..So, it was a couple of years back now, in Turkey, at a bar by the beach. You know the sort of place, shitty pop music blaring out, drinks that were ...50% vodka and 50% watered down coke. The usual lecherous, greasy locals working the bar and the tables, hitting on all the drunken English girls, succeeding often enough to make it worthwhile.I’d been for a piss, shifting some of mediocre local beer I’d managed to chug down, and was walking back to the table when I noticed the bar owner, Oz,. Together, we stroked until, tipping his head back, grunting aloud, he fed me, and I swallowed it all as quickly as possible. As we cuddled afterward in the darkness, as we heard the cries of a young woman being unmistakably whipped in the room above us, we considered showering despite the brownish water which would come from the showerhead, but decided against it. If our bodies were clean but our clothes dirty, then we would not be taken seriously, either when trying to find jobs or when. “Matteo’s right though. Pietro doesn’t believe his team is going to win enough to risk his wife.”“Why are you doing this, Marco, Matteo?” I asked. “You’re both married. Would you bet your wives in a crazy bet like this one? Matteo, you have children, and Marco, your wife is about to have one. Is this what you want to teach them? How to bet wives with stupid people like my husband? Would you want your daughter to be wagered like a prize cup? Or your son’s wife to his friends?” “Because your. "Oh, Abby." I reached out for her arm. The moment I touched her, the world started to make sense again. "Who's the father?"I watched as her face changed from pale, to red, colour rushing into her cheeks. I watched as her eyes filled with tears, and she bit her lip harder to stifle a sob.Realisation dawned on me. All of me stiffened. "How pregnant are you?" I demanded, my insides frozen in shock. She shook her head as tears escaped. "Abigail!" Six months," she sobbed.My brain exploded. "For.