Papi: Based on a True Story

by J.C. Valentine

  But I don’t have the luxury of waiting. The problem is, I have three kids who depend on me. I have a job I need to concentrate on so I can provide for them. I have responsibilities that won’t wait for me to pull myself together.

  Motherhood doesn’t take a vacation.

  And so I get up every day, shower, and get dressed. I send the kids off to school, work my job, clean the house, and cook dinner.

  I check my phone for messages one hundred and eighty times a day. Not a single text from Alejandro.

  It’s as if he never existed.

  I find myself praying, asking the powers that be for a sign—any sign—that this isn’t the end. Confirmation that my instincts are on-point. Some days I feel like I’ve lost my mind. Other days I’m dead set on what it’s telling me to be true.

  My confusion and stress are only compounded, though, when a few weeks pass, and I realize that I’m late.

  My period, which normally operates like clockwork, decides to skip a day. And another. And another. Before I know it, I’ve used up three pregnancy tests—all negative—and I’m ten days late.

  Despite what the tests say, my body doesn’t feel like my own. It’s become foreign to me, reminding me of when I was pregnant with my babies. The thing is, I very well could be pregnant now.

  I don’t know how I feel about that, to be honest. My husband and I had long ago decided that we were done having kids. He got a vasectomy, and I looked toward the future, returning to school and launching my own business. Over the years, I watched friends and relatives having babies and, despite some brief longing for just one more of my own, I always pushed the desire to the back of my mind, knowing that it just wasn’t an option anymore.

  Now, the prospect of being a mom again is staring me in the face.

  “That asshole got you pregnant,” Jean rants over the phone. She’s been livid since the day he disappeared from my life. She even launched a one-woman investigation team to track him down. Only to find out that there just isn’t much information out there on a person who holds a Visa. They might as well be a ghost, for all the footprint they leave.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Well, that would just be the way of it.”

  With the way my life has been the last several months, I have to agree. It’s as if the universe is bound and determined to break me. I refuse to give it the satisfaction. If my bastard husband and his twatwaffle mistress couldn’t do it, then a sexy Latino man who rocked one night of my life certainly won’t.

  I just wish I could scrub him from my brain. It would make things so much easier. Instead, it’s as if he’s taken up permanent residence in my gray matter. He’s the first thought on my mind when I wake up in the morning, lingers throughout the day, haunts me at night, and has even begun starring in my dreams.

  To make matters even worse, I’ve dreamed several times that I’m pregnant. Jean is very spiritual and believes in prophetic dreams, so she’s adamant that it means something big. Namely, that I’m carrying his baby.

  Until the tests say otherwise, I’m straddling the fence. My body says one thing; my mind says another. It’s enough to drive a person up the wall.

  “I bet Alejandro has women in every state. He’s probably married and has twelve kids too.”

  I laugh at Jean’s ponderings, but it falls flat. It’s something I’ve considered too many times to count. Silence breeds paranoia.

  I just want answers.

  “So do you still think he’s going to come back?” she asks me.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I hesitate to say definitely, because there’s no way to prove it, and I deal in definites.

  “Well if he does, use his ass. I mean really use it. Ride him up and down the county like a bronco and then dump his ass.”

  I laugh. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all. But I’m just not that kind of person. “Sounds like a plan,” I say, playing along.

  “I hope you are pregnant,” she said with venom. “Then your loser husband will cry like a bitch and Alejandro will have to give you all his money. Serves the bastards right.”

  She makes no bones about where she stands on the subject of my life. I find it refreshing, though, a new perspective to consider because it’s so easy to lose sight of things sometimes.

  “I don’t know if I want another baby,” I comment for the hundredth time. No matter how many times I say it, though, it just doesn’t ring true anymore. “I don’t know if I could handle any more responsibility at the moment. And I never saw myself raising a kid alone.”

  “You never saw yourself raising any kids alone, but look at you now. You have three, and you’re making it work. One more isn’t going to break you. You’re the strongest person I know. Plus, you have me and a ton of people who love and respect you that would help you in a heartbeat if you asked.”

  She’s right, I concede. I have a big family, and they’ve been in my corner since the day I kicked my husband out of the house. I’ll never be alone, no matter how often I tend to feel like I am.

  “Thanks.”

  “None needed. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Everything is going to work out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.”

  We both laugh and then move the topic to something lighter. Later, I reflect on the path my life has taken in such a short period of time. I’ve lost my husband to a tramp barely out of high school, and I’ve hooked up with a younger man who stole part of my heart while possibly giving me the greatest gift in return.

  I’d like to be mad. I’d like to rail at the injustice of it all.

  But I can’t seem to find it in me to be anything but grateful.

  This year, I found a depth of strength in myself that I never thought I had. I found my self-worth, confidence unparalleled, more friends than I know what to do with, and an independence that I’d never get being tied to a loveless, one-sided marriage.

  In many respects, I’ve been unburdened in a major way, and in turn been given the gift of self-discovery.

  How can I be mad at that?

  I don’t know where this life will lead me, or who will come along for the ride, but I know one thing for sure…

  Wherever I go, I’m going to be happy. Life is too short to accept anything less.

  Epilogue

  Three weeks later…

  I’m putting on my makeup while the kids are getting dressed for school. It’s another cold winter morning, and the weather is calling for snow. Ugh. I hate snow.

  This is the first morning in weeks that I woke up feeling hopeful. I’m thinking of Jean and how I want to tell her about a new client I just secured. More jobs are trickling in lately than I know what to do with.

  And that can only be a good thing. It means my business is growing, and if it keeps up, I won’t have to worry so much about the bills or how I’m going to provide for my kids.

  Things are looking up.

  That euphoric feeling should have been the first clue that this morning wasn’t going to be typical.

  I finish putting on my lip gloss and stash my makeup bag in the vanity drawer, then pull my phone from my robe pocket as I stand up. I’m running against the clock, but I can’t wait another minute to tell her the news.

  When my phone lights up, however, the last thing I expect to see is Alejandro’s face in the little contact bubble floating on the screen.

  The unexpected text sends my blood pressure skyrocketing, giving me an instant headache.

  All thoughts of Jean vanish, consumed by fear and anxiety, excitement and more anxiety.

  I never even felt the phone vibrate.

  What could he want?

  My entire body hums like a live wire, my pulse pounding so hard my vision brightens and fades along with it.

  I touch the bubble, and his text fills the screen.

  Julie?

  Yeah…

  It’s me. How are you?

  I know who it is. I’m fi
ne.

  It’s been a while. I miss you.

  I want to say so many things. Yeah, it has. I miss you too. Where the hell have you been? Go fuck yourself. Instead, I say:

  What do you want?

  There’s a long pause, and I just sit there, like a lovesick fool, the time on the clock no longer a concern, as I await his reply. When it finally comes, it’s a wonder I don’t fall over in a dead faint.

  I want…

  You to come outside…

  And kiss me.

  The end

  …for now.

  Dear Readers,

  THANK YOU! Thank you for reading Papi. I hope you enjoyed every word of it. This story was never meant to be written. In fact, I said it wouldn’t be, but shit happens.

  They say writing is easy. All you have to do is sit down and bleed. Well, that’s exactly what I did with this story. As you know from the title, Papi is based on a true story. It’s filled with my heart and soul and built from my very own blood, sweat, and tears. And while names and places and some of the details have been changed—I’ll let you guess which ones ;) –I’ve stuck pretty close to the facts.

  A lot has happened in my life over the last several months, some of which I’ve shared with you on social media.

  Some of it has been good. Some of it has been bad. All of it has been life-altering. And I still have a long way to go before I see where all of it leads me.

  Papi is the most recent chapter in my journey. It happened. I regret nothing. And it holds a special place in my heart. I hope it now holds one in yours too.

  For more novels by J.C. Valentine, visit AMAZON!

  Looking for more thrilling and romantic interludes?

  Read on for an excerpt from THE AFFAIR!

  THE AFFAIR

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  J.C. VALENTINE

  While the husband is away, the wife will play…

  Bradley is a good man. He’s loyal and loving and a great husband and father. But the spice is gone from our marriage. It’s time to liven things up a bit.

  I’m done being good. Done following the rules. I’ve spent half my life playing wife, mother, chauffeur, and maid. Now, it’s time to play the vixen. It’s time to reclaim the woman I used to be—the woman I was always meant to be. It’s time to shake things up.

  ONE

  I’ve never done anything like this before. Me, a married woman with kids, sitting alone in a hotel bar drinking cheap, bubbly champagne from a fluted glass.

  The last time I had champagne was at my wedding twelve years ago. I was younger then, able to stay up past midnight without looking like something death ran over. I had a better body then, too. No stretch marks. Tight stomach. Twenty pounds lighter. My boobs were fantastic, too, defying the laws of gravity. Certainly no need for the uncomfortable underwire pushup from Victoria’s Secret to make them look good.

  But I digress.

  I’ve never deliberately sat in a bar waiting for someone to notice me. A nice someone. Someone with dark, kind eyes that hold an edge of danger. Someone that lights that fire in my belly from just a look, the barest touch.

  After popping out two kids and spending the last seven and a half years running endless errands and performing maid duties in exchange for a weekly romance novel stipend and the occasional functional haircut when time allows, I’ve missed that feeling. You know the one—excitement, flare, burning desire. I’m at the point in my life where I need to reclaim a part of myself. That part that needs to be reminded she’s still a woman. A woman with needs. With desires. With dreams and passions and a zest for life.

  That’s why I’m here tonight. While my children play gin rummy and eat far too many sweets with my in-laws, I’m on a mission to rediscover the vibrant, sexy, confident woman I used to be.

  Gone are the pajama pants and loose fitting tops. Gone are the haphazard buns and pasty, freckled skin. It’s all been replaced. My mask of carefully applied makeup, artfully designed hair done up in a modern Fifties-Era style, costume jewelry, and shaper wear under a body-hugging little black dress are all in place and ready to kill.

  My wedding ring—a plain gold band—catches the light as I lift the glass to my lips. Bradley is a good man, a great husband, and an even better father. But we’ve lost that spark, the one that first drew us together back when we were barely adults, fresh out of high school.

  He was in a band then. Super sexy with his long, shaggy hair and a deep, gravelly voice that turned my brain to mush and my insides into an inferno. We were electric together. Then life and responsibilities happened and...well...here I am.

  It took a lot of pep talks to get me here. A lot of planning, too. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen on a whim. Not when you have a family to care for. But it’s been a long time coming, and even though I’m feeling the single glass of champagne, and I know I’m going to pay for the lack of sleep for days to come, it’s worth it. Tonight is as much for me as it is for Bradley. This is going to be the catalyst our marriage needs to jump-start it back in the right direction, to be rejuvenated.

  Tonight, I’m free to be whoever the hell I want to be.

  Continue reading! Pick up THE AFFAIR here!

  Looking for a sexy, intense, romantic comedy? Check out more of the Blue Collar series with SWEETEST TEMPTATIONS (Blue Collar Book 1)

  From USA Today Bestselling Author J.C. Valentine comes a sizzling story about a young entrepreneur, a hot firefighter, and a first date that will change their paths forever.

  Tenacious bakery shop owner Abby is following her dreams. She has everything she could ever want in life--except the fairytale ending. Then she meets Kennedy, a hunky firefighter whose killer smile and easy charm makes her heart pound. But with the kind of danger he faces on the job each day, Abby knows there's no happily-ever-after in the cards. The harder she tries to hold onto her heart, the faster it seems to slip away, but when a series of mysterious events threaten the future of her business and her life, their happiness may be shorter-lived than she realized.

  Someone is out to get her, and it's up to Abby and Kennedy to uncover who's behind the destruction. Can they do it before tragedy strikes?

  GET YOUR COPY HERE!

  Read on for the first chapter from SWEETEST TEMPTATIONS!

  1

  I heard Demetrius and Meaghan’s voice first, signaling it was time to get up. Groaning, I rolled onto my side, peeled my eyes open, and flinched as morning sunlight blinded me and a hundred—no, a thousand—tiny men drove axes into my skull.

  Once again, I’d given myself a hangover.

  A chocolate hangover.

  It was all Dex’s fault. He’d gone to Hershey Town on vacation over the weekend and, knowing how much I loved my sweets, he’d brought me back a trunkful of decadence.

  That devilish bastard. I would kiss him if I didn’t think I might throw up in his mouth.

  Slapping my hand over the alarm clock, I relished the few moments of silence I had left before my day got crazy.

  My business—my baby, my pride and joy—would be celebrating its grand opening today, and I needed to be there bright and early to get everything ready. This was going to be big. Huge. Epic. I was a business owner. A newb. A…well, I guess you could say I was a virgin.

  How many times did a person get to claim that title in their lives? At nine o’clock sharp, I was going to pop my own cherry. It had been one hell of a journey to get here, the worst of which involved a bidding war for the building currently housing my new business. That was half the battle. Now, I just had to prove to myself I have what it takes to be an entrepreneur.

  Dragging my sorry ass out of bed, I shuffled across the room to the highboy that had been a fixture in my bedroom since before I could walk, and pulled out the first articles of clothing my fingers came across—purple cotton briefs and a neon pink demi bra.

  I lifted my shoulders in a tired shrug. Who cared? No one but me was going to see what was happening beneath the apron anyway.
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  Slipping into the shower, I cranked the heat up high. A sort of preemptive strike to the sore and stiffening muscles I expected to have by the end of the day. I stayed until the water ran cold, a cool ten minutes later. A whole one minute longer than yesterday. Sharing a water heater with neighbors sucked ass.

  My mood jumping up a notch, I opened the wooden box I kept on the counter where I stored all my hairbrushes, clips, ties, pins, and anything else I needed to feel like a real woman.

  Selecting a brush, I set to work on the mass of auburn tangles that had formed overnight, gritting my teeth on a few stubborn ones. My morning process was this: shower, detangle, style, makeup, dress, and go.

  I didn’t do breakfast. Considering my need to taste every single thing I made—strictly for quality purposes, of course—I needed to save the calories for the shop. After having gone through my routine, I slipped into a sensible pair of walking shoes and tucked my wallet into my back pants’ pocket. Purses are for housewives, of which I am not.

  “Check you later, Wilber.” Wilber, my hairless cat, stretched across the couch cushion he occupied, turned his considerably chubby belly toward the ceiling, and gave me a bored yawn—his silent command for me to vacate the premises.

  Shaking my head, I yanked open the front door and stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Would you like to buy some cookies?”

  I looked down at the fat-faced child covered in freckles peddling her boxes of sin, and narrowed my eyes. “Didn’t I tell you last year not to come around here again?”

  Innocent blue eyes peered up at me, completely unaffected by the chill in my voice. “Mom told me that you were a shoe-in for at least one box.”