strained dinner performance—it all channeled into this, into melting against the solid wall of his body.
He walked her backwards, guiding her without breaking the kiss, up the stairs. Their footsteps were muted. Her bedroom door clicked shut behind them.
The only light came from her desk lamp, casting long, dramatic shadows. He shrugged out of his jacket, let it fall to the floor. His eyes never left her. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his hands going to the hem of her sweatshirt. “Any time. One word.”
“Don’t stop,” she breathed.
He pulled the sweatshirt over her head. His knuckles brushed the sides of her breasts, and she gasped. His hands were rough, calloused, but his touch was deliberate as he unsnapped her jeans, pushed them and her panties down her hips in one firm motion. She stepped out of them, standing bare before him in the lamplight. She felt exposed, utterly vulnerable, but the heat in his eyes wasn’t judgment—it was reverence mixed with pure, feral want.
“Fuck, Lexi,” he groaned, his hands spanning her waist. “Look at you.”
He stripped off his own shirt, and her breath caught. He was all hard planes and defined muscle, a map of old bruises and faint scars. He kicked off his boots, shoved his jeans and boxers down. And then he was just there, fully naked, and her eyes went wide.
He was huge. Thick, and long, and already fully erect, jutting out from a thatch of dark hair. The rumors, the whispered locker room boasts she’d overheard, hadn’t been exaggerated. A flutter of pure, animal fear mixed with a dizzying rush of anticipation.
He saw it, the flicker in her eyes. He came to her, cupped her face. “I’ll go slow. I’ll make it good for you. I swear.” He kissed her again, softer now, coaxing her mouth open as he walked her backward until her knees hit the bed.
She fell onto the mattress, and he came down over her, the weight of him thrilling. His skin was hot, a live wire everywhere it touched hers. He kissed her throat, her collarbone, his mouth searing a path down her body. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the peak until she cried out and arched off the bed. His hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her wet and ready.
“So fucking wet for me already,” he muttered, the obscenity hot against her skin. He pushed a finger inside her, and she tensed. “Relax, baby. Let me in.” He worked his finger gently, then added a second, stretching her. The sensation was foreign, a sharp burn that slowly ebbed into a deep, filling pressure. He crooked his fingers, and her world shattered into bright, blinding sparks.
“Ace!” His name was a sob as she came, her body clamping around his fingers, back bowing off the bed.
He withdrew his hand, bringing his wet fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean while he watched her. The sight was so raw, so filthy, it sent another shudder through her. He positioned himself between her thighs, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his blazing blue gaze.
He pushed in, just an inch. The stretch was immense, overwhelming. She gasped, her nails digging into his biceps. He held still, sweat beading on his forehead, every muscle in his arms corded with the effort of restraint.
“More,” she whispered, wanting the fullness, wanting to be consumed by him.
He sank deeper, a slow, inexorable invasion that burned and filled her utterly. She cried out, a short, sharp sound he swallowed with a kiss. He buried himself to the hilt, and for a moment, they were frozen, connected in the most profound, physical way possible. She felt stretched to the limit, impaled, completely possessed.
“You’re always so fucking tight,” he choked out, his face buried in her hair. “Jesus Christ.”
He began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, letting her body adjust to the massive intrusion. The burning faded, replaced by a deep, building friction that coiled low in her belly. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Harder,” she breathed into his ear.
He obeyed. His thrusts became longer, deeper, pounding into her with a rhythm that shook the bed frame. The headboard tapped a steady tattoo against the wall. Each drive knocked a gasp from her lungs. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his hips pistoning, his balls slapping against her ass with wet, rhythmic sounds.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice guttural. “That’s all me. You’re mine. Every fucking inch.”
She was unraveling, the coil inside her winding tighter and tighter with every brutal, perfect thrust. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, his ragged breaths in her ear, the overwhelming sensation of being so utterly filled. He shifted his angle, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made her see white.
She came violently, a silent, screaming climax that clenched around him like a vise. Her body seized, milking his cock, and that sent him over the edge.
“Fuck! Lexi!” He drove into her one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and she felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release flooding her insides. He shuddered through it, a long, guttural groan ripped from his chest as he emptied himself into her.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. He was still inside her, softening slowly, a reminder of the raw intimacy. He nuzzled into her neck, his lips brushing her damp skin.
After a long while, he rolled off, pulling her against his side. Her body felt used, thoroughly fucked, and strangely, peacefully her own. The clinic, the decision, the fear—it all felt distant, blurred at the edges.
The clinic, the decision, the fear—it all felt distant, blurred at the edges. Her skin was warm where it touched his, sticky with drying sweat. The room smelled of sex and him, a musky, intimate perfume that anchored her to the present.
Ace’s breathing evened out beside her, his arm a heavy band across her stomach. His fingers traced idle, absent patterns on her hip. She watched the shadows shift on the ceiling, feeling a profound, weary calm.
Then his hand stilled.
His entire body went rigid against hers. The peace shattered.
“Oh, fuck.” The words were a hollow exhale. He jerked upright, tearing the warmth away from her side. The sheets pooled around his waist. “Fuck, Lexi. No.”
She pushed herself up on her elbows, confused. “What? What’s wrong?”
He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring straight ahead at the blank wall, his profile a cut of stark panic in the low light. He dragged both hands down his face, pulling at the skin.
“The condom,” he said, the words mashed and angry. “I didn’t… Jesus Christ, I didn’t use one. Again.” He slammed a fist down onto the mattress, a muted thud of pure frustration. “What is wrong with me?”
The meaning crashed into her, cold and clear. The clinic visit. The tense silence in the waiting room. His own fierce rule, established after the first time this happened. Broken.
“I’m sorry.” The apology was ragged, ripped from somewhere deep and raw. He turned to look at her finally, and his eyes were wide with a genuine horror that had nothing to do with her. “I lost control. I completely fucking lost it. I swore I wouldn’t do that to you again. Not after everything.”
He swung his legs off the bed, sitting on the edge with his back to her. His shoulders were taut knots of tension. He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers gripping his dark hair. “Stupid. Reckless. I’m so sorry, Lex.”
Lexi watched the rigid line of his spine, the self-loathing in the slump of his shoulders. Her own initial shock was quickly washed away by a wave of something else, something softer and more terrifying. The fear wasn't in the room with them. He’d absorbed it all.
She moved slowly. The sheets whispered as she sat up. She knelt behind him, the comforter soft under her knees. She placed her hands flat on the tight muscles of his back, feeling the heat and the tremble he was trying to suppress.
She began to rub slow, firm circles over his shoulder blades, trying to ease the tension locked there. Her touch was gentle, a direct contrast to the storm inside him.
The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of their breathing—his ragged, hers measured. She leaned forward, her lips close to the shell of his ear. Her voice, when it came, was barely a breath, a secret offered in the dark.
“Would it really be so bad,” she whispered, the words feather-light and devastatingly serious, “if I had your child?”