Twenty Months Read online

  Twenty Months

  A Pride & Prejudice Variation

  By Alicia Rogers

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

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  Chapter 1

  Millstone

  5 Things I Would Rather Sit Through Than This Board Meeting

  By Will Darcy

  # 1. An Ashlee Simpson concert…On second thought, scratch that. A Jessica Simpson concert. Ashlee's far too painful to even comprehend.

  #2. A twenty-four hour marathon screening of every movie Ben Affleck ever starred in- starting with Daredevil and ending with my suicide.

  #3. My father's lecture on "the birds and the bees" – the one with those disturbing anatomically correct finger puppets.

  #4. A reading of War and Peace – by Ben Stein.

  #5…

  "Darcy, do you have anything you'd like to add?"

  He blanched.

  It was only for the span of a nanosecond and one would've had to have been gifted with the eyesight of a hundred hawks and maybe a couple of owls to have spotted it, but it had happened. Fitzwilliam Darcy – a man who appeared to be the very embodiment of all that was professional and joyless had nearly been caught slacking off. Letting his boredom and low opinion of meetings get the better of him, he'd spent the last forty minutes compiling list after useless list in his head that included such gems as: 5 tattoos I'm convinced Aunt Catherine has lurking underneath her clothes, and 5 brands of bleach I'm going to have to use to get said image of what's underneath Aunt Catherine's clothes out of my mind.

  He was in the process of finishing up his tenth list of the day when his coworker felt the need to call on him. Grimacing, Darcy grunted something that was supposed to pass as a proper response and the meeting was quickly adjourned much to the gentleman's relief.

  If one insanely bored individual suddenly got an insanely boring wild hair up his ass to sit down and chronicle every last event in Darcy's life, the events of the past four months would almost certainly end up in the pile marked "Sucked beyond the telling of it".

  It started back in June, back when he was still young and stupid enough to believe he was the sole lord and master of his destiny. His mind was practically all made up. A culinary school was practically all picked out thanks to the handiness of a few scraps of paper and a Dodgers ball cap. And then his father selfishly went and dropped dead at the ripe, old age of sixty-two.

  With a media empire left president-less and on the verge of imploding, Darcy naturally did what any other obedient son would've done; he sucked it up and accepted his new found (if completely unwanted) role as the head of the family business. It was his duty, after all. He was just one in a long line of Darcys to share the same fate. His picture would some day hang alongside those important Darcy men in the great hall of his family home – guaranteed to scare every last ounce of individualism out of generations of Darcys to come.

  And it might not have been what he wanted (the very last fucking thing he wanted), but as long as he had the support of his great friends and the wonderful woman who was mere weeks away from becoming his wife, Darcy figured there was no way he couldn't get through this alive.

  Then he had the misfortune of walking in on said wife-to-be legs akimbo. This wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for his best man being settled between them.

  By the time August came around he was one good day away from sitting down to a delicious meal of rat poison for one; and who could blame him?

  Here he was stuck in a job he didn't want, blocking calls and emails from an ex-fiance who wasn't worthy of his time, and trying to somehow find a spare moment in his busy day to mourn the loss of the one man who could make it all better with a crooked smile and the words "Trust me son, it can't be all that bad". With his life quickly o.d-ing on 'miserable', Fitzwilliam Marcus Darcy – he of the level head, decided to ignore the desire to deal with his problems in a mature, healthy fashion. Mature and healthy was fucking overrated.

  So he drank. A lot.

  Today was October 15th and his actions over the past two months were a blur of Jack and Cokes and silent prayers. He wouldn't wake up with Skeletor in his bed the next morning. But, having the unfortunate privilege of being in a photograph that included Paris Hilton and a bar top sounded alarms for his investors and fellow board members; today was the day he would straighten up his act or risk causing irreparable damage to the Darcy name. Because if he didn't, his entire legacy could be summed up by one instance where he offered to light Lindsay Lohan's cigarette.

  "Sarah, hold all of my calls," Darcy barked at his secretary as he rushed past her desk eager to reach the oak, double doors of his office. Eager to lock himself inside, slip his iPod out of the top drawer of his desk and pretend he was anywhere else in the world. With a look of total panic, Sarah leapt from her seat in an attempt to catch him. "Mr. Darcy, wait! There's someone…" It was too late. Darcy had already flung those doors open and stepped inside coming face to face with a drowned rat.

  Standing in the middle of his personal space, making a puddle on his plush carpet the young woman wrung the bottom of her soaked sweats and had the nerve to shoot him a sardonic smile. "Would you believe it's raining?"

  Darcy's mind quickly ran over a list of the names of every monosyllabic monkey down in security he would have the pleasure of firing while his mouth quirked upward. "You don't say," he replied dryly.

  "I tried to tell you, sir," Sarah began frantically, "she just walked in like she owned the place and wouldn't leave! I called security…"

  Darcy shot Sarah a look over his shoulder. "Obviously they rushed to put down the doughnuts and turn off Passions at the news of a potential threat," he snapped.

  "Hey – there's no reason to bite her head off." Drowned Rat now had the audacity to glare at him. At him; as if he was the insane-o who was busy racking up a trespassing charge. "Maybe you should hire better help."

  Darcy's head cocked to the side as he dared to take a step closer. "Please forgive me, I seem to have lost my manners in all of this; clearly, I forgot to ask, who the hell are you again?" he practically growled.

  He dwarfed her which wasn't exactly hard to do when one stands at six feet and two inches tall, but Darcy's broad shoulders, straight as a rod posture, and dark eyes made him the very definition of intimidating yet she didn't back down. This pitiful thing that had to crane her neck to keep from staring him directly in the chest, this dripping slip of a girl who, through a combination of freckles and oversized sweats looked not a day over thirteen, scowled at him as if he were a piece of dirt under her muddy shoes.

  If he wasn't twenty shades of pissed off Darcy would've been slightly impressed.

  "You're ki
nd of a hard guy to find, you know?" she said absently while pushing strands of wet, red hair out of her eyes. "There are exactly two hundred and fifty two Will Darcys in the LA phone book and I made it to number two hundred and thirty seven before I found this hanging out at the bottom of my hamper." She waved a soggy business card at him. "Fitzwilliam, huh?" a snicker. "Must be a family name."

  His hands unconsciously formed fists at his sides as his dark blue eyes narrowed. "Do I know you?" She laughed humorlessly. "No, you really don't, but we've met." Sniffing suddenly, she furiously wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and eyed Sarah warily. "Um, you might wanna close that door; I don't think you wanna risk having an audience."

  Darcy let out a derisive snort, but found himself closing the doors on his very stunned secretary. If he was axe-murdered at this very moment it would be thanks in part to the public school system and the “Will they, won't they” lure of Ethan and Theresa. Fucking wonderful.

  "I really hope you're into collecting restraining orders, lady…"

  "Lizzie," she told him quickly. "My name's Lizzie and like I said before, we've met." She shrugged nonchalantly as her eyes took the opportunity to focus on her sneakers. "I can't say I'm shocked you don't remember me; it's been a couple months and there was lots of tequila involved. Usually, I wouldn't have even bothered tracking you down; even if you did slip me your card and hey, paying for the cab ride home was a nice gesture, but it was pretty clear our time together was a one-night kind of deal. So, believe me Mr. Darcy when I say, I can think of at least five things I would much rather be doing right now than standing here in your office trying to think of a way to get this out before I'm hauled off by some rent-a-cop."

  Darcy's patience had disappeared into thin air.

  "Get what out?"

  The expression on Lizzie's face was an odd cross between wanting to burst into hysterical laughter and hysterical crying as reached for the purse on his desk and pulled out a ziplock bag filled to the brim with OB test sticks. Removing one, she held it up so he could clearly see the little, blue plus sign. "Twenty-five boxes. I went through twenty-five boxes, and they all say the same thing."

  Yes, today was the day Fitzwilliam Marcus Darcy (a family name, of course) would reclaim his sense of propriety, snap out of this ridiculous funk, and bring pride back to the Darcy name,

  And then a very pregnant girl decided it would be a good time to stop by his office and ruin his life.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 2

  By All Accounts, Today was a Disaster

  When your day ends with your head in a toilet and no one to hold your hair back, it is safe to assume you've just endured the worst twenty-four hours in history.

  Such was the case with Lizzie Bennet.

  With a groan she lifted her spinning head from the toilet bowl and chose to ignore the bit of vomit in her hair just for the moment, because slumping against the cool bathroom wall was of higher priority.

  Today would have gone much better if someone had just punched her in the face before she walked into Will Darcy's office. What the hell was she thinking? Yes, Mister Rich and Powerful businessman, you knocked me up after one night together – yes, I am a paradigm of truthfulness. What is this term 'gold-digger' you speak of? Honestly, she couldn't blame that big, fat jerk for being – well, a big, fat jerk. Lizzie knew she was dropping the bomb of all bombs on a guy who was a total stranger and it wasn't as if she expected him to believe her.

  She did (quite stupidly) however, expect him to be a little nicer about it.

  The second the word "whore" found its way out of his mouth, Lizzie administered a well placed slap across his spoiled cheek; locked at the knees she was not, but that fact didn't make her a big ho. The hit had stunned him into complete silence and she was able to finish the rest of this ugly business without further interruption. The date and time of her next doctor's appointment was scrawled across a blank page in the open appointment book on his desk and Lizzie added "It's being taken care of. I just thought you had a right to know" as an afterthought before slamming the door behind her.

  Then after waiting nearly an hour for a bus (because $1.25 in your pocket makes cab drivers kill themselves laughing) Lizzie finally arrived to her cramped apartment just off of Santa Monica and promptly emptied the contents of her stomach.

  "Lizard, are you in there?" There was a light knock upon the bathroom door and Lizzie instantly felt a thousand times better.

  She cleared her throat. "Yeah, I'm here."

  The door creaked open enough to allow a blonde head and a furrowed brow to peek inside. "Are you okay? Are you…decent?"

  That bit made Lizzie giggle – clearly all of the modest genes in the womb had been gobbled up by her big sister. "What's your definition of 'decent'?" she asked jokingly as Jane stepped into the room wearing a worried expression.

  "Oh, Lizzie…"

  "I vomited," Lizzie stated simply. "In my hair."

  "I see," Jane said and took a seat on the edge of the tub.

  "Do you think my hair will smell like pizza and orange juice?" Lizzie asked, letting her head slump against the side of the commode. "That's what it tastes like coming up, so…"

  "Wanna talk about it?"

  Since they were very young Jane had possessed an uncanny ability to be able to spot a problem no matter how much bull shit Lizzie put up to block her. Maybe this amazing skill was just an inherent part of what made Jane, Jane. Or, maybe it was a testament to just how close the sisters are.

  Jane Abigail Bennet was born exactly six years, four months, three days and two hours before her sister Elizabeth. She was goodness and light personified – golden blonde hair, soft green eyes, and a smile that was made up of happy things like hugs and puppies. Jane never cried. She always shared her Barbies and made room in the sandbox for everyone. She never swore. She never burped, or picked her nose, or scratched her butt in public. And when things such as puberty and prom dates reared their ugly heads, she unknowingly became the bane of every girl's existence thanks to the added bonus of being unbelievably gorgeous.

  Jane was responsible, dependable, and successful at the age of twenty-seven (currently being considered for partner at her law firm). And if she wasn't so goddamn honest to goodness kindhearted, Lizzie would hate her guts.

  You see, Elizabeth Michelle Bennet had gotten all of the leftovers. She got the mess of red hair and the dark brown eyes. She was a colicy baby. She once gave a boy a bloody nose for daring to lay a finger on her Ninja Turtle. She could swear in five different languages and burp the alphabet backwards. And though, quite pretty in her own right, she spent her prom night smoking pot underneath the bleachers with a couple of guys from a rival school.

  Lizzie could define responsible, dependable, and successful, but actually being those things was another story. She was an actress who was currently finding more work as a waitress than on any screen or stage, and she was living with her perfectly perfect sister.

  Again, if Janie wasn't so goddamn honest to goodness…

  "What are the chances of you just letting me be if I say no?" Lizzie said with a crooked smile on her face.

  "About slim-to-none," Jane replied with a smile of her own. Realization suddenly dawned on her, her green eyes went wide. "You found him?!"

  A nod. "I found him."

  "And you told him?!"

  "I told him."

  Jane gasped. "How did it go?"

  Lizzie chuckled humorlessly. "Janie – there's vomit in my hair."

  Her face fell. "Oh god, Lizzie. I'm so…"

  "No, no," Lizzie shook her head with a sniff and wiped at the corners of her mouth, "it could've been a hell of a lot worse. So, I've told him. He's informed. I've done my civic duty and now there's nothing else to worry about."

  Silently, Jane climbed to her feet. "Get over here, kid," she said bending down to turn on the tub's faucet.

  Lizzie obeyed, crawling across the tiled floor on her knees and then stuck her he
ad underneath the warm water.

  "Forget this Darcy guy," Jane said in her best supportive big-sister voice as she squeezed apple shampoo into her hand. "He's an awful jerk. You don't need him."

  "I don't, but that kick to my kidneys says someone else here might," Lizzie shouted over the sound of running water.

  "You can do this without him, Lizzie. You've got me and you've got Charlotte…"

  "Whose bright idea it was to go clubbing that night."

  "She feels really bad about that."

  "I'll bet."

  Somewhere in between the conditioner and the fourth lather, the doorbell rang. Lizzie offered to get the door while Jane was busy rounding up the sort of dvds that go great with a carton of Ben and Jerry's.

  Yep, it didn't matter that they were the complete anthisesis of each other. It didn't matter that Jane could fall in shit and come up smelling like roses, or that Lizzie had a bit of 'perpetual fuck up' in her. They got each other. Completely and totally. And wouldn't change a thing.

  When she turned the knob, the last thing she expected to see was Will Darcy looking the very picture of uncomfortable on her front porch. But, there he was – hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and a scowl on his face.

  He loudly cleared his throat. "Lizzie."

  She returned his scowl. "Darcy."

  "I…" he began and paused for a second to cock his head to the side. "Can I come in?"

  "No," she quickly replied.

  "Okay," he sighed heavily, "you have every right to be upset with me, but can we stop being childish for just a minute?"

  "Childish?!" Her eyes flashed red.

  He held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not here to start World War III; I just came to discuss business."

  "Business?"

  "Yes." Darcy nodded. "I have a proposition for you, Ms. Bennet that I think will serve both of our interests and solve the matter at hand."

  Curiously, Lizzie folded her arms over her chest. "And this miracle solution would be…?"

  "Marry me."

  Chapter 3

  Should Have Stayed in the Shallows