Brutal Game by Cara McKenna

said.
    “No, thanks.” She was only supposed to take Tylenol. For someone who wasn’t even sure what she wanted to do about her pregnancy, she’d done her homework. “Damn, I hope that was it.”
    “PMS fun?”
    “Something like that. Whew.” She waved a hand to cool her flushed face, then looked back to the task at hand. “When do you get your new car?” she asked Heather. The old one had “shit the bed,” as Heather put it, not worth the money to replace the engine. Flynn had found her a used one through a coworker’s brother or something.
    “Not ’til the weekend, probably. Worth the wait, though—looks like a good little car. Yaris, it’s called, which is a stupid-ass name. Sounds like a nickname for your twat. But it’s supposed to be reliable. Not a scratch on it, Mike said, which’ll be nice after driving that rust bucket for twelve years…”
    Laurel nodded, half listening. The pain hadn’t gone, merely softened. She felt its nagging pulse and moved in tiny, cautious motions as she worked. There were only three cookies left to ice when another spasm hit, harsh as the first. She moaned and doubled over, staggering to a chair to sit.
    “Shit, girl, you okay?”
    Laurel shook her head, then nodded, unsure. Goddamn, six weeks pregnant and she was already huffing and puffing her way through the pain—how the heck would birth feel, if things went that way?
    “Ah, fuck.” She squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands to her back, trying to radiate their heat into the spot, praying it would calm again soon. There was more, now—cramps deep in her belly, squeezing sensations shot through with hot shocks of pain.
    “I’ve got Vicodin,” Heather said. “It might be expired, but—”
    “No, no. Christ, this hurts so much.”
    “You need me to get you to Urgent Care?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know.” It was hard to think, and scary besides.
    “I could call a cab— Oh. Laurel.”
    She opened her eyes, finding Heather’s blue ones wide.
    “Baby, you’re bleeding.”
    Laurel looked down to discover a maroon patch spreading across the beige chair pad between her thighs. “Oh. Oh my God.”
    Heather put out a hand, all business. “C’mon. Come to the bathroom. We’ll get you sorted out.”
    Too frightened to argue, Laurel followed in an awkward, tight-legged shuffle, horrified by the wet heat soaking her underwear and jeans.
    I’m losing it.
    I’m losing it.
    Though they were alone in the apartment, Heather shut the bathroom door behind them. “Stand in the tub and get those pants off.”
    Laurel did, barely aware that she was now naked from the waist down before Flynn’s sister. The blood was bright, bright as cherry Kool-Aid. Her back pulsed cruelly but it was her belly she felt now, with terrible clarity. Cramps as though someone were twisting ropes inside her.
    Heather handed her one warm, damp hand towel and set a dry one on the tub’s edge. “Here, baby. Get yourself cleaned up. I’m gonna find you a pair of pants.”
    Laurel could only nod and obey. While Heather was gone, she tenderly wiped away the blood, then stood there with the dry towel clenched between her thighs. She could feel it still flowing, see it turning the periwinkle terry cloth the color of merlot.
    Heather returned shortly, a lump of patterned fleece tucked under her arm. She unfurled it with a wan smile, revealing a pair of pajama pants covered in hot pink flamingos. “Kim’s. Festive, right?”
    Laurel mustered the world’s limpest smile and looked to the towel.
    “How far along?” Heather asked quietly.
    She jerked her head back up, feeling ten times more naked than she actually was. “Pardon?”
    “I had three miscarriages,” Heather said, crouching to root beneath the sink. She set a plastic pack of maxi pads on the closed toilet and stood. “It’s no fun, I know.”
    “You think that’s what this is?” Laurel asked, voice a tiny whisper. She didn’t have the luxury of googling “six