by Emelia Blair
I just glare at the two of them.
Since Ron refuses to drive, I am the designated driver.
Dropping Mila off at school, I can’t help but feel a rush of pride. My daughter is smart for her age, and her teachers insisted she take some classes with the first grade students, focusing on math and English.
I’ve never regretted having her, I think as I drive Ron to the art gallery. I was always somebody who went with the flow. Practicing law was a passion of mine, and it stung when I had to quit it.
I was surprisingly good at Criminal Defense Law.
However, I am not without my skill set. I rented a building with a long-term lease and I went on to build and design my own dance studio. Hiring instructors wasn’t hard. It is in its fourth year now, and I offer up to twenty different styles of dance classes. I have everyone from children to senior citizens who attend classes here.
It’s a steady income that provides a good life for Mila and me.
My thoughts darken when I recall the meeting with Zayn from two days ago, and my fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
The fucking nerve.
He actually threatened to take me to court.
Knowing him, he would have gone through with it as well if I hadn’t relented. Not that I have heard a peep from him since.
Maybe he actually thought it through and decided he didn’t want to have the responsibility of a child after all.
“Bastard,” I hiss under my breath.
“Huh, you say something?” Ron looks up from his phone, startled.
“Not you,” I say as I take a left turn. “My ex.”
The confusion clears from Ron’s face. “Oh, him.” He leans down to fiddle with the radio. “It was hardly a relationship, honey. It was more of a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of scene.”
“Thank you, Ron.” I stare at the road. “That’s helpful. You’re a good friend.”
He chortles. “I’m serious. You guys had a fling when he was drunk. I’m still surprised that he wants to know Mila. I’ve seen him in the tabloids. He ain’t no saint.”
I honk at the stupid car in front of me, which refuses to move even though the light turned green ages ago. Pulling down the window, I shout, “Move, asshole!”
The driver lifts a well-manicured hand out the window and flips me off before driving away.
“You know what’s worse?” I say, glumly, picking up the conversation. “Those pictures in the tabloids don’t do him justice. He’s still as hot as he was five years ago.”
“Did you want him to grow a wart or something?” Ron tunes into a nineties music channel and the car moves as he dances along to the Backstreet Boys’ song blaring from the speakers.
I hiss. “I don’t know. A beer belly would have been nice. Here I am with a C-Section scar and stretch marks and he still gets to look sexy as sin. It’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair.” Ron dances and when I narrow my eyes at him, he sobers. “Sorry. Sorry. Do you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend if he shows up?”
I eye his soft face and can’t help but grin. “You look more like my masculine sister with a bad dye job. At this point, Mark would make a better fake boyfriend than you.”
Ron scowls at me. “You take that back! My dye job is fabulous. Mark loves it.”
I roll my eyes. “You could wear a potato sack and not have bathed for a week and he’d still find you appealing. That man is putty in your hands.”
Ron sighs, dreamily. “Isn’t he just? He’s perfect.”
I give him an affectionate look. “Yes, he is. For you, at least. I swear he hates me though.”
My roommate gives me an annoyed look. “It’s your damn fault for kissing me on the mouth on New Year’s. Now he’s convinced that you might have the hots for me.”
“Oh, please,” I scoff.
Ron isn’t offended in the least. “That’s what I said. Anyway, I’ll see you at dinner.”
I stop the car in front of the massive art gallery that Ron’s boyfriend owes. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ron waggles his eyebrows at me suggestively. “Don’t worry. I’m not on a celibacy streak. So we’re good.”
“Jerk,” I laugh as he closes the door behind him.
The dance studio is a ten-minute drive from the art gallery. The building used to be a gym before it went out of business.
Lorraine, the bubbly young receptionist, is on the phone, and I nod to her, grateful that I don’t have to engage in conversation with her. I hired her for her people skills but man, can Lorraine talk.
It is getting her to shut up that is the hard part.
She often babysits Mila and really gets along with her.
I have a belly dancing class in about ten minutes, and I quickly change in my office and grab a bottle of water before I leave for the classroom. I meet a few instructors on the way there who give me a friendly hello.
The class is full as always and as I proceed with the class, I feel a pair of eyes on me that make me stiffen.
Everybody's watching me as they mimic my movements, but when I turn around, I realize why that one particular gaze has me so on edge.
Zayn stands at the back of the class, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
He wears a navy blue tee over black athletic pants. On anyone else, the combination would have been disastrous, but he somehow manages to pull it off. I feel a pang of annoyance at the way my body stirs as he rakes his icy blue eyes over my form, deliberately. When our eyes meet, I can see that he wants me to know that he is checking me out.
Dick.
I silently curse my body for still being attracted to someone like him. But no.
No.
It had to be him.
Five years since the last time I saw him and I am still affected by that cool assessing look in his eyes, the heat in them when they pin me to the spot.
I skip a step and scowl.
No way in hell is he dragging me through this again.
Ron is right.
What we had was not a relationship. We flirted with each other and he then broke his own rule of not sleeping with his employees. Of course, I resigned, not wanting the humiliation of being fired.
I spin around and I feel the way he watches me, that hint of desire smoldering in his hooded eyes. I can see it from across the room. And had I not been affected by it, I would have used it to gain the upper hand.
As the class ends, I take a swig from my bottle of water, grabbing a towel and patting the sweat off of my forehead and neck.
I don’t approach him.
He does approach me.
He doesn’t walk; he stalks.
When he reaches me, I remark, forcing my voice to be casual and insulting. “You always did have a knack for being creepy.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “I meant to get in touch with you yesterday, but something came up.”
I take another swig from my bottle. “Of course it did. Was she blonde with big blue eyes? That’s always been your type.”
His eyes follow the drop of sweat that makes its way into my cleavage before glancing at me, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve always preferred brunettes.”
I want to scowl at the implication, but I hold on to my self-control. “People usually call before showing up. I don’t offer trial sessions anymore. Make sure to pay Lorraine for the class before you leave.”
He raises a brow. “I already did. Your receptionist was very insistent upon it.”
I wish he hadn’t so that I could see the satisfaction of watching him actually take out money from his wallet to pay for crashing my class.
I start walking. “We can talk in my office. Come on.”
He always did walk quietly.
When he closes the door of my office behind him, I feel him study the room.
It isn’t overly large, but it is comfortable. Hues of blue and beige with a splash of gold, it is tastefully designed with a bookshelf in the cor
ner and photographs against the wall. There is a large couch at the end of the room under the window where I sometimes nap, or Mila does if I have a class and nobody can watch her. I have a small desk with two very tiny chairs for visitors.
Zayn glances at me. “You’ve put together quite a business.”
I sit down in my chair and gesture towards a seat. “Thanks. Take a seat.”
From the way he looks at me, I know he’s figured out what I am doing.
The corner of his lips curls. “I prefer to stand.” He prowls around my office and studies pictures of Mila. Ron is in one of them, and that is the picture that he stares at the longest.
“Who’s that?”
I sorely want to say ‘my boyfriend’ but we are both adults here, and Zayn will find out sooner or later. “A friend.”
He turns to look at me. “A special friend?”
I blink at him, “If that’s your way of asking if Ron’s my—”
“Are you married?” Zayn asks abruptly, cutting me off.
“No,” I reply curtly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“That’s good to know.”
I stare at his back, not knowing what is going on through his head but refusing to take the bait.
“What’s her full name?”
I feel reluctant answering that, but I do. “Wolfe. Her full name is Mila Wolfe.”
That surprises him, and he turns around to look at me, his eyes containing shock. “You gave her my last name?”
I feel a hint of discomfort. “I wasn’t planning on keeping her from you forever. Just until she had gotten a little older. And you are her father, whether I like it or not.”
He gives me a dry look. “Now, now. No need to make this emotional.” He walks over to my desk and gives the uncomfortable chair there one look and tucks his hands in the pockets of his pants. “I want to meet Mila.”
“She’s at school.”
“Does she know about me?”
I lean back in my chair and look at him. “She hasn’t asked me about you yet, and I’ve never brought you up.”
He gives me a hard look, which I ignore.
“I want to meet her someplace she’s comfortable. I want her to know me, and I want to play a role in her life.”
I raise a brow. “And what role would that be?”
His eyes flash, and I lift my hands, showing him that I mean no harm. “I’m simply asking how you plan to be a father to her.”
This time he looks uncomfortable. “I can start by paying child support checks. And pocket money. Kids like pocket money, right?”
“She’s four, Zayn. She doesn’t need pocket money,” I correct him, now actually feeling sorry for him, he has no clue about what it takes to raise a child.
“I can take her out for dinner sometimes.”
I wince. “Have you ever taken a four-year-old out to a restaurant? They’re loud and messy.” I sigh. “Look, just come by the apartment. Meet her first.”
“Yeah. That sounds okay.” He almost looks relieved.
I can’t help the begrudging admiration I feel at the fact that he is actually trying to insert himself into his daughter’s life despite the open pass I give him.
“There are a few things, ground rules,” I say, sharply. “You don’t bring women around her. I’m teaching her to respect herself and seeing women consistently come and go from your life, I don’t know how that will impact her.”
“I’ve slept alone for the past six months,” he tells me, his eyes fixing on mine in a way that has my throat going as dry as the Sahara.
I smile and take a sip of water. “Having a bit of a dry spell, are we?”
He studies me. “Or maybe I’m waiting to run into the right woman.”
His deep voice has my loins stirring, and I see the shift in his eyes as he watches me with renewed interest. “Yes, well. There’s a wishing fountain in the Chinese restaurant across the road. I can loan you a quarter.”
“Your personality hasn’t changed a bit,” he comments, the corner of his lip tugging up in that half smile of his that makes me tighten the leash on myself.
I don’t say anything.
He is wrong.
I have changed.
I am no longer that reckless young woman I was five years ago. Parenthood changed me. My barbs have less bite. I softened a lot.
“Tomorrow’s Friday. You can swing by for dinner.” I scribble the address on a piece of paper and hand it to him. “Bring a Pocahontas Barbie doll. She’s missing it from her Disney princess collection. She’ll adore you.”
Zayn stills. “Why are you being so helpful? I thought you hated the idea of me being in Mila’s life.”
I give him a wry look. “I don’t want to be hostile towards you. Kids are very impressionable. If you can be a good father to Mila, why would I want to deprive her of that?”
Zayn runs his fingers through his hair, which is cut short, and he gives me a curious look before turning to leave. “I was wrong.”
“About what?” I ask with an arched eyebrow.
“You have changed.”
After he leaves, I glance at the clock.
Ten in the morning.
I pick up my cell phone and dial a number.
“Hi, it’s Dan. We’re out now. Leave us a message and we’ll call you back.”
I sigh, and say softly, “Hey, Dad. It’s me. Just, uh, calling you again to see how you’ve been. I emailed you a picture of Mila. She drew a picture, and I sent it as well. She’s turning out to be great. I never knew how hard parenthood could be. I’m also well. How are you? And Mom? Just, uh, call me back. It’d be nice to hear your voices.”
My hands shake as I end the call.
Staring at the number as the screen turned black, I know I won’t be receiving a call.
This loneliness is like a pit that I can’t seem to crawl out of.
3
Zayn
“You? A father?”
Six pairs of incredulous eyes are on me, and I feel irritable. “It’s not like I planned it.”
Agatha smirks at Ian. “Funny. That’s usually the girl’s line.”
Ian cracks a wan smile before he sobers up. “Did you ask for a paternity test?”
I rest my elbow against the mantelpiece of the fireplace and lean over to adjust the photo of Alexandria, Philip, and Charlotte’s daughter that they insisted I have. “She looks like a exact copy of me. And I have a feeling that if I ask for a paternity test, she’ll be more than happy to deny me. She doesn’t think I’m good father material.”
“Bitch,” Agatha hisses softly and Sarah frowns as well.
Charlotte looks down at the baby nestled in her arms and gives Philip a reluctant look. “I don’t agree with her, but I can’t fault her for trying to protect her child.”
Agatha’s brow knits. “Are you serious? This is Zayn we’re talking about!”
Charlotte gives her a quiet look. “We know him but Eve hasn’t had the best experience with him, and his playboy lifestyle isn’t doing him any favors. No offense, Zayn. You know I love you.”
I give her a slight grin. “I know. None taken.” I look at the spluttering Agatha. “I don’t know anything about kids, and Eve was actually trying to be nice to me. I ran a check on her financials. She and Mila are well off, financially. Nothing extravagant, but they’re living comfortably. If I were to take her to court over the kid, she’d wipe the floor with my ass.”
Philip and Fergus wince while Ian frowns. “She doesn’t know that, does she?”
I shake my head, a discrete movement. “I don’t think she’s kept up with me that much. She looked a little surprised when I told her that I’d been celibate for six months.”
Agatha stares at the ceiling. “TMI.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Sarah wants to know.
I give her a look. “Go to dinner tomorrow. Buy a Pocahontas doll, whatever that is.”
“We’ve got your back, Zayn.” It is Char
lotte who says that. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you.”
I glance over the lot of them. “I appreciate it. I need this to be kept out of the news. With the new club opening, I’m getting a little too much media attention these days. I don’t want Mila or Eve to be dragged into anything.”
Agatha exchanges a look with me. “I’m on that. Don’t worry.”
I look at Philip as he caresses his sleeping daughter’s face as she sleeps in Charlotte’s arms. I feel a strange sensation blooming in my chest, and not for the first time, I wonder whether I know what I am getting myself into.
Getting the Barbie doll was a hassle.
I stare at the plastic figurine in the box with the long black hair and frown.
What is so interesting about this?
I recall that Agatha used to be crazy about her dolls. Wincing as I recall when she used to force me to play with her. Most of our games were because she blackmailed me with one thing or the other.
Scowling at the memories of drinking imaginary tea from empty plastic cups, I leave the store and glance at my watch.
It is nearing six.
Putting on my helmet, I throw one leg over the bike and dangle the small bag from the handle before roaring away.
This entire thing is more complicated because every time I look at Eve, I want her under me. At the same time, I know that I shouldn’t want her.
Despite the fact that her luscious lips are always seconds away from spouting vulgarities in that husky voice, the way she drawls them out, that casual smirk in her eyes, it makes my cock harden.
So wild and untamed.
She answers to no one, her energy relentless, filled with heat, twisting me into her inferno until all I can see, hear, smell, or taste is her.
How did I survive two years with her, I wonder, without throwing her on the bar and fucking the defiance out of her?
Because I was scared of myself.
She wasn’t someone whom I could just have fucked and walked away from. The way she would look at me, that knowledge in her eyes as if she could see past the persona I adopted for the world to see, it terrified me.
I was damaged beyond repair and the darkness that was in my blood, this thirst for blood and violence that I concealed with this mask of civility and class, surrounding myself with beauty and money. She saw the creature that lurked inside and accepted it.
