by Lane Hart
“Ah,” she looks from me to the other sales associate, who I assume is her boss. “You want to know how much money I make? Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Around fourteen an hour.”
“And how many hours a week do you work?” I ask.
“Thirty or so,” she answers with a shrug.
“I’ll pay you two thousand to come work for me day and night this week,” I offer her.
“Holy shit! Doing what?” she asks. “You play football.”
“Yeah, and in order to play football, I need a babysitter. You seem to know your baby shit, and this lady said they checked you out before they hired you, so… what do you say?”
“Oh my God. Sure, I mean, yeah. That would be awesome!” the young girl exclaims before turning to her boss. “Can I please have a week off?” she begs.
“Well, I suppose…wait, are you that quarterback for the Wildcats?” the lady asks me.
“Ah, yeah. I can get you tickets to our next home game if you want,” I offer.
“Wow, my husband will be so excited,” she says. “Now let’s ring you up.”
As they begin to unload the buggy and start scanning items, I look down at the sleeping baby at my feet and can’t help but wonder if I’m going a little overboard. If Brady’s not mine, then I can always donate the baby items, right?
That reminds me of tomorrow’s to-do list: DNA test, take Brady to see a pediatrician and try to track down his mother.
Chapter Four
Callie
“Dear Heavenly Father, with heavy hearts we come to you,” the chaplain begins from the other side of the hospital bed. “Our hearts are heavy because of a life that is leaving us. Death engulfs us, Lord. Thank you that Jesus knows the way through this dark shadow. Take the hand of our dearly departed sister and make yourself known. Guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Keep that which is your own and take it into eternity to be with you always. Amen.”
I lift my bowed head, and my eyes automatically go to my sister’s prone form in a sea of white sheets. My first thought seeing her naturally blonde hair dyed black and spread over the pillows is that she looks like a sleeping Snow White. My second thought is that I’m a horrible person because more than the grief of losing her, greater than the sadness of knowing I’ll never speak to her again, is my anger and hate.
Early this morning on the way to the hospital, the policemen finally told me the heartbreaking news, and I realized that my nightmare was just beginning.
Bianca was no longer pregnant and didn’t have a baby with her when she was found alone and unresponsive in an alley. I was completely devastated, more so about the baby than Bianca’s dire condition.
My sister didn’t survive the night. The excessive amount of heroin in her system caused too much damage to her heart, lungs and other vital organs before she received any medical treatment. The effects were irreversible once she was brought to the hospital.
It’s more than just the affair with my husband now that has me so angry at Bianca even in death. No, I hate her because she knew how badly I’ve longed to be a mother, and she carelessly ended the life of her child rather than leave him or her with me.
I can’t help but wonder if she thought to herself, I fucked Callie’s husband, so what can I possibly do to top that? Oh, I know! I’ll take the life of my baby before I OD just to rub it in her face that she’ll never be a mother while I easily got knocked up by the only man she’s ever loved. Yes, that should do the trick to stomp on Callie’s already broken heart.
I’m a horrible person.
Months ago, if I had been able to forgive Bianca, maybe I could’ve taken her in, kept her off drugs while she was pregnant, and convinced her to let me raise the baby. Hell, I bet she would have given the baby to me in exchange for a few thousand dollars in drug money. Sure, I wouldn’t be able to look at their baby without being reminded of the ultimate betrayal, but he or she was completely innocent. The poor thing didn’t get to pick who his or her fucked up druggy mother and asshole addict father would be, or to be conceived in an act of adultery. It didn’t deserve to die. So that’s why I’m standing over my sister’s dead body, hating her with an unholy vengeance.
Our father is a truck driving alcoholic with kids in all fifty states. He never gave a shit about us, and our mother was murdered four years ago in a drug deal gone bad. Bianca and her baby were all I had left of a family, and now they’re gone too. I’ve never felt so lonely or miserable in my life.
“Do you need anything else, Mrs. Clarke?” the decrepit but kind hospital chaplain asks me.
“No, sir. She’ll be cremated without any funeral services, but thank you for the final prayer,” I tell him before he nods and limps out of the room.
Bianca had her cell phone on her when they brought her in, and I’ve called to notify a few of her friends that she’s gone. Other than that, there’s no one else. I don’t even know where her belongings are, where she’s been living the last few months. All I know is that she’s gone and she took an innocent life with her.
I touch my sister’s lifeless hand one last time before I say goodbye and leave her. Instead of heading home, I walk down the hospital corridor and take the stairs to the third floor. From there I check-in at the neonatal intensive care unit, or NICU, nursing station before washing up and putting on a clean pair of scrubs over my clothes.
A few afternoons a week I volunteer as a cuddler. Some premature babies are kept here at Dobson Memorial for months while their parents are in different cities or states, having to continue working their full-time jobs to keep insurance. Research has shown that the babies do better when they’re held regularly. Since the nurses are so busy, they let volunteers come in to help out, after a full background check, of course. Today more than any I need the warmth and care just as much if not more than the babies.
“Hi, Callie! How’s it going?” Tina, one of the young nurses, asks when she sees me pulling on the green scrubs in the sterile room.
“Not so good,” I reply. “I need some cuddles.”
“I’ve got a few takers,” she says with a smile. “I’ll get the first one ready.”
“Thanks, Tina,” I say. “Oh, and, um, you haven't had any babies of Bianca Williams or unknown mothers in the last few days, have you?” I ask even though it’s pointless.
“Who’s Bianca Williams?” she asks.
“She’s my sister. Was my sister,” I correct with a sniffle. “That’s why I’m here this morning. She passed away from a drug overdose. The doctors said Bianca had recently delivered…but there was no baby with her when she was found.”
“Oh God. I’m really sorry, Callie,” Tina replies before wrapping her arms around me. “I’ll check the registry, but that name doesn’t sound familiar. So sorry for your loss, hon.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “Figured it was worth a shot to ask.”
A few minutes later, I’m in one of the white, wooden rocking chairs, holding a swaddled preemie with all sorts of cords attached to him, fighting for his life in my arms. Tears race each other down both of my cheeks while I mourn the loss of my sister, who I feel guilty about pushing out of my life. But mostly I cry for the innocent baby who was never given a chance to fight.
I knew Bianca had an addiction. She would steal money from my wallet whenever she had the chance, which I never really cared about. Mostly it bothered me that she wouldn’t just ask me for the cash instead of being deceitful. Then there was her affair with John. They were the only two people in my life who I loved, and they both managed to crush me at the exact same moment.
When Bianca told me she was pregnant, I was angry, but mostly I was jealous. There she was, a drug addicted, lying thief and she had the one thing I’ve always wanted. And what did she do with the precious gift she was given? She threw it and her life away like it meant nothing.
And it’s all my fault.
If I would have pushed aside my pride and broken heart, I could’
ve tried to help her instead of leaving her to fend for herself. She’s dead because I gave up on her.
I’m starting to think that maybe I don’t deserve to be a mother if I couldn’t save my sister.
Ever since I was a little girl, it’s all I’ve wanted, to hold my own baby in my arms. Not just because I’m a woman, and it’s what everyone says I’m supposed to do, but because being a mother is my soul-longing desire. It’s what I thought I was meant to do with my life, the reason I worked so hard to have a career with a flexible schedule so I could stay home, why I set aside every penny I possibly could into a savings account…
Maybe I’m wrong, and I was never meant to become a mother. Pregnancy happens so easily for teenagers and women like Bianca who don’t want the responsibility but simply make bad decisions that leave them with the consequences. So why is it so hard for me unless it’s just never meant to be?
Is that why I was cursed with endometriosis? To ensure that I would never have the opportunity to nurture and love my own child?
I’ve done everything the doctors have told me to do. I had the surgeries. I take daily prenatal vitamins, eat right and exercise, running several miles a week. I don’t touch alcohol and have never smoked a cigarette in my life. I can’t remember the last time I had a caffeinated beverage. Yet, years have gone by, and I didn’t even need to take a single pregnancy test because I faced the evidence of my disappointment each and every month without fail. There’s been no close calls. Just the agonizing cramps that mark the beginning of another missed opportunity.
Now, I’m a thirty-six-year-old divorcee, and I’m running out of options. The sand is pouring into the bottom of the hourglass while I sit back and watch helplessly.
Adoptions were a possibility, but only when John and I were married. He resisted the idea and wanted it to be a last resort. Now that I’m single, the agencies ignore me and won’t even return my calls despite the fact that I’m financially secure and have been mentally and emotionally prepared to be a mother for nearly a decade.
The chances of me meeting another man and falling in love again seem rather slim. Thanks to my cheating husband and sister, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust someone again. Without trust, there’s no possibility of marriage and definitely no babies.
So not only am I mourning the loss of my sister and her baby today, I’m also mourning the loss of possibility. It’s time to give up and face the fact that I’m just not destined to have the family I’ve always wanted.
Chapter Five
Quinton
This morning the pediatrician examined Brady and assured me that he is absolutely healthy, even though he thinks he may have been born a few days early. He said the bigger bottles were fine for him too as long as he didn’t yack up constantly, which he hasn’t done since I figured out how to burp him right away after a feeding.
From the doctor’s office, Brady and I went to the testing lab. I’m really glad that the DNA test was nothing more than a quick swab of both our mouths.
Now comes the hard part --- waiting.
According to the clinic, it will take at least three days for the test results to come back, so maybe by Thursday I’ll know whether or not I’m really Brady’s father.
I’m extremely thankful that Kelsey has agreed to come stay at the house as a live-in babysitter for the week since it’s gonna take longer for the results than I expected. Last night she was right about Brady being hungry and needing more than four ounces despite being only a few days old. The little guy was starving. Once he had the bigger bottle, he slept for four long, sweet, peaceful hours, which I was grateful for. Kelsey even got up and changed him at two and six while I fixed his bottle. Although I insisted on getting up to feed him, it was nice of her to be there and be willing to help.
Tonight, Kelsey is staying with Brady while I drive downtown, hoping that the staff at Limelight can give me some information about finding the woman who could potentially be his mother.
Since it’s a Monday, the bar is having some sort of cheap beer night to try and lure in college kids and fall tourists. At nine o’clock the place is still pretty empty, though, so I walk up to the bar and immediately get waited on by the bartender with long auburn hair and a low-cut, white see-through shirt that draws in the eye. Obviously, she’s a veteran who knows how to work her tits for more tips.
“What can I get you to drink tonight, Mr. Dunn?” she asks familiarly with a broad grin when she recognizes me. I can practically see the dollar signs flashing in her green eyes.
“A beer, make it your choice, beautiful,” I tell her, encouraging her flirting if it will get her talking to me.
“Well, in that case, only the best for our star quarterback,” she answers before turning around to grab a bottle. After popping the top, she places a beverage napkin in front of me and puts the beer down. “Can I get you anything else, hon?” she asks while leaning forward on her elbows to give me a fantastic view of her cleavage while her words hold the unmistakable, much more salacious offer behind them.
My dick is apparently still angry at me for the lack of sleep and refuses to take the bait, so I decide to get on with my purpose in coming here tonight.
“Actually, some teammates and I were in here back in January, and, well, one of my buddies can’t stop talking about this girl he met. I’m trying to find her for him,” I tell the bartender, making up the story because I’m still trying to keep the whole baby daddy drama out of the press. “Do you by chance know the name of a waitress with Japanese tattoos and black hair with blue streaks so I can put him out of his misery?”
“Hmm,” the bartender mutters while tilting her head to the side in thought. “You said that was all the way back in January?”
“Yeah, around the second. We lost a game, but she apparently made him feel much better,” I joke.
“Then that would probably have to be…oh shoot, what was her name?” she asks herself while snapping her fingers. “She up and quit in, like, April or May, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“Is there a manager around who may remember and could give me her contact information?” I ask.
Pulling out my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans, I remove five crisp twenty dollar bills and slide them across the bar to her.
“Give me just a second,” she says with a wink before sweeping up the cash and slipping it into her front apron. Then she saunters off toward the back of the club.
I sit and sip my beer, waiting patiently and hoping the bartender brings me something worthwhile back.
A few minutes later she appears in the dark hallway and crooks a finger at me, beckoning me to come to her. I take another long pull on my beer before I set it down and climb off the stool, heading in her direction. Taking my hand without a word, she leads me into an empty office where she shuts the door behind us.
“Found it,” she says, looking up at me while biting her bottom lip. Her hand slowly slips a piece of paper into my front jean pocket. She could’ve just handed it to me, but then she wouldn’t have had the chance to let her fingers seek out the length of my cock through the thin material of my pocket lining. “Found something else too,” she informs me as if I weren’t already aware of her groping.
So what do I do? Now that I have what I came here for, I try to think fast and come up with the foulest thing I could possibly say to see if she’ll back off or if she has her sights set on banging the Wildcats quarterback regardless of how much of a jerk I am.
“It’s big, but I think you can fit all of it in your dirty mouth just fine,” I say while staring at her cleavage and running a finger up her neck. “How’s your deep throat? You look like a girl who could suck a dick like a porn star.”
“God, yes,” she replies right away, pressing her full, soft tits against my chest. “I’ll give you the best blowjob you’ve ever had.”
Annnd I’m oh-for-forty-fucking-six.
What sort of woman would offer to get me off with her mouth minutes after m
eeting, knowing she won’t get anything in return? After I practically called her a dirty whore? One who only sees a name, a jersey, dollar signs, any or all of the above as the end game.
Normally I would’ve already had my pants unzipped while gladly pushing the woman whose name I don’t even know to her knees, feeding my famous cock into her mouth that she wants so badly. Whether it’s sleep deprivation or having the possible consequence of a one-night stand thrust into my life, tonight I’m just not interested in getting off for the hell of it. I mean, of course my cock twitches with interest because, fuck, she’s full on stroking the shit out of it now through the front of my fly. He likes the attention and her big tits, but it feels all…wrong.
Reaching for her wrist, I remove her hand from my crotch and place a kiss on the center of her palm to try to take the sting out of my rejection.
“I really need to get going tonight, but maybe we can pick this up some other time?”
Like never.
“Aww,” she says with a fake pout once I let her wrist go. “Well, I put my number on there too. Call me anytime,” she says before patting my pocket again and swiping her hand over my hardening cock.
As if she couldn’t get even more pathetic, she’s apparently content to offer herself up to me like a twenty-four-hour, on-call slut delivery service.
How could I possibly decline such an offer, right?
What man wouldn’t want to call up this woman, have her come over and blow him whenever the hell he wanted?
I’m just so fucking sick of it.
Not the blowjobs. The blowjobs are great.
I’m so tired of these women. Before my car leaves the lot tonight, I’m sure this nameless one in front of me will be telling one of her friends we did a lot more than talk in this room. I’m just a trophy fuck. Some want bragging rights, others think they can fuck me so good I’ll keep them around. They’re all so clueless.
Sure, I would like to think I’m a better lover than the next man, but the fact is I’m probably not. I happen to be an amazing quarterback who gets paid a lot of money; and for some reason, they think that makes me an incredible catch. It doesn’t occur to the jersey chasers that I could be the biggest asshole on the planet; and if it actually does, they don’t care because who I am doesn’t matter to them. Only what I am gets them hot and wet, salivating for my dick.
