The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  I sigh again.

  What should I do?

  I could keep going until I get something right or I could accept an entire wasted day and go back to it later.

  Neither option seem attractive.

  I chew on the bottom of my pencil, a habit I thought I’d broken years ago.

  My inner voice, the responsible one, reminds me of the deadline.

  It’s not like it’s tomorrow, but if I don’t stay on top of things, then it’ll really be tomorrow sooner than I realize.

  One minute you think you’ve got plenty of time, the next you’re doing all-nighters because you’ve spent too much time doing nothing.

  Rapidly, my pencil moves across the page again.

  I convert the blank space into something I can’t recognize.

  I was going for a literal food fight of sorts, processed food versus fruits and vegetables, going along with the book’s theme of natural versus artificial.

  It doesn’t work when the carrots look like evil gnomes.

  Instead of a likeable banana, I’ve created a monster with no arms or legs and a bent body.

  Perhaps a horror movie producer would be interested if I let them have it? If only I had some connections in that world. Looks like all these will end up in recycling.

  Or in the fireplace.

  Sketching kid’s drawings is clearly not going to work today. After a day of these attempts turning out so disturbingly, I don’t know if my future lies in that arena, either.

  After I pack up my pencils and paper, I prowl around the house. I’m not exactly sure what’s distressing me, but my universe is clearly out of sync.

  I mean, usually I don’t get artist’s block, not for this damned long.

  How long have I been on this little retreat? I’ve smashed through a few personal records of unproductivity and useless, discarded ideas and sketches.

  Is it really Killian who’s doing this to me?

  My first impulse is to blame that whole situation. The divorce is over, and the Killian thing is all that’s been currently happening in my life.

  I try and dismiss the notion. I mean, it’s not like we were an item or anything. He could have called in on me today, but it’s not like he’d have a reason to.

  And maybe this is the start of the trouble. Maybe I was expecting him to call, and now that he hasn’t, I’m out of sorts.

  Only one thing to do.

  I grab my keys and handbag and walk out the door.

  On my last two attempts to get in and out of town safely, I had failed miserably—it’s time to try one last time. After all, third time’s the charm.

  I swear if something happens to me today, walking in and out of town, I’ll think either the place is possessed or has it in for me.

  With the late afternoon sun dipping its rays for a final farewell, there’s enough warmth left in the day for me not to take a jacket.

  I try and focus on looking at the scenery.

  Breathing in the fresh air and looking at my surroundings often work wonders to get me creative and improve my drawing.

  Nature is such a wonderful classroom. There are so many things she can teach us.

  Remarkable colors are an ongoing lesson in aesthetics I never want to stop learning.

  The fascinating differences between the way everything looks here compared to what I’m used to will never leave me bored.

  The landscape, the vegetation, even the implication of the unseen...

  Behind each rock and tree, I imagine an entire little world of special creatures only those of a certain temperament can see.

  The minute I leave my creaky, rusty gate behind, I feel my mood lighten already. I knew I wasn’t in the best mood in the cottage, but I start to realize just how grim things were getting in there.

  Going for a walk was obviously the right thing to do. As I stroll along the road, I take deep inhalations of the clean spring air.

  I pass quaint little cottages and magnificent gardens. Even the garden sheds are interesting and charming.

  There are fields with farm animals and crops, and already I’m getting a sense of how to draw some of those creatures I attempted this morning.

  With renewed spirits, I pull out my small sketchpad I always carry and make some preliminary sketches.

  Not bad.

  Even though I’m walking, I’ve got quite a steady hand.

  Now I’ve got a laughing carrot waving back at me from the page. Much better.

  There’s a chance this carrot won’t even give people nightmares.

  A car horn beeping at me makes me realize I’ve drifted onto the road. I lift my hand in an apologetic gesture and keep walking.

  Perhaps I better continue with the sketches back at the cottage.

  Later.

  After what seems like five minutes—but is probably a lot longer—I find myself outside the pub again. It seems as if this place holds some magic over me.

  Just the other day, I crashed right outside the pub of all places.

  Seeing as I’ve already arrived, I might as well go in and have a drink. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

  For a few more minutes, I rationalize my actions. It’s not unusual for someone wandering on their own, like myself, to go into a pub for a drink, right?

  Eventually, I decide that if I don’t go in, I’ll be growing roots out here and attract unwanted attention.

  And if there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s unwanted attention.

  I push the door open and hesitate. I’m not good with these things. What if someone was to challenge me being here? It’s a totally silly thought, but it’s one I can’t push aside.

  But, alas, no one is paying me any attention.

  Slowly, I enter and walk toward the back of the bar. There’s one stool, and I sit on it.

  It feels strange. I’m not exactly a pub kind of lady, and this one is totally foreign to me. Okay, so it is literally foreign, but that’s not what I mean.

  So far, no one has paid me any attention. No one has uttered a greeting, and the bar man is doing his very best to ignore me.

  The pub is busy, but I would have thought someone would at least nod in my direction or something.

  I take a few deep breaths and try to signal the bartender with a subtle hand wave so as not to seem rude.

  There’s so much noise I can hardly hear myself think. My eyes scan the area—he’s not here.

  There’s a couple playing billiards on the solitary pool table by the restrooms.

  When they, an attractive and unmistakably Irish-looking young couple, embrace and start kissing, I try to look away.

  They don’t seem to care they’re in public. Usually, I’d be unsettled by this, but for a moment I can’t look away.

  By now the bloke’s—that means guy, right?

  Anyway, the bloke’s hands are on her ass, and she has hers around his neck. Pool sticks fall on the ground. No one besides myself seems to be paying them any attention.

  I look away and try and signal the barman again. But he’s at the other end.

  Like a school girl, I lift my hand. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. But nothing happens.

  My eyes find the couple again. By now he’s pushed her against one of the walls, and she has her legs wrapped around his waist.

  Is his zipper open and is he actually...?

  No. Now, it’s definitely time to look away.

  Since my current seating position gives me an unobstructed view of their display—and because I’m not getting a drink right now—I merely opt for a change in location.

  Frustration wells up in me as I storm the bar. Now, I’m practically in the bartender’s face, and the prick still ignores me.

  “What does a girl have to do to order coffee around here?” I yell and wait.

  If this doesn’t produce a result, I don’t know what will.

  Killian

  “So, Cara turns around and looks me straight in the eye. And she says, ‘But William, that’s no
t my horse.’ And so I look at the horse, and then I look at her and I’m all ‘Are you sure, lass?’”

  I laugh—a deep one that rumbles from my stomach—at William and his story. His laugh is loud and drowns out that of his woman’s and my own.

  William O’Connor has been one of my best friends since I was a small boy. He’s a good man with a big heart. He’s not overly bright, but it’s part of his charm.

  He’s tall—nearly six and a half feet—and built like an old Irish castle. He’s got shaggy dark hair and a thick beard that he keeps trimmed for his lady.

  His hands are rough and calloused from years of hard manual labor on his family’s farm. His skin is tan and almost leathery from those same years.

  His lady, Cara, is the exact opposite. She’s, maybe, a hundred and sixty centimeters tall, around five foot two, at most.

  Her hair—black as a raven’s—is almost as long as Rebecca’s. While William’s blue eyes always seem to be locked in this permanent squint, Cara’s eyes are as big as a doe’s and just as dark.

  And unlike her man, Cara is as sharp as they come. She’s a school teacher in town and a favorite of all the children.

  As different from each other as they are, the two of them are disgustingly fucking perfect together. It’s so nauseating at times that it feels like I’ve just inhaled a bucket of sulfur.

  They’re also, perhaps, two of the only people I can genuinely call ‘friends’.

  I would add Guinness and Bushmills to that list, but I’ve been told that they don’t count.

  “Cara, how do you put up with it? I mean, the man is as dumb as a roasted lamb.”

  Cara looks up at William—who looks at her with a beaming smile—then looks at me.

  “You know, Killian, I don’t have a fucking clue,” she declares with a perfect deadpan tone.

  The three of us share another laugh and knock back the shots of whiskey on the table before us.

  It’s been a nice treat to get out and spend some time with the pair. Everything this week has just been utter shite.

  I’d been hit by a car. I’ve got writer’s block that could work as a dam for the River Shannon.

  And then there’s the person who hit me with the car...Rebecca.

  I keep trying not to think about her. But it’s fucking difficult.

  Especially when it feels like I can hear her voice.

  Hold up a second.

  Just over William’s large shoulder, I see a red-head. I can’t see the woman’s face, and there’s a sea of people between us.

  No, that seriously cannot be her.

  She raises a hand and yells for the bartender.

  Oh, fuck me, it is her.

  Suddenly, there’s a gap in the sea that opens as if Moses himself had created it.

  That’s when I see Rebecca’s face.

  She looks annoyed as she tries to get Charlie’s attention again.

  Poor old bloke is likely up to his ears with orders.

  The pub is absolutely filled to the brim tonight. Charlie’s brought in a couple live bands from Dublin to perform in the evening. And we, Irish, love our live pub music.

  Then, Rebecca looks through the crowd…at me.

  I’m positive she’s seen me sitting here. I’m looking right at her.

  Fuck, I’m even leaning partly out of the booth to get a glimpse of her.

  But I get nothing in return.

  No smile.

  No nod.

  No acknowledgment of my existence at all.

  I sit back up in my booth and look down at the half empty glass of Guinness before me.

  Slowly, my fingers slide around the base of the glass, and I draw it up to my lips.

  I can’t—or don’t—understand why Rebecca would look at me and just outright ignore me.

  Well, actually I can perfectly understand why, but it seems rather cold for her to do.

  But then again, she did leave me without a word back at that conference. She came into my life and sent my mind about like a ship at sea.

  Then, she left without so much as a word...and then hits me with her truck years after.

  Maybe this isn’t all that out of character for her after all.

  “What’s wrong, boyo? You look like you’ve seen a banshee,” William says.

  He turns the top half of his massive frame to look over at the bar.

  I take another drink of my Guinness.

  “Oh, boy. That’s her, isn’t it? I can see why you like her,” William continues when he turns back around.

  “Killian, she probably didn’t even see you. This place is jammers tonight,” Cara says with softness and valid logic.

  “Didn’t see him? Look at this man’s face.” William reaches across the table to pinch my cheek.

  I smack his head away and give him a look as he smiles at me.

  “He’s Ireland’s pretty boy. Fuck Colin Farrell and Cillian Murphy and that Fifty Shades wanker.”

  “What about Pierce Brosnan?” Cara interjects with a raised eyebrow.

  “As pretty as Killian is, he’s certainly no Pierce Brosnan. That man is a masterpiece.”

  Leave it to William to make me chuckle when it’s the last thing in the world I want to do.

  “Look, guys, can we just please talk about something else? I don’t want to sit here and get into it with you about Rebecca.”

  No talk of Rebecca.

  As much as Cara is probably right about Rebecca not seeing me, I think it may just be best to give her some space.

  If she wants to see me, then she can come on by of her own accord.

  “Alright, then. How’s your new book coming?” Cara asks with a smug grin on her face.

  William snickers at Cara’s question and takes a drink of his Guinness to silence himself.

  “It’s coming,” I lie. “I’ve nearly got my first draft done. It’s good. Might even outsell Midnight Son.”

  “Bull,” William declares as he slams his empty glass down on the table. “Utter shite.”

  “What is?”

  I feign insult, but William sees through it.

  The man may not be book smart, but he can read people like a preacher reads the Bible.

  “You’ve not gotten a single fucking word, have you?”

  He’s right, of course. I haven’t. I’ve been struggling day after day to get word to paper.

  And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to break through this block in my brain.

  “I have so,” I continue to lie anyway—I’m in too deep.

  “If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to claim it could outsell Midnight Son, you dirty wanker.”

  Well, fuck. He’s got me by the balls on this one.

  “Alright, fine. I’ve got nothing. I try to get something down and nothing comes out that makes any fucking sense at all.”

  “You’re probably just overthinking everything, Killian. Why don’t you just go grab Ida and take off for a couple days in the country?”

  Cara might actually be on to something with that suggestion.

  It would get me away from the cottage—where I feel as though my typewriter is taunting me with its presence—and get away from Rebecca.

  Some good country air could really help.

  “That’s a great idea. You could come on by the house tomorrow. I’ll give you my tent and stove to use while you’re gone. I’ve even got some fresh lamb and pork jerky you can take for snacks,” Williams says enthusiastically.

  The man is a giant ball of happiness bouncing through life excited about everything.

  It’s an admirable trait—also annoying as fucking shite—but admirable.

  I down the rest of my Guinness in one go.

  “You just might be Ireland’s biggest secret genius,” I tell her with a chuckle.

  “My lass is pretty amazing,” William says with a nod.

  “Well, thank you, my lover.”

  Well, fuck. Here comes the nausea.

  The two smile and kiss like h
orny teenagers spending their first night together.

  “Enjoy your snog,” I said flatly. “I’m going the fuck home.”

  I get up from my booth. Neither one of them bothers to wave or attempt to say goodbye.

  I roll my eyes and grab my jacket that had been lying beside me.

  I’m about halfway out the door when I see Rebecca. Even in this massive crowd of drunken Irish folk, she stands out like a diamond in the rough.

  I look over my shoulder toward the booth that I just got up from. I know that William and Cara are still there, locked in their passionate kiss.

  I look back over to Rebecca.

  She’s alone, looking lost and confused.

  I should just leave. Go home. Get some rest.

  Maybe even start packing for tomorrow.

  That’s what I should do.

  But, obviously, it isn’t what I’m going to do.

  I push through the people that stand between me and Rebecca.

  She turns and sees me coming toward her.

  She looks relieved.

  “Killi—” she starts to say, but I stop her.

  I take her face in the palms of my hands and pull her into me.

  Without a word, my lips meet hers with passion and desire worthy of a Shakespearean sonnet.

  Rebecca

  Holy shit.

  My knees are wobbling like jelly, and a fire of overpowering intensity is spreading through me at the goddamned speed of light.

  If Killian didn’t have his arms wrapped around me, I’m sure I’d be a blob on the pub floor.

  There’s total silence around me.

  It’s as if someone’s pressed the mute button on life. I can’t hear any of the noises that moments earlier were giving me a headache.

  “You weren’t going to order a drink, were you?”

  Pouting, I put my hands on my hips.

  “What are you implying, Killian?” I pretend to be outraged at his question. “That I’m so irresponsible I’d do something like that?”

  Killian laughs and puts his arm around my shoulder. He gives it a little squeeze for good measure.

  “How about something bold, something dark, and a little bitter?”

  In mock horror, I punch him in the chest. “It might be the drink of the Irish, the one to fix every ailment, but Guinness is still alcohol.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I meant coffee, in case it wasn’t clear.”