by L. B. Dunbar
Forget that I run a successful business on my own. Forget that Rachel left me through no fault of mine.
Fathering a child out of wedlock and keeping her a secret for sixteen years—forget the fact I didn’t know she existed—will be icing on the proverbial Billy is a fucktard cake.
“I don’t really know what to say,” I tell Clyde, feeling his eyes on me.
“Whatcha doing?” Clyde nods at the computer screen, but he can see a good selection of the listings. I tilt the screen in his direction. “Paternity tests?” His eyes squint. “Do they sell those in the pregnancy test aisle?”
He’s trying to be funny, but I don’t find any humor in this issue.
“She can’t be mine,” I state.
“Yet you’re googling paternity tests.” Clyde raises one bushy eyebrow at me.
“I don’t know what to do.” My first thought was to deny her existence. She can’t be my kid, like I said. But this growing uncertainty in my chest, like the root of a tree spreading, makes me wonder. What if.
What would I do with her? What does she want with me? Where is Trixie? Why didn’t she tell me?
The last question is the one I’ve been asking myself for the past couple of hours.
“You need an attorney. You have some rights here.”
I blink back at Clyde.
“I don’t know what to do with a kid,” I stammer, and the tree root sensation tightens within me as if clawing at my internal organs, constricting my airway, and squeezing at my heart. I rub at my upper chest as I did earlier in the day when that blasted bookstore owner stood before my desk.
Damn, Roxie is hot when she’s pissed.
Which I should not be thinking, considering everything else going on.
“I don’t think any father knows what to do before he becomes a father. But dads have rights, Billy. You need to know what yours are in this case.” He pauses a moment. “I always thought I’d be a good dad.”
I glance up from the computer screen, which I’d been absently staring at, and watch as Clyde gnaws on the corner of his lip. A strange sense of loss fills Clyde’s eyes, and he quickly looks away from me. I’m not an emotional guy, but we’ve reached a sensitive subject for my bartender friend.
“Want to talk about it?” I tease, hoping to lessen the heaviness in the room. I fold my hands before me on the desk and pose myself as if I’m a knowledgeable psychiatrist.
“Now, you’re just being cruel,” he mocks, but there’s another hint of seriousness in his words.
“Sorry, man. I’m just…I’m still in shock.”
Clyde nods, dismissing my apology. “What are you going to do?”
I tip my head back to the computer screen. “I guess I’m going to purchase a paternity test and take things one step at a time.” Only I don’t even know what those steps should be. The root-clutching sensation returns.
“Well, that’s how babies learn to walk. One step at a time,” Clyde states, sitting taller in his chair and proud of his advice.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I mean, she isn’t exactly a baby. She’s a teenager, and I’m not certain what would be worse—an infant or a female on the edge of womanhood. My eyes close with the second thought.
I fucking snarked at her, telling her she was too young for me. I’m a sick fuck.
Infant, I decide. Definitely an infant would be easier than accepting I need to interact with a teenager, a girl no less, who I should be teaching to avoid men—boys—like me.
“You okay, boss?” Clyde asks as my stomach pitches, and I smooth a hand down my lower belly.
Oh God. She needs to be protected from men like me. She needs to be locked up, not let out of the house, not allowed to date until she’s thirty, and even then…
“Boss?”
Bile rises up my throat as reality hits me.
I have a daughter. And one day, she might encounter a man like me.
“I…”
“Billy?” Clyde stands at the same time as I do as though he expects me to spray him with the vomit nearly to my throat. Instead, I rush to the private bathroom off my office and empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
I can’t be a father. I’d be the worst dad.
+ + +
While I’m no alcoholic, I know all the stages of the twelve-step recovery program. None of those steps fit how I feel, so I’m jumping to a shorter list: the five stages of grief. I’m still in denial but working my way into anger, and it’s in full flare when I cross over Third Avenue to one unneighborly bookstore before her closing time. BookEnds is one of the last places I’d enter if given a choice.
First off, I don’t read. Period. I don’t like books or what they stand for or anything about them. Too many words. Not enough pictures. Plus, I have more exciting things to do with my time than stare at letters on a page.
Second, from the moment BookEnds opened, its owner has been a pain in my ass. Within the first few months of her opening, she called the cops with a noise complaint for an outdoor concert on my property. It’s not my fault she lives above her shop and couldn’t handle a little late-night rebel-rousing music. From the moment I confronted her, we’ve been at each other’s throats, so I make it a mission of mine to stay away from her.
Part of the issue is that Roxie’s one of the few women in town who seems numb to my flirty personality. She doesn’t take my shit, and that pisses me off.
My sister, Mati, is our event’s idea person, as I dub her, and one idea she has for improving business is making peace with the bookstore owner and offering a books and brew night to feature popular books with coordinating beers. It’s a ridiculous idea, but Mati was rather insistent on it until the permit for our annual Oktoberfest was requested, and we’ve hit a setback—again—because of this damn bookstore. But I’m not here tonight about the permit issue.
“So how do we do this?” I demand, swinging open the door and stepping into the dim lit store. There are just so many books in here. I shiver.
“We’re closed,” Roxanne mutters, but with the lights still on and the door unlocked, she’s lying.
I stalk the few feet to the counter where she lingers over a book under her bent arms. This woman. She can feel my glare, I’m certain of it, but she doesn’t look up in my direction.
“Roxie,” I drone.
“William,” she states in that grating tone without glancing up.
Dammit.
“We need to talk.”
“Oh, now you want to speak with me?” She pauses to flip a page of the book under her gaze, still not lifting her eyes. “Well, I’m busy,” she repeats my words from earlier.
“The hell you are,” I snark, repeating hers, and tug the book toward me.
“Hey,” she snaps, reaching over the counter, but I’m holding the book by the cover and dangling it parallel with my shoulder.
“I said, we need to talk,” I growl.
“And I said, I’m busy. You’re hurting that book.” Her arms flail over the counter as if she can reach it while her stomach lays on the flat surface, and I have the strangest thought, wanting to stand behind her in this precarious position and take her. I shake the image from my head along with the book.
“Oh, ow, ow, ow, he says.” I mock the book, flapping the pages as I yank it up and down.
“William Harrington, that’s a limited edition.” Roxanne stands and stomps her feet as she marches around her counter, coming for me. I snap the book shut and slip it into the front of my jeans.
I could have held it over her head and made her reach for it, watched her bounce up and down and jiggle those large tits for me, but I’m not interested in flirting with her, or watching her dance, or any other thing. And I’m confident the last place Roxanne McAllister will ever get is in my pants, so here the book sets, daring her to take it from me.
I’m so childish.
Roxanne freezes, her eyes leaping to my zipper region. “How…I…you…”
“Got you
r attention now, don’t I?” I tease. For that matter, I also have the attention of Grace Eton, a worker in the store, but I don’t bother removing the book from my jeans. Instead, I knock at my zipper with my knuckles, allowing the sound of something firm underneath the denim to resound around us.
“You are such a pig,” Roxanne groans. “I’ll never get that—” She points at my jeans, but we both know what she means. “—off my book.”
“There are worse things than my junk on your book,” I stammer, and we lock eyes on one another. Grace snorts from somewhere to our sides and then disappears behind a shelf of books.
“In my book, your junk is the worst thing,” she mumbles, twisting my words. Then she adds, “Your junk, as you so eloquently called it, will never come anywhere near my book.”
She’s good with all this play on words.
“I wouldn’t want to touch your book,” I snark back, and Roxanne gasps.
“You don’t touch a book, William. You read it. You enjoy it. And this book is closed to you,” she states, circling a finger over her body, “as is my store, so get out.”
I turn to walk away, but two firm hands grip one of my biceps, and she spins me back to face her.
“Not with my book.” She nods down at my zipper and extends her open palm, wiggling her fingers. I’m a little disturbed by how much the motion turns me on, as if she wants to grab my dick, demands I give it to her.
“Come and get your book, Roxie.” I stand, holding out my hands to the sides.
“Just give it to me, William,” Roxanne whines, and my mouth falls open.
Sweet Jesus.
“Ah. Words you only wish you could say to me,” I mutter, and those steely eyes flare, turning to onyx jewels.
“Never,” she hisses. Here’s the thing. She’s right. I’m not certain what I’ve done to her to make her so irritated with me, but she’ll never have a crush on me, and I’ll never touch her unless she begs me. And even then, I’m not so certain.
You’re a liar. A lying liar who lies to himself, Billy Harrington.
We stand at an impasse.
“Look.” I exhale, scrubbing two hands down my face and noting a sudden discomfort at having a book shoved down my jeans, especially since I’ve grown hard with our sparring. I lower my hands for my hips and narrow my eyes at her. “Where’s Trixie?”
Roxanne’s sight has dropped to the front of my pants, but her focus no longer appears to be on what’s inside my jeans. Slowly, her lids close as she clasps her hands together before her. Her fingers clench and unclench before she stills.
“Theresa died six weeks ago.”
Shit. “Shit, Roxie…I’m so sor…” The word fades from my lips as I step forward, lifting a hand for her arm to express my condolences. She flinches back from my anticipated touch before I make actual contact. The movement stings, but I don’t fault her. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost one of my siblings. Us Harrington brothers are close, well, minus James, and even Mati’s treated like a brother by me.
“What happened?” My voice lowers as if I’m speaking to a child, and then I remember there is a child involved, a teenage girl, who recently lost her mother. Sadie. Her name feels strange on my tongue, like a mixture of concern and fear I’ve never felt before.
“Theresa was in an accident. She was hit by a car.”
“Car accident?” I parrot until Roxanne corrects me.
“Motorcycle.”
Motorcycle. Trixie rode a motorcycle? My brother James owns one and belongs to the local MC, Rebel’s Edge. While the idea of looking for adventure and riding down the highway sounds liberating, I’ve heard so many horror stories about bikes getting clipped by cars, and I shudder with the thought of such a horrific death.
“She was wearing a helmet, but she was thrown off the bike. We were told she didn’t suffer.”
Didn’t suffer? Jesus. Then another word stands out.
“We?”
“Sadie and me.” Her eyes drift up to me. “She’s here to live with me.” There’s a hesitation in Roxanne’s voice.
“Is there anyone else? Her husband or what about your parents?” I don’t remember the fine details of the comings and goings in the community. Trixie—Theresa—McAllister was my age, but I didn’t remember her having a younger sister.
“Trixie never married. My mom died when I was fifteen.” Roxanne swallows. “And my dad passed a few years ago.”
“What about other siblings?”
“Sadie’s an only child.” That isn’t what I was asking, and it takes Roxanne a moment to understand. “It was only Theresa and me. She was specific; she wanted Sadie with me.” The fire returns to Roxanne’s eyes, flaming brighter than before.
I nod although I don’t know why.
“But if I’m her father, she belongs with me.” I swallow back the weight of those words while Roxanne spears me with another glare.
“She belongs with me. I’m the only family she has.”
“That might not be true,” I defend. She might be a Harrington. She’d have an aunt and tons of uncles, cousins, and a set of grandparents. My father will be so disappointed, but my mother will be elated.
“Well, I guess we won’t know.” Roxie blinks and then lowers her eyes to her foot, which kicks at nothing on the hardwood floor.
“Why not?”
Her head pops up, and another trace of caution laces her voice. “Did you decide to take a test?”
“I did.” Although I hadn’t until this moment, standing before Roxie in her store, with a book down my pants, and her challenging glare on me.
“She’s suffered a lot of loss, Billy. If it isn’t you…” The use of my name in a soft but serious tone makes my heart stammer. I admit, it sounds like Sadie has lost a lot. Her mother. Her grandparents. Moving here means she left behind her friends and her home.
“What do you mean if it isn’t me? You two are the ones hell-bent on saying I’m the father.” I pause as I exhale in frustration. “I can man up to my responsibilities, Roxie.”
“Don’t act like you’re doing us any favors,” she snarks. “Sadie doesn’t need you.” Her eyes widen with the words, and there’s a hint of untruth to her statement.
“I’m not doing anybody any favors,” I snap.
“Of course not,” Roxanne argues.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” We’re back to square one where all we do is throw jabs. Roxanne sighs and shakes her head again, ignoring my inquiry.
“So you’re taking a test.” There’s still a question in the statement, but I nod in the affirmative. “You’ll need Sadie, I think. You’ll need something from her to match your DNA.”
It’s all so clinical, and suddenly, that sick feeling swells in my belly again. The last thing I need to do is puke in front of Auntie Roxie, though. She’ll be seeing enough specimens from me soon.
5
The prophet doesn’t profess to know everything
[Roxanne]
When Billy hands my book back to me, I take it with the tips of my fingers near the edge of the spine. I don’t want to touch anything that has been near his dick, and Lord knows, there have been plenty of things near it.
His bare ass exposed, him thrusting up into a woman against a brick wall, is burned in my memory, and I try not to recall such things, especially when deep down, in a place I keep locked up tight, I wish it had been me. Just once. Him and me and a wall at my back.
“What is that anyway?” he asks after he passes the book to me. I don’t know why he doesn’t just read the cover for himself.
“The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.”
“The prophet, huh? Because it’s a miracle you got in my pants.” Billy winks at me.
“Well, I wasn’t in your pants,” I snap.
“Not yet.” And with that, he turns on his booted feet and leaves.
He’s so full of himself, I think as I step up to the front door and flip the sign to closed. I’ll never be in his pants because here’s the
thing, he never hits on me. Not in earnest. I’ve watched him flirt and tease and obviously have sex with someone against an exterior wall, but he’s never acted remotely interested in me. He jokes. He pokes. But he does it to get to me, not get me.
Twisting the lock at the door, I recall the sympathy in his eyes when I mentioned Theresa’s death and the determination once he agreed to take a paternity test. I have no doubt in my mind Billy is the father, mainly because Trixie was adamant it was him, but as we later learned, you can’t just add a paternal name to a birth certificate without the father’s admission or DNA proof, of which Theresa had neither.
“He’ll never need to know,” my sister said to me while peering down at the new baby in her arms. “We don’t need him.”
One reason my sister didn’t need Billy is because she had me, ever the helper—generous and easygoing. My sister, on the other hand, was principled, self-controlled, and a perfectionist, which makes the irony of her unplanned pregnancy even sweeter. She thought she could do it all on her own, but that had never been the case. Single motherhood was the opposite of her practical lifestyle, but then again, so was the motorcycle she owned—a sliver of rebel streak remaining from her younger years. She had been confidently outgoing while I was excessively introverted. I liked to read. She liked to socialize. Her extroverted personality kept her always trying to move forward on the corporate ladder without appreciating what was immediately before her. My sister was strong-willed and determined, hard-working and stubborn for a reason. She constantly worried about Sadie and her future.
The right kindergarten. The right elementary school. The right high school all led to the right college. Theresa wanted no risk of Sadie repeating her history. However, I wasn’t convinced all the education in the world could prevent such a thing. In the case of my sister, an unplanned pregnancy was the result of a momentary lapse in judgment and had nothing to do with her smarts.
When Sadie was thirteen, I told my sister about my vision to own my own bookstore. I’d worked for a big chain for years, moving from floor sales to management. I loved being around books, but the large-scale store didn’t provide the intimacy I wanted in a shop, and when the Atlanta location closed its doors, it was a sign to move on.
