Saving Her Harem

by Alexis Adaire

“Which one of us…” Zilla can’t seem to finish his question. Suddenly the room is eerily quiet.

  “All of you.”

  We must look confused by that response, because Kelsey immediately elaborates.

  “It happened the night of our little party in the King’s Bed. And every one of you came inside me that night.”

  “Aren’t you on the pill?” Jason asks.

  “I was, so this was as shocking for me as it is for you. I might have missed a day, and I’ve since learned that alcohol can reduce the pill’s effectiveness, and… I honestly don’t know, guys. It just happened.”

  She grins, then adds, “And it could be because you guys really filled me up that night.”

  We all get a laugh out of that one, except Brandon, who looks petrified. The poor kid.

  “So what happens?” he asks. “When do we find out who the actual father is?”

  The room goes quiet again as everyone looks at Kelsey for an answer.

  I’m the one who speaks up, though.

  “We don’t.”

  Now they turn to me.

  “We’re all the father,” I say. “We decided this is one relationship, so we’re going to be one family. Our child can decide in due time if the father’s identity is important. Until then, no paternity tests. Every one of us is the father.”

  I see tears forming in Kelsey’s eyes and I hold her tightly. Everyone joins in a gigantic group hug. After a minute and more than a few sniffles, Nick jokes, “Careful, mates, this is how it all got started.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner,” Kelsey says. “I want this baby more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and I was afraid you might… well, you know.”

  “Bollocks!” Zilla says. “This was meant to be. You don’t question something like this.”

  We all agree. Kelsey turns to the youngest of the five fathers. “Brandon, how do you feel? Your life has changed so much in just a few months.”

  I can see that he’s scared, but he tries to hide it behind a lopsided smile. “I’m part of this family, and if you’re willing to have our baby, I’ll do my part in raising that child. Are we going to know the sex before?”

  “No!” everyone else says at once, and the room erupts in laughter.

  * * *

  That night, Jason alters his usual introduction to Little Miracle. Crossing the stage with microphone in hand, he drapes his arm around me, a huge grin on his face.

  “Here’s a song that took on a whole new meaning for us a few hours ago.”

  We both look over at Kelsey, in her usual spot off-stage near my guitar technician, and it’s quite possibly the most beautiful sight I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  I’ve always laughed at the cliché before, but now I totally understand it.

  Kelsey is positively glowing.

  Epilogue

  Nick and I walk down East 64th Street with Lennon between us, holding our hands. You’d think all three of us would be nervous, but nope. Not Lennon. He’s a fearless little guy, the result of being raised by five famously crazy men.

  Lennon Apollo Lambert turned four over the summer in London and is attending his very first day of preschool at the posh Bristol Academy on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. It’s a five-block walk from our penthouse condo, and Nick won the rock-paper-scissors tournament to see who got to accompany us today. All of Lennon’s fathers wanted to come along, but we knew that would attract unwanted attention, so we decided each of them will get a day of the week to walk him to and from school with me.

  The very idea that a freaking preschool costs over thirty grand a year in tuition is mind-boggling, and if Ian hadn’t secretly offered to double that, we’d still be on the long waiting list. This despite our family decision that autumns are spent in New York and springs in Paris, so Lennon will only be attending Bristol half a year.

  Of course, money is never a problem for us, but it still knocks me for a loop sometimes how much of it we have. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined being this wealthy.

  Even more astounding is that we’ve somehow managed to make this whole bizarre situation work. All of us are in our early thirties now, except for Brandon, who turns twenty-six in November. Sure, we’ve had our little spats, but we always eventually talk things through and any ill feelings evaporate quickly.

  It was utter turmoil for a while when the press got wind of our arrangement. I hadn’t needed to put out a single major fire since I became Harem’s official Public Relations Director until then, but my years of experience in my old career handling those kinds of situations helped us navigate the scandal.

  It’s still alarming to see my own face in the tabloids from time to time, but I’ll just have to get used to that. Regardless of what they say, I never had sex with Prince Harry, although Jason and I did have tea with him once.

  Despite all that nonsense, the six of us are still happily married.

  Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that part. We searched all over the globe for a country that would allow all five of them to marry me, then we finally gave up and just had our own secret ceremony, just after Lennon’s first birthday.

  The whole event was surreal, from the two dozen or so celebrities who came, to my poor stunned parents, who had barely gotten used to the idea that their year-old grandson had five rock-star fathers. The icing on the cake, of course, was Mick Jagger agreeing to officiate the ceremony.

  And that honeymoon... damn. Returning to Fiji was a brilliant idea. Three years later, I still smile every time I think about it.

  The three of us arrive at The Bristol Academy, and I give Lennon a big hug and remind him to behave and mind his manners. I stand up before he can see the tears in my eyes, then Nick bends over and looks him in the face.

  “Rock on, my little dude,” he says as they exchange a fist bump.

  As Lennon is being led away, he turns around and grins, raising his fist in a little “devil horns” symbol.

  Nick laughs out loud.

  “Just like his dads,” I say.

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  No, it’s a very good thing. I love all my men so much that I can’t imagine ever living without any one of them.

  They’ve done a spectacular job of helping me raise Lennon, better than I could have even imagined.

  Nick and I take the long way through Central Park on the way home. The leaves are still a couple of months away from changing colors, but I love the park in any season. We stop for a hot dog, then head back home.

  He puts his key in the slot in the elevator that allows us to push the “P” button for penthouse. We have the top two floors to ourselves. When the doors open, we step directly into the foyer and I hear voices from the nearby living room.

  The rest of the men are all huddled together in the middle of the room. When they hear us, Jason turns excitedly in our direction.

  Without even asking how things went at the preschool, he says, “Kelsey! Nick! Get over here!”

  We approach and the circle parts. I see Zilla, shirtless, with the baby cradled in both arms, holding her to his chest. Seeing such a giant man with such a tiny child is beyond adorable and always warms my heart.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Watch,” Jason says, then he opens his mouth and starts to sing softly.

  A smile quickly forms on Diva’s adorable nine-month-old face. Her eyes are big as she watches him intently.

  Then my own little miracle opens her mouth and out comes a sound. She’s unmistakably mimicking Jason.

  “Oh my God,” Nick says.

  I can’t even manage that much.

  My eyes tear up instantly as I watch.

  Like her five amazing dads, Diva Grace Lambert might just have a future in the music business.

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  CHAPTER 1

  I first see him while I’m getting water for the coffee.

&n
bsp; My kitchen window is on the side of the house that abuts Daniel and Heather’s place. It’s nine in the morning and I’m standing at the sink, filling the carafe to make my morning coffee. I hear a noise outside and look up to see a man on my neighbors’ roof. Only then do I remember her saying something about getting their roof replaced. The roofer is removing the old shingles and tossing them down onto the side lawn.

  Heather had told me the roofer they hired was “a hot young guy with an amazing body.”

  I can’t really see his face.

  That body, though.

  Oh, my.

  Heather was not exaggerating one bit.

  The first thing I notice are the legs. He’s got deep tan, muscular calves and thighs, and those muscles move visibly under his skin as he fights gravity to hold his spot up there.

  He looks tall. Taller than my ex’s five-eight, that’s for sure. He’s wearing gym shorts and tan ankle-high work boots. A loose T-shirt with the sleeves cut out leaves his big, bronzed biceps on full display. His blondish-brown hair is thick, but not curly, and he’s got a full beard.

  It’s impossible to resist standing here and staring as he moves around, his butt often pointed right in my direction. I can’t remember the last time I was able to ogle a man’s body so blatantly without him knowing, and it’s quite a thrill. In fact, I’m so busy staring at those legs that when he turns toward me, it takes me a second to duck out of the way.

  I’m not sure why I don’t want the roofer to see me. Is it because I was gawking at him, or because I look like a slob in my Florida State T-shirt and yoga pants? Both, probably.

  Staying away from the window, I finish making coffee and take my mug to the den. Still thinking about those bronzed legs, I realize I’m feeling anxious. It takes a few minutes to recognize that what seems like anxiety is in reality a little surge of sexual excitement, because it’s been so long since I’ve experienced that.

  For the rest of the morning, I work on my almond pistachio biscotti recipe. I make four small batches, each with varying amounts of almonds, pistachios, and anisette. Every time I pass the window, which is very often, I sneak a peek. After the first few glimpses of the roofer, he vanishes. I can still hear his noise, so he’s apparently moved on to a different part of the roof.

  I’m so caught up in the illicit excitement of spying on the roofer that I completely forget my noon Zumba class. I happen to remember when I glance at the clock just before removing the last batch of biscotti from the oven. I scramble to get into my workout clothes, then dash out of the house.

  As I back my car out of the drive, something catches my attention to my left and I look to see him—the roofer—in Heather’s yard, just thirty feet away. He’s wearing tan leather gloves, holding a slate shingle in his hand as he looks right at me. His handsome face and his pale blue eyes catch me off-guard and make me feel like I’ve done something I shouldn’t have. And that beard is so damned sexy.

  More importantly, he’s shirtless, sweat glistening on his lithe, perfectly toned body in the blazing sun. His broad chest is a marvel, and those carved abs belong in an underwear ad. It’s a stunning sight, and I pull my eyes away just in time to see the back of my car clip my recycling bin and knock it over.

  I brake and start to get out, but I see the roofer still looking, and I know I’m running late, so instead I just back around the fallen bin into the cul-de-sac. Thank God they’ve already picked up the recycling, or I would have no choice but to get out and clean up my mess.

  As I put the car in drive, I glance up to see him still looking, this time with a smile on his face. With my attention taken by that smile, I have to swerve at the last second to running into avoid a beat-up orange pickup truck parked by the curb in front of Heather’s.

  I drive away with the absurd sense that this man knows I’ve been staring at him all morning. Since he’s probably closer in age to my nineteen-year-old son than to me, it feels like I’ve done something that’s borderline pervy.

  * * *

  “Two more margaritas?”

  “No, I think we—”

  “Yes, two more,” Heather overrides me, addressing the waiter while looking directly at me.

  Two drinks is my usual limit, especially at mid-afternoon. My next-door neighbor and I are at Revolución, the popular bayside Mexican spot.

  I ran into Heather at the gym this morning, as I was wrapping up my Zumba class and she had just finished some form of torture called Extreme Cardio Insanity. She was wringing wet with sweat, but still looked amazing, courtesy of her size-two body. Of course, she’s a few years younger than I am and hasn’t given birth twice, plus she’s got those breasts, perfectly constructed by a skilled surgeon in South Beach.

  Heather insisted I join her for a drink, so we cleaned up and are now sitting in the early May sunshine in Revolución’s outdoor dining area. The patio here is the quintessential northern Florida setting.

  “This is the last one,” I say, defiantly eating another tortilla chip.

  “We’ll see. You don’t get out enough, Dawn, so it’s my job to make sure you have some fun once in a while.” That smile and short hair are so cute, I want to hate Heather, but I can’t. Although she and her husband, Daniel, remained friendly with my ex, they’ve both been very supportive of me since the divorce.

  “When is the end of Cody’s quarter?” she asks.

  My son has just started college and is only eight years younger than Heather. Consequently, he can’t keep his eyes off her when he sees her parading around her pool in that too-small bikini.

  “June eighth.”

  “What are his plans?”

  “He’s already received an offer of a three-month internship from Masley and Stein. He’s going to stay in Tallahassee over the summer.”

  Heather quickly changes the subject. “Anything new with Pete?”

  It bugs me how she always asks about my ex, but I suppose it’s understandable, since the four of us used to be good friends.

  “Same old shit. The only time I hear from him is when he calls to say he’s stopping by to take the boat. I tell him not to knock, just to use the side gate to get to the dock. And he usually brings some hot young thing with him.”

  Heather looks away. “That’s got to be tough.”

  “Honestly? I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m so over it.”

  “Are you dating yet?”

  I sigh, since I’ve been waiting for this question since we sat down.

  “Don’t even go there.”

  “Dawn, you can’t wait forever. How long has it been since the divorce, a year? Year and a half?”

  “Longer,” I correct her. “More than two years.”

  “Oh my god, how do you do it? I couldn’t last a week without sex.”

  “You could if you didn’t trust men.”

  Heather shoots me a look of disapproval. “You need to make an effort. Get on Match.com or go to one of those speed-dating events. If nothing else, just go to a bar and find someone to have a one-nighter with.”

  “I will when I’m ready,” I say. “I’m just not there yet. And I don’t do one-night stands.”

  It’s not a lie. I’ve never had a one-night stand, but what Heather doesn’t know is that Pete is the only man I’ve ever slept with. We met our freshman year in college, I gave him my virginity, and two months later he stole my future by getting me pregnant. “Condoms ruin the sensation,” he said. Well, it turns out that babies also put a damper on your sex life. Basically, in my entire life I’ve had two months of pretty good sex.

  Thankfully, Heather drops the subject. We pay the check and head out to our cars.

  She hugs me goodbye, then says, “By the way, did you check out my roofer yet?”

  “I only saw one guy. Is he doing the entire thing himself?”

  “Yeah, so it might take three or four days. He’s really good, though. Plus, he has the body of a god.”

  “You’re not supposed to hire repairmen for their looks, Hea
ther.”

  “Daniel hired him because he’s less expensive. But I get to drool over him. Tell me you don’t think he’s crazy hot.”

  “I admit it,” I say. “His body is amazing. And that beard.”

  “I know, I love the beard, too! Hey, you should have a fling with him. Oh my god, it’s perfect. Hell, I would throw him on my bed in a minute if I weren’t married.”

  I frown at her, because in the back of my mind I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll somehow know that I’ve been watching this man.

  The worst part about her suggestion is that as soon as it leaves her lips and reaches my ears, I know I won’t be able to stop wondering what it would be like if I actually did have a fling with the roofer.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  Pamela spots it the moment I make myself comfortable on her couch.

  “Did something happen? You look stressed.”

  In her mid-fifties, Pamela has graying curly hair, kept short and professional. She’s old enough so that I listen to her advice and trust her to know what’s best for me, or at least to help me figure it out myself. I’ve always thought the crow’s feet around her eyes make her seem wise.

  I laugh awkwardly, then tell her of my daydreaming about the roofer.

  “Ah. Perfectly understandable that a handsome blue-collar man would rouse you from your sexual slumber,” she says. “I think it could be a sign that it’s finally time for you to get out there again. If not romantically, at least physically.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve been safe in my little cocoon for so long now. The last time I was actively dating was before I met Pete, and that was more than twenty years ago. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Aren’t there any single men you already know whom you would consider attractive?”

  My brain immediately serves up an image of the roofer as I looked at him from my car. Those blue eyes, the amazing body, that sheen of glistening sweat produced by his labor.

  “Does the question embarrass you?” Pamela asks.