Rock Hard Baby Daddy: A Billionaire Cowboy Romance

by Rye Hart

  You might be asking yourself, “What kind of woman gets turned on by a coin collection? Or a collector?” Well, silly me, that’s who. But before you relegate me to the pathetic bin of women who don’t aspire to enough, just know that Owen was my first real relationship. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. And coins weren’t really what did it for me. I actually fell for his inner nerd. I don’t want to be too harsh on him, since I was the girl that chose him in the first place. He shouldn’t take all the blame.

  That’s not actually true.

  In my calmer moments I keep forgetting that Owen cheated on me. The problem is, really, that I’m not good at being harsh on people. My best friend Lacey, on the other hand, is a different story. When you ran afoul of Lacey you placed yourself in the path of a pitiless kamikaze, which would have terrified a legion of Spartans. A good person to have on your side.

  I met her downtown at a hotel bar called The Morocco. I don’t know what it has to do with Morocco except that the waiters have to wear those curved knives on their belts like they were sultans or sheiks. Okay, full disclosure before returning to Owen’s nerdiness and shortcomings: I am a history buff. Well, buff doesn’t really do it justice. All I ever want to do is read about history and take myself back in time. Lacey says this is because I “can’t tolerate the present.” Maybe she’s right.

  When I get there Lacey is already a couple of minutes (and probably a couple of drinks) into a conversation with a hunky Maître D.

  Knowing her, she will have him in her bed as soon as we end our gift exchange or whatever this is going to be. I’m not always jealous of her lifestyle, but a part of me honestly envies her confidence.

  As soon as she sees me she sends him away. He scurries into the corner like he has been waiting for her command his entire life.

  “Sam!” she says, jumping to her feet. Her dress has so many sparkles on it that it’s like seeing a sequenced hourglass rush towards me. I needed the hug more than ever. Stupid Owen.

  “That stupid piece of garbage,” says Lacey as soon as we sit down. “He has no idea what I’m going to do to him. Oh, but he will.” She tightens her grip on her glass and her knuckles turn white.

  “Maybe, let’s not go there yet,” I say, trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Let’s talk about my infinitely lame stories at the tabloid. I’ve got to do something to land a real gig, or I’ll claw my own eyes out from boredom.”

  Lacey clears her throat and taps the oak bar with one long-nailed finger. As if she has turned on a switch in his brain, he comes over and smiles at her with a dopey look on his face like he just drank too much cough syrup.

  “This fine lady is going to have as many of whatever she wants on me,” says Lacey. “And if you hurry, there will be a gargantuan tip in it for you. Go. Show me how fast you can move.”

  It’s like she has waved a checkered flag. He races away and then returns, putting a whiskey sour in my hand so fast that I barely even remembered ordering it. While I sip at it, Lacey reaches into her purse and takes out a package that looks like it has been wrapped by a pro from Saks Fifth.

  I see myself in the bar mirror. I look good. Tall, nearly 5’10.” Gorgeous auburn, thick hair that goes almost to my waist. Smooth, clear skin. Green eyes.

  Stupid Owen.

  “Oh my God I can’t wait for you to open it!” says Lacey. To prove it, she starts tearing at the bow herself. I wrench it away.

  “This is my cheering up present,” I say. “And as thoughtful as it is, maybe you should let me open it.”

  “Okay, just hurry. I’ll sit here and think about how to get back at Owen. You’re better off, believe me.”

  Actually, I already do feel that way.

  Owen cheated on me. That’s how it ended. And we’re all better off without cheaters, right? The fact that I had been so bored with him seemed like it should have mitigated the blow, but there’s really just no easy way to be utterly rejected, even if it’s by someone who thinks finding a Buffalo Eagle coin from the nineteenth century is like winning the lottery.

  Owen’s actions said … I don’t want you.

  You’re not enough for me.

  I’m better off without you.

  You’re not as good as she is.

  She’s better in bed than you are.

  Okay, so that last one was in my head, mostly.

  “Once you told me that he couldn’t get you off I started praying for him to cheat on you,” says Lacey, ordering herself another drink.

  I get the bow off and start tearing the corner of the wrapping paper. “Guess that’s proof that God exists.”

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you who I was praying to,” says Lacey. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  The first time Owen and I had sex—and the second, third, or the hundredth, for that matter—I thought to myself: Is this it? Can that really be what all the romance novels are about? What caused the Peloponnesian War and the siege of Troy? This is why Romeo and Juliet died? This is why Lacey is always glowing and looking for her next conquest?

  The easiest answer was to blame myself. I was probably the one doing something wrong. Owen had always seemed to be enjoying himself. During, I mean. But he enjoyed sex the same way he enjoyed coins and ramen noodles: with gravitas and decorum. Not exactly the stuff to set anyone’s bed and panties ablaze.

  “It’s high time you get some satisfaction,” says Lacey.

  “Oh, what’s the occasion?” says the bartender, coming over to watch the festivities. The Maître D appears at his side just in time for me to remove the lid from the box.

  Inside is a vibrator which looks like it’s about the size of a Nerf football.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” says Lacey, pulling it out of the box and pointing at my face. “Owen who? That’s what you’ll be saying. Tell her, boys!” She waves the vibrator at the two guys who are now receding into the background, vanquished by the suggestion that their anatomy is now superfluous to our conversation. “This is what you need to be writing about. Owen 2.0 right here. You’re bored with all the local gigs? Take this bad boy for a spin and you’ll burn the damn front page down.”

  “Oh my God.” I grab it away from her, stuff it back into the box, and put the lid on. In my haste I manage to knock the box off my lap. When it hits the floor the vibrator spills out at the feet of an elderly couple who has just arrived.

  “Good for you, dear,” says the woman of the pair. “Variety keeps everything revving.”

  Lacey gives her a high five while I drop to my knees and quickly snatch up the colossal vibrator to hide Owen 2.0 back into his box.

  “But I have to warn you” says Lacey, “You’ve got to beware of its powers. It’s not going to be a substitute for a real man forever. But it’s more than a match for all these weenies who would rather flip a coin than give it to you the way you deserve.”

  The thought of coins make me gulp down another drink. I don’t want to think about Owen at all. Lacey’s definitely right about one thing, though: I’m bored with my journalism job and would do just about anything to escape the local beat for a while. Maybe Owen 2.0 is just the ticket.

  As soon as Lacey leaves (the Maître D in tow), I go home with my consolation prize - determined to treat myself to a night of…well, I guess I would just have to find out.

  ***

  After my meeting with Lacey, I go home and fire up Owen 2.0. Once I get over the whirring noise—the contraption sounds like it’s about to take off from a launch pad—and as I dial it down to its lowest, least-intimidating setting, I’m able to induce something like pleasure in myself. But Owen keeps intruding on my fantasies. This is one of the problems with being so inexperienced: I don’t have a wealth of mental material to draw from when it comes to pleasuring myself, and I’m not that good at inserting men I have never been with into the scene. The Maître D, for instance, or anyone from True Blood.

  Later that night, I have weird dreams. Owen is chasing me around, begging me to tak
e him back and begging me to look at his latest coin, something from Prague. When I wake up, I feel extremely hung over.

  I glance at my bedroom clock and gasp. I only have an hour before I have to be to work. Given the commute—two trains and three blocks on foot—it’s going to be a hell of a sprint. I jump in the shower and jump back out before my hair can even start to get wet. I get into my clothes so fast that it’s like I’m doing it to win money during a challenge on a game show. Breakfast isn’t the most pitiful it’s ever been—which was once a handful of croutons and pickle chips—but neither is it sumptuous. It’s a dry bagel that I chomp through on the elevator down to ground level, leaving brittle flakes and crumbs in my wake. Oh well, I pay a ton and my place sucks, so they can clean up after me.

  I manage to make it into the meeting room two minutes late. I’m one of the only ones there, which means either everyone else is late or I made a mistake and there’s no meeting today. Turns out it’s the latter.

  My boss, Trinity, looks up and says, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sam here to…wait, what exactly are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be covering the firehouse thingy? No, scratch that - that was someone else. Let’s talk. Readers are complaining that we’re not entertaining enough and drying out. Let’s come up with new ideas, and I don’t want to hear about anything you’re already working on.”

  This dizzying display of confusion and managerial expertise at an end, I sit and put my purse down.

  “So how’s it going?” says Trinity. “I can tell you’re bored so don’t bother lying to me. I just want to know what’s boring you.” She picks up a pen and starts chewing the cap while locking her eyes onto mine.

  “Well, as long as we’re being frank,” I say, trying to come up with something to say. “I guess I’m bored by…everything?” I hate the rising note at the end of my sentence. I used to be driven, like all youth. Jesus, listen to me, I’m only twenty-five and I make it sound like I’m just counting the days until my retirement. But it was true. “Yeah, basically everything.”

  Trinity puts the well-chewed pen down and crosses her arms. “So what’s going to make it better? You’re one of the best writers we’ve got, but it’s clear we’re not challenging you enough, or using your assets as best we can.”

  Trinity continues to chewing the pen cap before she finally raises her head.

  “So I’ve got some good news for you, cub reporter of mine. It just so happens that there’s a job, far off the local beat, that nobody else wants to do.”

  “Oh, this sounds wonderful. Please tell me everything,” responding in a cynical tone. Was this what it had come to? She offers me a job that no one else wants?

  “Don’t say it like that. This is good stuff. It won’t win you a Pulitzer, but let’s face it, that’s not really what we do here.”

  She’s right. Our tabloid, The Inner Eye, is just a notch above The National Inquirer and about ninety rungs down from everything else. We write for people who think that David Icke’s lizard people sound outlandish and too stupid to even discuss, but who clamor about news of Bigfoot and the Illuminati. Pulitzers are most definitely not in our foreseeable future.

  “It’s in Washington,” she said.

  “Oh! Is it a political story? Why wouldn’t anyone want that?”

  “Because it’s not a political story and it’s not Washington D.C. No, I’m afraid I speak of good old Washington state, the northernmost part that’s still habitable.”

  “North of Washington is Canada and it’s almost all habitable. It’s not like the world stops at the top of Washington.”

  “See, this is why it should be you! You already know half this shit.”

  “I don’t even know what shit we’re talking about. I just know where Washington and Canada are.”

  “I like you. I always have.” Trinity picks up the pen again, but doesn’t chew it this time. She scratches something down on a notepad. “There’s only one problem.”

  As I see, there are far more problems, one of which is that I still have no idea what she’s talking about. “Which is?”

  “You’re going to have to take Jarom.”

  “Oh God. No.” Jarom is the tabloid’s main photographer. He has an insanely slobbering crush on me, which would be sweet if he wasn’t literally slobbering all the time. Well, maybe ninety percent of the time. Jarom wouldn’t be a bad looking guy if he could figure out how to keep his mouth closed. But when he’s deep in thought a silver ribbon of drool usually finds its way out onto the surface of whatever he is standing or sitting over.

  “He’s our best photographer. When I told him you were taking the assignment he insisted that it be him. Frankly, I think the thought of you out there all alone makes him feel protective. Like he’ll be able to keep you safe. You don’t really want to deprive him of that, do you? Besides, how often does a guy like Jarom get to feel like a man? I mean, come on.”

  “First of all, I absolutely do want to deprive him of that opportunity. Second, I haven’t agreed to take the story on, mainly because I still don’t know what it is. Third, it’s not my job to make him or anyone else feel like a man.”

  “I think he’s got a little crush on you,” said Trinity, and she wiggles her eyebrows. “And if you don’t take this story I’ll totally fire you.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “No. I probably won’t. But I want you to take it, because there’s a problem. The state says they’re going to cut down a bunch of forest so they can build a sanctuary for endangered animals or something. But to do so they’re going to displace a ton of other animals that already use the forest for their sanctuary. Go out there and find me an angle.”

  “Isn’t that already an angle?”

  “Just in case that peters out,” says Trinity, “there’s something else. Something even better, and this is why I was so surprised that none of these babies here wanted to take it.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a rumor that an ex pro MMA fighter is living in the woods out there, and someone finally saw him. I personally think he’s hiding some kind of dark secret. Why else would someone leave a cozy multi-millionaire lifestyle with fans all over and women practically throwing themselves at them?,” says Trinity. “Regularly. We’ve got a contact out there. So I told this guy that I would send our best reporter and photographer out to get a shot of it and write it up. While, of course, doing whatever can be done with the animal sanctuary thingy.” Trinity holds her hands up, framing an imaginary photo between them. “I can just see it. Inner Eye captures ex-fighter!”

  “I’m supposed to go out there and capture a professional fighter?”

  “Ex-professional fighter. But it doesn’t matter. Your job is to go see what’s out there and write something good. I don’t care if you find anything or not. I don’t expect it to get all Blair Witchy out there, but you never know. Sounds like there really are some strange things going on out there.” With that, she opens her desk and pushes an envelope at me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Those are your tickets. I’m going to let you give Jarom the good news.”

  “Wait, you’ve been planning for me to go all along - and you’ve just been giving me the impression that I had a choice?”

  “Afraid so my dear. I knew this was the right job for you and you wouldn’t disappoint.” With that, she picks the pen up, starts chewing on the cap again, and I am dismissed.

  I walk out, a little heated but also a little excited. This would be the most interesting story to hit my desk – and it could make headlines even. Before I let myself get too excited, I go down the hall to Jarom’s office. When he sees me at his window he lights up like a Christmas tree ornament.

  Oh God. I can’t do it.

  I promptly proceed down the hall to my own office and send him the most cursory email in history. “We have an assignment that came up out of nowhere. All I know is that we leave tomorrow. Please see Trinity for details.”

  I move fast
, but I’m not even out of my office when Jarom appears at the door. What kind of name is Jarom, anyway? Sounds Amish, but he doesn’t have a beard. But maybe he can’t grow a beard.

  And he’s a cameraman. I’m pretty certain they don’t use cameras.

  In any event, I am unprepared and annoyed when he bows deeply and says “I have never been so excited for anything.” He stares into the middle distance and I know what’s coming. He disappears within a daydream. Soon his mouth opens and I all but shove him out of my office before he can get anything on the floor.

  ***

  That night I skip drinks with Lacey although she does insist on a recap of my first night with Owen 2.0. I tell her its intensity was matched only by its fury on the Richter scale.

  “I’m not a bit surprised,” she says.

  I hear a murmur in the background under her voice.

  “Is that the maître D?” I say.

  “Ugh. I wish. Different guy. Seemed like he was going to be fun, and he was. Once. Now he can’t leave fast enough. Hey, don’t you give me that look, I told you what this was!” she yells at the man who I only assume is on his way out of her apartment. “So what’s new with you, otherwise?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’m going to be out of town for a couple of weeks.” I give her the rundown.

  “This doesn’t surprise me at all. I was reading my horoscope and I saw a couple of things that didn’t make sense for me, but I was pretty sure they were right for you.”

  “We’re not born under the same sign.”

  “Yeah, I know, but since it’s all bullshit anyway I figured I could do what I wanted with the info. Well, I think it sounds like an adventure. And just to prove it to you, I’m going to come out and visit you in a week. You know what? I bet you’ll find all kinds of lumberjacks out there that you can bang. Oh man, they are so hot right now. Every catalog has some guy with a beard and flannel on the cover right now. They’d look like idiots on the street here, but in real life? Yes please. Yeah, I’m coming to visit you. Don’t think you can keep them all to yourself.”