by Lane Hart
“She’s hot,” he says, stating the obvious. And just like that, whatever ire I had at him is gone. “Does she have wings and pointed ears too?” he asks, making me chuckle.
“None that I’ve found yet,” I answer, not that I haven’t wanted the opportunity to get her naked for a more thorough check. “Or maybe she just uses her fairy dust to hide them.”
“You’re fucking her and the nanny both, aren’t you?” he asks.
“No!” I exclaim.
“Just one of them?”
“Neither. I haven’t fucked either of them,” I answer.
“Wow, that’s a first,” Lathan says in surprise.
“Tell me about it,” I reply.
I’m blaming the mess in my pants on my recent drought. I haven’t slept with a woman in five days, which is sadly a new record for me. It’s not like I even have to work for sex. Women walk up to me out in public and suggest we find somewhere to bang less than five minutes later. I’ve fucked women in nasty men’s bathrooms with other men watching, in random storage rooms or coat closets, the dressing rooms of retail stores. You name it, and I’ve probably done it there.
Sure, I could turn them down like the bartender at Limelight, but I’m a normal man with simple needs. Or maybe my needs are greater than the average. Either way, I like sex and enjoy it. So when a woman suggests we find a quiet place to do the nasty, I usually don’t decline, especially before a game to get rid of the nervousness. Or after a bad loss to make me forget I let everyone down. Especially not after an amazing win when the adrenaline’s still pumping through my veins, and I want to celebrate my success.
So maybe I use sex as a coping mechanism. It works better than antidepressants or anxiety medications and is a much healthier pick me up than comfort food or illegal drugs that would make me fat or get me suspended. The way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults getting their rocks off as long as we use protection and don’t end up on the front page of a tabloid.
Obviously, I may have to work on the whole using protection thing when I’m drinking if Brady turns out to be my son. I pull out my phone to check for any missed calls from the testing facility but don’t have any.
“So when do you find out if you’re his father?” Lathan asks as if reading my mind.
“Tomorrow or Friday hopefully,” I reply.
“And if he’s not?” Lathan asks.
“Who the hell knows,” I answer honestly. “Then we’ll wait and see if Callie’s his aunt. She’ll have her results by Friday or Monday at the latest.”
“Well, good luck,” Lathan says before he gets to his feet. “I don’t mean to give you shit; I just don’t want you to forget what’s important.”
“I know,” I tell him simply, because there’s no way I can explain to him that Callie’s right. When it comes to taking care of my son or playing football, at the end of the day, one is still just a sport.
Chapter Twelve
Callie
I wait until Quinton’s friend leaves the room before I step back inside. He was obviously a football player too, big and muscular with even the same Mohawk type haircut as Quinton.
Once I’m inside, I walk up to the baby’s container and put a hand on it when I see his eyes are open.
“Hi, Brady,” I say, the name starting to grow on me.
“He’s up?” Quinton asks from the sofa. He stands, but then sits back down again with the blanket clenched to his lap. I bite my lip to try and hide my smile.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m gonna let the nurse know, so maybe she’ll let me take him out of there to feed him.”
“Okay, thanks,” Quinton says. “I’m gonna go…find a bathroom.”
“There’s one right across the hall,” I tell him with my face turned away as I leave so he won’t see my grin.
The white-haired nurse at the front desk thankfully agrees to let me take Brady out long enough to give him a bottle. So I get the formula ready while she opens up his container and does her required check of all his vitals and draws blood for tests.
I also change his diaper before I wrap him in a hospital blanket and sit down with him in my arms to try to feed him. When he starts greedily sucking down the bottle, I’m relieved.
Despite my order for my eyes not to drop to the man’s crotch when Quinton walks back into the room a few minutes later, they do it anyway, taking in the dark wet splatters on his denim.
“The sink sprayed me,” Quinton says when he notices my attention to that particular part of his body.
“I didn’t say anything,” I mutter, looking back down at Brady.
“How’s he doing?” Quinton asks when he sits down next to me and runs his hand over Brady’s sparse head of dark hair.
“Hungry, which is a good sign,” I answer.
“Good,” he replies on an exhale. “Could I hold him when you get finished? Before they put him back in there?”
“Yeah, of course,” I agree, his sweet request causing tingling flutters in my belly. And strangely enough in my breasts as well. That could also be remnants from just half an hour ago when I was stroking Quinton’s long, hard cock while he slept.
Sneaking a glance over at the giant football player, I have to admit to myself that I’m attracted to him, more than just his magnificent manhood. Not that I would ever let someone like him in my panties; but I’m certain that if I did, it would be fantastic. He’s just so big and masculine with a gorgeous face. More than simply sex on a stick, this man is a walking positive pregnancy test, as evidenced by the baby in my arms. Most likely his son, depending on the results we should have soon.
And then I remember the words I overheard him saying to his friend that nearly made my ovaries melt into a puddle. “Being someone’s father or possibly their father is different. His life is in my hands, and that’s not something I’m just gonna casually pass off on a nanny or nurse or someone else. If something bad happens to him…that’s all on me.”
I’m starting to think I was wrong about Quinton. He’s beginning to realize what it takes to be a father, more than just piles of money or having someone babysit while he’s away. It’s an enormous responsibility, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t intend on taking that job lightly.
Chapter Thirteen
Quinton
I wake up with a warm, soft body pressed against mine. Mmm. My cock likes that a lot as evidenced by the way he’s trying to bust through my jeans to get closer. Especially when the softness starts to wiggle against him, urging him on.
Slipping my hand over her hip, I flatten my palm on her clothed stomach to press her closer. Wait, why are we wearing clothes in bed? I find the hem of her shirt and ease my hand underneath so that I can encounter her smooth, warm skin.
The soft body gasps loudly, and it’s music to my ears. Moaning would be better, but I’m getting around to that part. Just as my pinkie disappears into her waistband, her hand grabs mine at the same time she says my name. Not in the “Oh, Quinton” way but in the “Quinton, what the fuck?” way.
My eyes fly open, and that’s when I remember it’s Callie sleeping in front of me on the pullout sofa in Brady’s hospital room.
“Fuck. Sorry,” I mutter, removing my hand from her body to reach down and adjust the bulge of my jeans.
Callie rolls to her back so that I can see her flawless face, her cheeks painted rosy red. “No, it’s my fault. I, um, got too close,” she says while licking her lips, which I feel in the tip of my cock that her hip bone is now pressed firmly against.
Since she didn’t jump up, I assume she wasn’t too offended by getting poked with my morning wood. And now she’s still here, lying next to me, the tempting swell of her tits within reach, her mouth only inches from mine. Her eyes are watching my lips while her hand rubs her stomach where my own just was.
Is she waiting for me to kiss her?
I lean down to close the distance between us just as the phone in my pocket begins to vibrate against my leg and hers.
“Oh shit,” Callie mutters before she does jump up, straightening her clothes as she goes over to check on Brady.
Damn phone.
I pull it out of my pocket to answer and see who the hell interrupted our moment so I can go kick their ass.
“Hello?” I say gruffly into the receiver.
“Mr. Dunn?” a polite lady’s voice asks.
“This is him,” I reply, expecting her to launch into some telemarketer scheme.
“Hi. This is Christine from the testing lab. We have your paternity test results if you would like to come by–”
“I’m on my way,” I say quickly before ending the call and scrambling to my feet. “Can you stay here with Brady for a few minutes?” I ask Callie. “The test results are back.”
“Of course. Go,” she says, just as she did last night while I spent a few hours handing out signed merchandise and visiting with the kids on the other side of the hallway. Rather than make me feel sad for them, those tough guys and girls inspired me. They’re stronger and more courageous than I’ll ever be. I gave my contact information to the supervising nurse and told her to let me know if she ever needs me to stop by again to visit. In fact, I would like to start coming here more frequently.
“Good luck?” Callie asks, reminding me of where I need to get going. Her two words are spoken as a question like she’s not sure what I want the results to say. Or maybe she’s reluctant to find out if I’m Brady’s father. My attorney has made it clear. That would mean she wouldn’t have a chance at any type of custody, only visitation as I allow it. The court couldn’t force me to let her see him, but I would never keep her away from him.
“Thanks,” I tell her simply before walking out the door.
On the short drive over to the lab, I try to figure out which way I’m leaning for the results, but it’s not quite as clear-cut as a few days ago when I was tested. At the time, I assumed Brady’s mother was alive and well but mistaken in her claim that I was his father. I’d only had him for about a day, still didn’t know what the hell I was doing fixing bottles or changing diapers, and I was cranky as fuck from not playing my best game thanks to the lack of sleep.
But now, three days later, it feels like everything has changed.
I’ve gotten used to having the little guy around, so much so that I panicked when Callie told me he had to be admitted into the hospital. I’ve been worried sick about him and hate seeing him lying in that container. My first thought when I saw him was that I wanted to pick him up and hold him to make sure he was okay.
So, while I never intended to become a father, or ever really thought about having kids, I’m not opposed to taking on the responsibility suddenly thrown at me.
When my heart begins to race the closer I get to the lab, I realize that I’m afraid the results will say I’m not his father and the chance to take care of him will be ripped away from me.
I walk into the testing facility like a zombie, both in a rush to find out but also wanting to delay it. Once I know the results, there’s no going back.
After I show my ID to the woman at the front desk, she retrieves a letter size envelope and offers it to me with a smile. Taking it from her is the first time that I realize my hand is shaking. This is one of the most important decisions in my life.
The envelope is sealed, of course, so I walk back to my car with it instead of opening it in public where someone could recognize me and take photos or videos of my reaction. Nothing is sacred when you’re a sports celebrity.
Once I’m locked inside the safety of my car again, I tear off the end of the envelope and dump the single sheet of paper out into my lap.
This is it. The moment of truth.
As soon as I unfold the letter my eyes start scanning. I get to “Quinton Dunn is not” and don’t have to read anymore.
Fucking…goddammit!
I crumple the sheet of paper into my fist and toss it over my shoulder. Screw it. I don’t care what it says. Bianca left him with me, and I’m gonna take care of him. At least until Callie gets her results probably tomorrow. Then, if he is Bianca’s, Callie will take Brady from me, and I’ll never see either of them again.
If he’s not, well, then maybe there’s a chance I can adopt him if his mother doesn’t come forward.
Fuck. If neither of us are blood relatives, the court would probably take Brady into the state’s custody until all that shit gets figured out. Picturing underpaid and overworked staff ignoring his cries because they’re too busy or too swamped to feed him almost does me in.
Throwing my head back against the seat, I close my eyes and take slow deep breaths in through the nose and out through my mouth after my lungs seem to forget how they're supposed to automatically function. My throat begins to burn like someone’s pouring scalding water down it.
No, there’s no fucking way I’m gonna let them take Brady into child custody.
Then, I remember at the court hearing when Callie’s attorney mentioned that she had been previously approved for adoption. Even if Brady’s not Bianca’s, maybe Callie will still want to adopt him. I know she already loves him regardless of what the test says. If so, maybe she would still let me see him. Hell, I could easily pay her enough child support to take care of him.
Feeling a little bit more optimistic about things after getting crushed, I start the car and drive back to the hospital.
Chapter Fourteen
Callie
I’m feeding Brady, snuggling him in his blanket when Tina, the NICU nurse I know, comes in the room.
“Morning, Callie. How’s he doing? Taking a few ounces?” she asks, sitting down her laptop on the counter to type.
“Yeah, he’s draining this four-ounce bottle down,” I tell her with a smile. “That’s a good sign, right?”
“It is,” she answers. Once she’s finished typing, Tina washes her hands in the sink and comes over to sit next to me.
“He’s precious,” she says. “And I think he’s gonna be just fine.”
“Good,” I reply with a smile.
“So, you think he’s your sister’s baby?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah, I believe so. There’s no record of his birth here?”
“Nope. But we couldn’t find any photo ID on him, so it’s hard to be sure,” she jokes. “Your sister definitely wasn’t admitted here. Maybe she had him at another hospital?”
“Maybe.”
Leaning in closer, Tina whispers, “So, the rumor floating around the nurse’s station is that Quinton Dunn is possibly the daddy. Any truth to that?”
“It’s possible,” I tell her since there’s no reason to lie about it. The fact that Quinton’s been here is a pretty good giveaway that he may be the father.
Fanning herself, she says, “God that man is…mmm.”
“I guess,” I reply with a shrug.
“Guess? There is no guess. He is the hottest man I’ve ever seen in person. And jeez, based on the size of his hands, he has to be well-endowed.”
“If you say so,” I mutter trying not to remember in great detail how he felt in my hand yesterday or pressed against my bottom this morning, ready to go.
“But he’s not just a pretty package. He’s a big softie too,” Tina gushes, her hands over her heart.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Because of what he did yesterday,” she answers, like I know what the hell that means.
“What did he do?” I ask in confusion.
“You didn’t hear?” she replies. “He went around and visited with all the pediatric patients and their families, even the babies, giving them signed jerseys and stuffed animals. Everyone was so excited to see him. All the nurses were tearing up, especially since we had heard about this little guy being here,” she says, reaching over to rub the top of Brady’s head.
“Quinton did that? You’re sure?” I ask in disbelief, remembering when he disappeared for a few hours last night. I'd assumed he had gone out to grab something to eat.
“Wow,” I mutter, trying to put that information together with the playboy image I have of Quinton.
“So now the yucky part,” Tina says when I sit Brady up to burp him. “I’ve got to go weigh him and draw some blood.”
“Aww. Poor little guy,” I say, giving Brady a kiss on his forehead before I pass him to her.
“I’ll be right back, and we’ll get him under the lights again while we wait for the results. He may be able to go home soon,” she says when she gets up to leave with him.
“Fingers crossed,” I reply, holding up my twisted fingers.
Quinton returns a while later after Brady is back under the light. He was gone longer than I expected; and based on the crestfallen expression on his handsome face, I can’t tell what that means.
Is he upset that he’s Brady’s father, or is he sad that he’s not?
The unjolly giant shuffles into the room, coming to a stop in front of Brady’s bed but doesn’t speak.
“Hey,” I say to him in greeting.
“Hey,” he mumbles before coming over and flopping down on the seat next to me, right where we both crashed for a few hours last night, and I awoke to his massive hand underneath my shirt and erection poking me in my ass. I hadn’t wanted him to stop, and I can’t exactly blame that on the drowsiness. I knew what was happening and where we were, but I’m not entirely sure Quinton did.
When Quinton doesn’t immediately spit out the information I’m desperate to hear, I decide not to rush him. Instead, I give him an update.
“So, good news. While you were gone, they checked Brady’s blood work, and it looked good. We get to take him home with a smaller glow light that he wears,” I tell him.
“That’s great,” Quinton says with a small, crooked smile.
