by Lane Hart
“If you think it’s that easy to hide a story this size, then you’re crazy. The paparazzi will not stop until they have the answers they know will sell magazines. So do you want the world to know your baby’s mama was a drug addict, or do you want to give them some other squeaky-clean mother instead?”
Of course, my first thought of a replacement mother would be Callie, but without asking I already know her answer would be a big, fat no. She seems like a woman who likes her privacy and doesn’t want the spotlight on her. As a mama bear, she would likely string up anyone who tried to make a story out of an innocent baby or her sister. And fuck, I still can’t believe Bianca slept with Callie’s husband. That’s so low that I can see why Callie couldn’t forgive either of them, but it also means she now has serious trust issues. I’m not exactly the poster boy for a committed relationship since I’ve never actually had one before. A part of me wonders if I could actually be faithful to just one woman for a long period of time. Sure, this week has been easy with Brady distracting me from my very demanding sex drive, but what about next week or next month, especially traveling for away games? Those are the worst, with women practically jumping on me and piggybacking their way to my hotel room. And if our team loses on the road, the urge to hide my dick in the pussy sand for a few hours to forget how shitty I played is even more prominent.
“I’m not gonna lie about Brady’s mother. That will only make it worse if the media figures it out,” I tell Wilson; then I remember the note Bianca left with Brady about how she wrote to me. “By the way, where’s my fan mail?”
“In my office. I keep meaning to bring it over,” he says flippantly.
“Drop it off at the house by the end of the day,” I tell him. “I haven’t seen any in months, so I want to get started on it.”
“Right, sure,” he says. “And what’s your son’s name again?” he asks, pulling out a pad and paper from his pocket. “Brady Dunn?”
“Yep, and don’t even try to dig up info on his mother or make up something else,” I warn him.
“Suit yourself. Better grab an umbrella, because they’re gonna throw so much shit at you, you won’t know what hit you.”
“Whatever. I’ll manage,” I tell him as I walk back to my Land Cruiser.
“Oh, and, Quinton?” Wilson calls out just as I reach the car door. “From now on you better be damn careful with your hookups or this shitstorm will rain down on them as the most likely culprit.”
“Good thing I’m not hooking up with anyone,” I tell him.
“Like I’m gonna believe that!” he calls back, followed up with a chuckle.
“Believe it or not, it’s the truth,” I tell him before I climb in my SUV and drive away.
Callie
Friday night when I get home, I open up my laptop to check my emails before going to bed and instantly get sidetracked.
Front and center on the headline news is a photo of Quinton and Brady, the one that was just taken a few hours ago.
Wow. News moves fast.
I click on the article and find another photo of Brady in the hat and diaper I made him with one of the celebrity tabloid magazines promising more photos in Sunday’s edition. Reading through the article while holding my breath, I make sure there’s no mention of Bianca. Thankfully there’s not. Yet.
Will they be able to figure out who Brady’s mother is?
She’s gone, and only a handful of people know, so I seriously doubt it.
Then, just as I begin to relax, I hear it --- the sound of a key being inserted in the front door.
Son of a bitch!
With all that happened with Bianca over the weekend, I forget about my promise to get a restraining order and change the locks on the damn doors!
Felix, also startled, jumps off the back of the couch and takes off down the hall, probably to hide underneath the bed. He’s never liked John and used to sneak around to pounce and scratch his bare feet whenever he walked by.
Setting my laptop aside, I get to my feet just as John steps inside the house.
“Get out!” I yell at him.
“Just let me talk for a minute!” he exclaims. “You always did that, jumped down my throat before I could say a word.”
“Maybe because I could predict your bullshit and just didn’t want to hear it,” I counter. “Get out!”
“I talked to my lawyer, and he said that until the divorce is finalized and the assets are divided, this is still my house too.”
Shit. There goes my bluff that I’ll call the cops on him.
“You’re not staying here,” I tell him.
“I heard about Bianca,” he says. “I wanted to check on you, to see how you’re doing.”
“How did you hear?” I ask. “There wasn’t an obituary in the paper.”
When John cringes, I instantly know that he hadn’t been prepared to answer that question.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “So, that means you talked to one of Bianca’s friends? Or maybe her roommate?” I guess. “You went to her apartment to see her, didn’t you? Were you going over to give her more drugs when you found out she died from the last batch you probably funded?”
“I swear I didn’t give her any drugs or money while she was pregnant,” he responds. “Only…only the other night. She told me she left the baby with his father and needed…”
So that explains why John came over here Saturday night. He felt guilty about what he had just done.
“Needed to get so high she never woke up again?” I finish for him. “You killed her, and you’re gonna have to live with that for the rest of your life!”
“I’m sorry, Callie. I swear I didn’t know what would happen!”
God, I can’t even stand the sight of this bastard, not after finding out the truth, that he likely got a blowjob or who knows what from my sister before he threw drugs or money at her like a whore Saturday, days after she had just given birth to Brady. John knew she was gonna buy drugs if he didn’t supply them himself. Maybe he didn’t know how much she would do at one time, but he knew what would happen and he did it anyway! I want him gone, and if the police won’t remove him from the house, luckily I think I know someone who will.
Walking away from John, I leave him in the living room and head for the kitchen where I charge my phone at night. Thankfully, Quinton and I exchanged numbers back when Brady was in the hospital, so I call him up and pray he answers.
“Is this a booty call?” Quinton says when he picks up. “Because I’ll have you know that I having feelings too –”
“Not a booty call. Can you come over? Right now? There’s a…situation,” I interrupt his teasing to quietly tell him.
“I’m on my way,” he says without hesitation, and I hear static on his side like he might be dressing already. “You need to leave the phone on?”
“Sure,” I say. “Door’s unlocked.”
I lay my phone face up on the counter and then ignore it while fixing a glass of water and taking a seat on one of the barstools. John eventually wanders in to continue our lovely conversation.
“You know, the attorney said half of everything in the house and in our joint checking and saving account is mine too,” is his first statement, angering me even more.
“Well, your attorney is lying to you, trying to convince you to waste more money you don’t have on his legal fees. Because my attorney assures me that with the proof of my earnings, which is pretty much ninety-eight percent of the earnings in those accounts, no judge will award you squat.”
“We’ll see,” he says, leaning his elbows on the counter across from me.
“We will. Because if you think you’ll get anything from me after your affair, you’re dead wrong. I earned that money. I saved it for the baby you never gave me.”
“Give me another chance,” he pleads. “I’ll do everything you wanted me to do, take the vitamins, exercise, stop jerking off, drinking, and using. This time I’ll do it all so you can get pregnant.”
&
nbsp; “Hmm. Such a tempting offer,” I mutter as if I’m considering it. “But I’m gonna have to say no.”
“This is why our marriage didn’t work!” he shouts at me, so close to my face I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “You were such a bitch to me, and you still are!”
“Wow. With all of your kind, sweet words, what was I thinking?” I joke. “There hasn’t been a single moment that I’ve regretted kicking you out on your sorry ass.”
“That’s not true,” he retorts. “I know you regret wasting precious time on conceiving. Now you’re fucked, figuratively speaking only. You’re almost thirty-seven. Without me, you have zero chance of getting knocked up before you hit forty.”
His words hurt me, just like he intended, but I refuse to let him see me upset.
“Actually, I thank God every day that I didn’t bring your spawn into the world. That would have been a tragedy. And now I have a nephew to care for and love, so I think I’ll be just fine.”
“Nephew?” John asks in confusion. “How did you know Bianca had a boy, or where the hell he is?”
“Oh, I know because his father is a nice guy who tracked me down and lets me see him whenever I want. Brady’s adorable, which told me right away that he wasn’t yours. Thankfully, the DNA proved that fact, so my nephew definitely lucked up on the genetic lottery.” Leaning forward across the counter like I’m gonna let him in on a secret I say, “I bet you’ll never guess who his father is. Go ahead, try.”
Right on time, the front door opens and closes again. Then John’s eyes widen and keep moving up when Quinton obviously appears behind me.
“No fucking way,” John mutters. “That’s…that’s Quinton Dunn!”
I glance over my shoulder just because I want to see his gorgeous face for myself.
“What do you know, it sure is.”
Quinton’s dressed in a plain white tee and dark gray sweatpants, but he still somehow manages to look threatening in the casual attire, or maybe that’s the scowl on his face. Shit, is he mad because I bothered him tonight? Maybe I shouldn’t have called him. His blue eyes meet mine, assessing me quickly from head to toe on the stool before they go back to John.
When I look over at my soon to be ex-husband again, he’s smiling like he’s getting ready to meet his longtime hero.
“Hey, I’m a huge fan!” John says.
“Did you ask him to leave?” Quinton speaks to me when he comes to a stop towering over my stool.
“Yep.”
“And he refused?”
“Yep.”
Stomping over to the other side of the counter, Quinton grabs a fistful of the front of John’s shirt, hard enough to yank him to his feet.
“What the –” John starts.
“When I throw you out, you’re gonna crawl back into whatever shithole you came from, and you’re never gonna show your face here again. Got it?” Quinton asks him, and John reluctantly nods. “If I see you over here or Callie tells me that you came back, I’ll beat you bloody; and then I’ll let our linemen use you as their tackle dummy. Understood?”
John gives another nod of understanding before Quinton literally drags him to the front door that I hear open and quickly close again, which allows me to finally exhale in relief.
Now to apologize to Quinton for interrupting his Friday night.
I climb down off my stool and start back into the living room when I nearly run into Quinton, who is returning to the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I tell his broad chest that smells woodsy and comforting. “I’m sorry I bothered you, but he knew the police couldn’t make him leave so…”
“It’s fine,” he says. Grabbing my upper arms, he holds me away from him to look down at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just angry and frustrated,” I answer on a sigh. I’m so embarrassed that Quinton had to intervene or hear all the shit John said through the phone line that I’m unable to meet his eyes.
“Do you want me to stay or do you want to come back to the house with me?” Quinton asks.
And oddly enough, my first instinct is to say, yes, stay with me or take him up on the offer to sleep under the same roof as Brady for a night, but my pride causes me to shake my head instead. “No, I’m fine. He won’t come back tonight. And I’ll get the locks changed first thing Monday morning.”
“You sure?” he asks. “I have plenty of bedrooms.”
“I’m sure,” I lie. “Go and get back to whatever you were doing before I called.”
“Oh, you mean get back to the harem of women I keep in my dungeon?” he teases with his trademark crooked grin.
“Right. I’m sure they’re missing you.”
“I was actually holding our glow worm and getting ready to watch one of the Fast and Furious movies I’ve seen a hundred times. Not quite as exciting as the harem, right?” he asks, but it sounds pretty exciting and perfect to me.
Wait. Did he say our glow worm? I’m sure he just means he and I are Brady’s closest relatives.
“How’s the home nurse think Brady’s doing with the light?” I ask rather than dwell on how happy one word makes me.
“Pretty good. She drew some more blood from his foot tonight, which always makes me want to hurl and nearly chip a tooth from gritting my teeth. Hopefully, if his bilirubin is down some more, he’ll come off of the light tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” I agree.
“Kelsey’s keeping an eye on Brady, so why don’t we turn the movie on here, and I can stick around to make sure the asshole gets the message?” Quinton asks.
“That’s not really necessary,” I tell him before he pulls away and tromps back to the living room without another word. When I follow him, I see he’s holding back the curtain that faces the street.
“His car’s still out there,” Quinton points out.
Shit.
“Fine. Stay if you insist,” I concede before flopping down on the sofa.
“You got any popcorn?” Quinton asks, heading back to the kitchen.
“Cabinet next to the microwave,” I shout so he can hear me.
It only takes me a minute searching through the TV guide to find the right movie. And soon the sound of popping and the smell of buttery goodness fill the air. After the microwave dings, Quinton returns to the living room with one big plastic bowl of temptation rather than two. He sinks down onto the cushion next to me so we can share, his considerable weight causing such a large divot that I roll closer to him until our legs are touching.
“Turn it up. There are no babies sleeping here,” Quinton instructs, which is all the reminder I need that I probably won’t ever have any sleeping babies in my house.
John, the asshole, was right.
In the time it takes to sort through men by dating again, the chances of getting remarried is low, so the likelihood of conceiving after however many years all that takes is highly improbable.
Chapter Nineteen
Callie
“Hey,” I say in greeting when Kelsey opens Quinton’s front door Sunday morning. Over the past week, I’ve learned that she really is a sweet girl, but I can’t help the pang of jealousy I feel knowing she’s here day in and day out with Brady. And, yeah, I’m a tad jealous that she stays here with Quinton overnight too, especially if she gets to see him shirtless.
“Hey, I was about to call you!” Kelsey says, nearly bouncing up and down with excitement. “Where have you been?”
“What’s up?” I ask since I don’t want to explain why I didn’t come over yesterday. Quinton even called and texted me, but I ignored both. I was too busy throwing a pity party and couldn’t be bothered. All I wanted was one day to cry into a pint of chocolate ice cream, watch sappy movies with Felix curled up in my lap, and mourn the loss of my sister, my marriage, and my chances of motherhood.
“Quinton left us tickets for today’s game,” Kelsey explains. “Brady’s off the light therapy, so Quinton wanted us to bring him to the stadium to meet everyone!”
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�What?”
“Oh, and don’t worry. Quinton says it’s a family suite with seating indoors and out. So if it gets too chilly, we can bring Brady inside. He has the cutest Wildcats onesie to wear with the hat and diaper you made him. I put the diaper on the outside, so he looks like a tiny superhero. Wait until you see him!” she rambles excitedly.
“I’m not really a football person,” I tell her as I shut the front door and follow her inside.
“Come on, Callie. It’ll be fun. Quinton really wants you to come.”
“He does?” I ask in shock. “Me? You mean you and Brady.”
“No, he said and I quote, ‘Even though she’s gonna protest, I hope you can drag her along too.’”
“Huh,” I mutter, trying not to get excited about something so insignificant and ridiculous.
“So is that a yes?” she asks as we walk into the living room where Brady’s sleeping in his pack and play. Thursday night, once Quinton knew Brady would be sticking around, he went and bought an actual crib after practice and set up the room across the hall from his master bedroom as Brady’s nursery. Embarrassingly enough, Kelsey tells me that there’s even a huge photo of Brady and me on the wall, along with some of the others we had made Friday.
Peeking over the edge of the pack and play to see Brady sprawled out in his cute little Wildcats outfit is too much. I have to pick him up and hold the cutie pie. Just being away from him for a day had me missing him. And if I refuse to go to the game today, Kelsey will take Brady, and I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to spend time with him.
Before I can respond to tell her I’ll go, the stacks of cardboard boxes sitting off to the side grab my attention.
“What’s all that?” I ask Kelsey.
“Oh, fan mail. Quinton started working on it Friday night but has barely made a dent in it. He’s hoping to reply to all the kids before the end of the month.”
