Protecting His Baby

by Nikki Chase

  She grinds her teeth softly, then she mumbles, “Love you, too.”

  The corners of my lips tug up into a smile. As usual, she won’t remember saying that in the morning, but I love that she doesn’t stop loving me, even in her sleep.

  And maybe it’s not such a big stretch to believe that my best friend still loves me the way I love him, wherever he is.

  Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed Jacqueline and Gabe’s story.

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  Prologue

  Katie

  What fresh fuckery is this?

  I curse in my head as I stare at the plastic stick, the one with my pee on one end and two positive lines on the little window.

  Shit. What do I do now?

  I never thought this would happen to me—ever.

  I don’t just say that because I’m a medical practitioner instead of a clueless teenager who hasn’t even sat through a sex-ed class.

  I say that because that’s what multiple doctors have told me about the state of my fertility.

  I say that because after going through nursing school and gaining some understanding of what medical test results mean, I agree.

  I mean, I agreed. Past tense.

  Obviously, I was wrong.

  All those doctors were wrong.

  Sometimes, medical science gets things wrong. This is one of those rare times.

  Usually, people know exactly how to react when they hear news about their health that contradicts what the doctors have told them.

  Having worked in a hospital for five years, I’ve seen this scenario a handful of times: doctor makes a grim diagnosis; patient’s family grieves; new test result comes in; turns out the patient’s body has somehow fixed itself; family celebrates.

  But in my case, I don’t know if this is cause for celebration.

  I’ve often wondered, in the past, whether I’d be able to bring myself to get an abortion in case of accidental pregnancy. I never made a choice, though, because I didn’t think it would ever happen anyway.

  It’s ridiculous, but I feel like someone’s playing a trick on me. It’s like there’s an evil genius who sits in the control room of my body—a dark, sinister room with sound-proofing foam all over the walls and dots of flashing red lights all over the machinery. All that infertility stuff was just an experiment he was conducting to see if he could fool modern medicine.

  It’s fun to blame my problems on imaginary creatures, but it’s not helping.

  I need to make a decision about this pregnancy: keep it, or let it go?

  My mind stacks up the pros and cons of my options.

  Obviously, if I keep it, I’ll have to raise it—I mean, him or her—and that would turn my whole life upside down.

  Just yesterday, Martha, the head nurse, was complaining about how everybody was on maternity leave and there was nobody to fill the schedule. I told her she didn’t have to worry about that with me, and she gave me a sad look.

  I wonder if I jinxed myself yesterday. Or maybe, Martha has a secret life: nurse by day, powerful witch by night.

  At least, I know getting a maternity leave shouldn’t be a problem. For all the challenges this pregnancy might bring, money’s not one of them. I happen to have a pretty awesome job that pays me well and comes with a ton of great benefits.

  Time management could be a bigger challenge because I have a busy calendar and barely have enough time to sleep.

  But as I learn from hanging out in the maternity ward, priorities apparently shift after the birth of a child, so things that used to matter to young mothers stop bothering them so much. That means I may not even care about greasy hair or missing out on nights out once the baby comes.

  Jesus. What am I saying, once the baby comes? I mean if.

  I’m not ruling out abortion. Not yet, at least.

  I respect the right of a woman to make her own choices, but I’ve never stopped to consider what I’d do in a situation like that—I mean, situation like this.

  Oh, man. I’m in deep shit, aren’t I? I’m living what some people would consider a hypothetical nightmare scenario.

  But at the same time, it doesn’t feel like a choice at all.

  There’s this knot in my gut that tells me that there’s no other option, that I have to do my best to carry this baby and give him life.

  There’s an alien longing, deep in the pit of my stomach. I long to take part in this human experience; I never thought I’d have the privilege to do it.

  If I let go of this opportunity, I may never get another chance again. I may regret it for the rest of my life.

  Either way, this is a life sentence. I can be a mom for the rest of my life, or never be a mom at all.

  It takes eighteen years for a baby to reach adulthood. But let’s face it, if current employment trends continue, this baby will still be living in my basement when he’s forty.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, I grin at the thought.

  Nah, if he’s anything like me, he’s going to run away at sixteen and dodge all my calls because he’s too busy partying.

  Am I really considering this?

  Am I really choosing to be a mom?

  Can I actually do it?

  Doubt pollutes my mind, dissipating the brief joy that I felt when fantasizing about the child. My child.

  Am I ready?

  My blood runs cold as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I only have nine months to prepare myself, if I choose to continue this pregnancy.

  Well, that’s not accurate, actually.

  Birth happens about forty weeks after conception. I’ve already missed my period twice.

  It took me so long to even buy this test stick because I didn’t think it was even possible for me to get pregnant. That’s also why I only bought one.

  I should probably go back to the drugstore and get a bunch so I can be sure. And I’ll get myself tested at the hospital, as well.

  Since two period cycles are about six to eight weeks, that means, in all likelihood, I have way less than nine months. More like seven or eight. That’s what a doctor would probably tell me, if this turns out to be a real pregnancy.

  But if it’s confirmed, I don’t need a doctor to tell me when exactly it happened because I still remember.

  Oh, I remember.

  It was exactly fifty days ago.

  It was another night of working hard and playing hard for me. I sometimes like to combine the two.

  That particular night, though, I came to a realization that I probably should, that the two should remain separate. Work is work, and play is play.

  But when faced with a man like that, how’s a girl supposed to resist?

  He had such a presence. The moment he spoke to me in his low baritone, I was putty in his hands. Then, he dominated my mind and manipulated my body like he knew me, inside and out.

  He didn’t, though—he doesn’t. And I don’t know him either.

  Still, I can’t forget that man—not for the rest of my life; not even if it turns out I’m not carrying his baby.

  Adam

  Fifty Days Ago

  “How’s your day been?” Mom asks over the phone.

  “Terrible.” I cradle my phone between my ear and shoulder while my fingers continue typing on the computer.

  No matter how busy I get, I always pick up when my mom calls, unless I’m right in the middle of a meeting. I’m all she has, after all.

  Even though we’re no longer poor and desperate, I still worry about her. I don’t want to ignore the wrong phone call and regret it for the rest of my life.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Mom says cheerfully.

  “It’s pretty bad. The legal team let this one document slip through the cracks, and now
a multi-million-dollar deal is at risk.”

  “See? Not that bad at all.”

  “We could potentially lose millions of dollars if this doesn’t get fixed in time.” I love my mom, but she has no idea how cut-throat my world is.

  I’ve worked my ass off to get here, stepping on a few toes along the way. There are people out there who’d deliberately stick their foot out to trip me, too, and I don’t blame them.

  I need to stay at the top of my game if I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.

  “See, you’re looking at this all wrong, honey,” Mom says. “You’re in a position to lose millions of dollars. That’s tremendous. Lots of people don’t ever get to that stage in their entire lives. And you’re already there.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I resist the temptation to cut her off, even though I already know what she’s going to say. I’ve heard it a hundred times before.

  “You’ve already made it, and you’re only twenty-eight,” she says. “Why are you still in such a rush? What is it that you’re chasing after now?”

  “It’s not that simple, Mom.”

  “I know, I know. You’ve told me that before,” she says. “But you should take a step back and look at the bigger picture sometimes. You’ll see just how little the details actually matter.”

  “I know, I know. You’ve told me that before,” I say, imitating her.

  “Smarty-pants.” Mom laughs. “Try to take some time off work, Adam. Your secretary told me you always stay back in the office until late. Sometimes, she even sees you wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

  “Huh. I didn’t think she’d notice. All men’s suits look the same to me.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Mom says. “Promise me you’ll go home at five today.”

  “If you want to have dinner with me, all you have to do is ask, Mom.”

  She laughs. “Sorry, but I have plans.”

  “Plans with a certain gentleman?” I ask.

  She giggles. My mom’s always been a happy, optimistic person, but lately she’s been acting like a giddy schoolgirl. It’s interesting to watch.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say. “Have fun with Mr. Palmer.”

  “Thank you, you cheeky monkey. Go find a date and have fun.” She pauses. “Have you heard about Tinder?”

  Jesus.

  “Yes, Mom. I’ve heard about the most popular hook-up app that’s been around for years.”

  “Just checking,” she says. “Do you already have a Tinder account?”

  “I have to go back to work now, Mom,” I say, sighing. “Talk soon, okay?”

  “Okay. Remember, go home at five. And I’m told you can download this Tinder app and use it for free on your phone.”

  “Yeah. I know”

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise you what? To go home at five or get on Tinder?” I ask.

  “Both,” she says.

  “I’ll go home at five.”

  “Okay. Good enough for me. Promise?”

  “I promise,” I say, feeling like I’m six again.

  “Love you,” she says.

  “Love you, too.”

  “Mr. Wright.” Magda, my secretary, knocks on the door.

  No matter how many times I tell her to just call me Adam, she never does. I’ve given up now; she can call me whatever she wants.

  “Yes, Magda.”

  The door swings open, revealing a woman in her sixties with her dark hair pulled back into a taut, severe ponytail. “Your mother just called to remind you that it’s already five in the afternoon.”

  I glance at my watch. Huh, look at that. I’ve been so busy I haven’t checked the time at all. I guess that’s how I always end up working so late.

  “Thank you, Magda.” I nod at her, then I turn my attention back to my computer screen.

  Halfway through reading an important email, I realize Magda’s still standing in my doorway. I give her a quizzical look.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wright. I was instructed to insist that you go home,” she says. “Before you say anything, I know this is not my place, but you know I won’t lie. God’s always watching, Mr. Wright.

  “If you tell me to leave, I will. But if you stay anyway, and your mother calls me tomorrow to ask, I’ll have to tell her the truth. I can ignore her calls, of course, but then she’d know that I’m avoiding her, and then she’d know the truth.

  “Besides, I really think you should go home. It’s not healthy for you to always be sitting there at your desk. You should go out, meet some friends, maybe even a girlfriend.” Magda smiles an innocent smile that I can’t be angry at.

  Oh, Magda. So sweet and yet so long-winded. What am I going to do with you?

  “Remind me why I hired you again,” I say, rubbing my temple.

  What came over the HR department, that they hired the only secretary in America who won’t lie for her boss?

  But then again, I’ve been keeping her on my staff for four years even though I already know this particular flaw of hers, so I guess it’s my fault, too.

  “Because I’m good at my job.” She smiles. “Now, do you want me to leave you alone?”

  I’ve got to admit, Magda’s the best secretary I’ve ever had—and that’s saying something, considering she also won’t tell callers I’m not in my office when I actually am.

  She just tells them the truth and somehow they accept it without complaints. Her polite and no-nonsense attitude just works on people.

  “No, actually. Could you just wait there for a while? I’ll finish replying to this email, and then I’ll drive you home. How does that sound?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s very nice of you, Mr. Wright, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “You’re not taking the bus tonight,” I insist. “Not with the way it’s raining outside.”

  Magda looks past my shoulder, beyond the wall of glass panels behind me. Normally, I can see the city skyline clearly. Right now, the sky’s angry and dark as it pelts fat bullets of rain on the building.

  “Let me drive you home,” I repeat.

  “Okay, Mr. Wright, if you insist. Thank you very much.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wright,” Magda says for the forty-seventh time before she nods and opens the passenger door.

  I briefly hear the sound of rain pounding the ground until Magda shuts the door again. I give her a quick wave and drive away.

  As my car glides down city streets, my mind wanders to my work.

  I was planning on finalizing the material for next week’s presentation tonight, but that’ll have to wait until tomorrow now, unless I download the files from the cloud and continue working on it on my laptop at home.

  But Jesus, I’m not some teenager sneaking around doing something illicit behind my mom’s back.

  I’m an adult, and I’m well aware that I’ve been working too much. And when I’m not working, I’m thinking about working. I don’t have to ask a doctor to know that’s not healthy.

  This is a big city and I have money. There has to be something I can do . . .

  Should I go to the . . . Uh, probably not. If I go there, I’ll only be replacing one unhealthy obsession with another one.

  Should I call someone up, maybe?

  I’ve been so busy with work that I don’t have time to maintain real friendships. I meet people at work, of course, but that’s just business. I only see those people because I have to. They’re completely replaceable.

  Except maybe Magda. I don’t know. She’s grown on me.

  An armchair psychologist would probably say it’s because I spent most of my childhood with my mom, so now having a mother figure at work comforts me, but that’s not it. It’s probably just because she’s the person I see the most.

  Obviously, with my schedule, I also don’t have time for a relationship either. I know some people make it work, but it just seems like more hassle than it’s worth.

  Sometimes, though, I visit this club—I used to, anyway.
It’s called The Succubus.

  Supposedly, it’s a place of dark pleasures where lust reigns and demons suck your soul. In reality, it’s a kinky sex club. But seriously, I always feel empty when I leave that place. Maybe there are demons there, after all.

  Ever since my first visit, The Succubus has been the only thing that could pique my interest.

  I’m not trying to brag, but I have women throwing themselves at me if I so much as step out of my office to get lunch. At the same time, I’ve been having an embarrassingly long dry spell.

  Nice, normal girls just don’t interest me. I’ve tasted something darker, and now vanilla doesn’t do it anymore.

  I haven’t visited The Succubus in a long time because I was worried about it changing me.

  But it’s been a long time—more than a year. Surely, the fact that I’ve managed to stay away for so long means that I’ve got this under control.

  As I turn into the dark, quiet parking lot, I wonder if I’m just making up shit excuses to indulge in an unhealthy habit.

  Because regardless of the morality of it, or the healthiness of it, I’m already here, in the industrial area where the warehouse that houses The Succubus is located.

  Katie

  What have you gotten yourself into this time? I ask myself.

  I gulp down my anxiety.

  I’m not a country bumpkin by anyone’s standards. I’m a city girl, through and through. I’ve seen it all, and I’ve done it all.

  Or so I thought.

  As the bouncer unhooks the red rope to let us in, I realize I didn’t know anything.

  I’ve done all kinds of waitressing jobs before and I even wore lingerie for some of them, so I thought this was going to be, more or less, the same.

  I mean, maybe I was naïve, but Monica did call it waitressing. I don’t know how accurate that is, though.

  The lobby of the restricted, members-only club is narrow. It’s dark, except for a display area where three girls kneel, wearing nothing but gold, shiny body paint.