The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  At least they’re polite enough to include me in the offer and not act like I don’t exist.

  “No, thank you, ladies. It’s quite alright. I thank you for your patronage. It means the world to me.”

  His voice is full of life. Vibrant and charming like the Killian I met in Dublin years ago.

  Like the Killian who takes me to bed.

  “Well I just want to say that A Moon in the Alley is my all-time favorite book. It’s amazing,” one of the girls—a brunette with big doe eyes and breasts to match—gushes.

  “Well thank you, lass. Truly, I appreciate it.”

  The girls wave goodbye and stumble towards the rest of their drunken evening.

  I watch them walk away, but Killian’s gaze turns back to the half empty pint in front of him.

  Is this why he’s such an asshole in public?

  Has all this constant adoration gone so much to his head that he thinks he can just be an asshole and nobody will be offended by it?

  Does he truly believe that he’s now The Great Killian Fucking Walsh and that he can do no harm?

  “You totally get off on this, don’t you?”

  I don’t know why I blurted it out, but it’s too late. And honestly, I want to hear his response.

  “Not in the slightest, Rebecca,” he answers dryly.

  The smile that he had for the girls fades from his face—which is a shame since he has a truly beautiful smile—and is replaced by a look of mild boredom.

  “Bullshit. You went from asshole to Prince Charming the moment compliments and tits showed up.”

  “Honestly, lass. It’s all an act. I didn’t get into writing to be some big celebrity or be admired. I really can’t stand all the adulation. And whenever people show up and approach me like that? I don’t really know how to deal with it except to be as nice as I can and send them on their way as quickly as possible.”

  I hear this mix of tenderness and embarrassment in his voice that leads me to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s being upfront about this.

  But I’ve seen several sides of him today that it’s getting hard to know which ones are genuine and which ones aren’t.

  And that thought makes me go back to questioning his apology.

  Was it genuine?

  Was he talking to me like he does his fans?

  Is he telling me what I want to hear—or rather, what he thinks I want to hear?

  I take another sip of my coffee, which has proven to be quite the delightful treat. I never thought that I would enjoy the stuff regularly, even with the one mug a day habit I’ve been developing.

  Even if I decide to nip this daily habit in the bud, I can see myself enjoying a cup of nice, strong coffee on St Patrick’s Day.

  That and some of the Locke’s single malt. That was yet another nice surprise in the world of Irish beverages.

  And yes, Irish drinking—alcoholic and non—is a whole world unto itself. The amount of stouts, whiskeys, and spirits that the Irish have made is mind boggling. I can probably spend a year here just exploring it all.

  Maybe I’ll convince Stephanie to take a year off and come join me someday when I’m enjoying a bit of booze again. I’m sure she’d love to roll out a yoga mat and try a Full Lotus or a Downward Dog out in the middle of the Irish countryside.

  She can absolutely meditate out here, too, I’m sure. I don’t know how she does it—I don’t think I could ever relax that much—but more power to her.

  “And again, I’m sorry, Rebecca. I don’t mean to be such a colossal arse. My social skills may have fermented a little in recent years, or decades.”

  Another apology.

  But, can I believe it?

  A lot of men apologize when called out on their bullshit. Even my ex-husband—Captain Dickhead von Fuckstick—apologized when he hurt me.

  Didn’t always mean they were sorry. And it certainly didn’t fucking mean that they weren’t going to do it again.

  And with Killian acting so strange, I’m still wondering if I can believe him. If I can trust him.

  How do I know he won’t make some other accusation—a hurtful one at that—or blame me for some crime that has never been defined?

  “Rebecca? Rebecca Doyle? Is that you?”

  I can’t even begin to express how shocked I am right now to hear someone who isn’t Killian calling out my name.

  I turn on my stool to see a tall, well-dressed Irishman standing before me.

  Unlike Killian, this man is exactly what you expect a native Irishman to look like.

  He has short strawberry red hair and a thick beard of the same color that blends into it perfectly. He has the same blue eyes that Killian has, but this man’s eyes are softer—almost jovial.

  And though he may be dressed like a stock broker, his roguish smile certainly hints at a man who’s more mischievous with his time than watching the market.

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “My apologies. Where are my manners?” He laughs and offers his hand to me. “Flanagan. Brian Flanagan. I’m a tremendous admirer of your work. Though not nearly as much as my nephew. The Butterfly and The Bee is his all-time favorite book. He adores the butterfly. All of the artwork on my sister’s fridge is of the butterfly.”

  I take his hand in mine for a polite handshake, “Brian Flanagan, the writer?”

  He nods, “One and the same.”

  “I’m a fan myself. I was actually reading Light at Sea on my flight here. I adore Malcolm as a protagonist. It’s not often you see male characters embrace their vulnerability and turn it into a strength.”

  “Well, in truth, Malcolm is just a pale intimation of my father. That man defined, to me at least, what man can and should be. Far too often men close themselves off from the world. They believe solitude and booze are strengths. There is nothing wrong with embracing the softness of one’s heart and letting it shine through.”

  Oh, this guy is good.

  Handsome? Check.

  Well-dressed? Check.

  Talented? Check.

  Can make a subtle dig at Killian so that I don’t have to? Double check.

  From behind me, I hear the sound of an empty glass slamming down against the bar.

  I turn to look and I’m not surprised to see that Killian has finished the rest of his pint in one big drink.

  “Oh, Killian. You know...”

  “Yes, I know Brian quite well thank you,” Killian cuts me off with an abrasive tone that I’ve never heard from him until now.

  “Killian and I go way back, don’t we? We grew up together in this very county. He’s always been an inspiration for my own writing, and I hope to someday prove to be his equal.”

  Brian’s tone is both smug and humble—something I didn’t ever think was possible to do—but I’ll be damned if he didn’t just pull it off.

  The man is far better than I give him credit for.

  A flush of red appears in Killian cheeks and I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy it.

  It’s nice to see the roles reversed for once.

  I do feel a twinge of guilt for getting pleasure out of seeing Killian’s displeasure, though.

  “Well, looks like you’ll just have to keep at it, won’t you, boyo?”

  Killian tries to match Brian’s tone, but he fails. He sounds bitter more than anything else.

  “Oh, please. You two are both immensely talented writers. I dare say you’re the best to ever come out of Ireland.”

  “Indeed,” Killian mutters.

  “You are far too kind, Miss Doyle. But who am I to refuse such a compliment from someone as talented as yourself?”

  Who knew Irishmen could be so smooth?

  The smiling bartender brings over a new pint for Killian to consume, and Brian immediately reaches for his wallet.

  “Here, Charlie. Their drinks are on me tonight.”

  Charlie takes the money from Brian, and Killian’s face turns nearly as red as my hair.

  I’m not sur
e this is going to end well, but I’m not about to let Killian ruin my night.

  After all, it’s not like I’m his or anything.

  Our relationship is purely a business arrangement. Nothing more.

  Killian

  Fucking prick.

  How dare he come in here and ruin a fucking perfect evening? Of all the inconsiderate, selfish things to do to a man.

  And could his timing be any fucking worse?

  I’m sure I’m turning shamrock green and rosewood fucking red.

  My insides threaten to boil over. I swear, if the prick makes one more joke or pays Rebecca one more compliment, I’ll punch his fucking lights out.

  And why is she looking at him like that? Her eyes are wide open, as if she’s admiring him.

  Can’t she see what he’s doing? I mean it’s so fucking obvious.

  All he wants is to get into her pants.

  And here I thought Rebecca was a woman with judgment, a woman who was smart—street-savvy, even. But no, a bloke comes running along, pays her a few fucking compliments, and she’s all over him like a rash.

  Okay, so I’m being a bit harsh by judging Rebecca like that. But she’s laughing at his jokes, she’s singing his praises, and she’s pretending to be interested in him.

  Pretty close to being all over him at any fucking rate.

  But why is this bothering me? I mean, there’s nothing going on between me and her. Besides our practical business arrangement, but that’s it.

  The way he leans into her is outrageous. Hasn’t the man heard of personal space?

  I mean, he can’t have because he’s invading Rebecca’s right now. If I had a piece of paper, I doubt I’d be able to slip it between the two of them.

  “Don’t you agree, Killian?” Brian asks, turning toward me.

  I just glare at him.

  His fucking pathetic attempt at drawing me into the conversation is falling on deaf ears. I won’t be part of it. Instead of giving him a reply, I put my drink to my lips and take a sip.

  Rebecca glances at me, all smiles, but then she diverts her attention back to Brian.

  Fecking shite.

  If he doesn’t leave us alone soon, I’ll either explode or smash something.

  Instead of trying to listen in on their conversation, I try and focus on something else. But it’s too hard.

  I try and think of a range of different adjectives to describe Brian, but it’s hard fucking work. Conceited, arrogant, self-assured, prick.

  Pathetic list really. I mean, I’m a writer and should be able to sprout forth brilliant words like James fucking Joyce on a moment’s fucking notice, but alas, nothing is working for me tonight.

  Rebecca’s entire face is lit up like a Christmas tree, and Brian leans casually against the bar next to her. An innocent bystander might think they’ve known each other for years. If they start kissing, I’m out of here.

  They look so close they could be dating. I shake my head, close my eyes, and pinch myself. Man, is he really making a move on my woman?

  Wait—what am I saying? She’s not my woman. Rebecca’s just someone who’s going to have my baby.

  Of course, I can’t even explain my emotional turmoil to myself.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  One minute we were having a nice chat and the next, it’s ruined by the intrusion of Brian Flanagan. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s done this on purpose.

  But then, he could have no idea what’s going on here.

  Wait a minute. What the fuck is going on here?

  Why am I overreacting? I’m carrying on like a spoilt five-year-old who doesn’t get his own way.

  No. Fucking fuck this shit.

  I’m not jealous. What’s there to be jealous about? We’re two friends in a pub having a drink, and we’ve entered into an arrangement about having a baby.

  It’s all perfectly innocent, above board, and most importantly with no strings attached or emotional ties.

  Then, why is Flanagan ruining it for me?

  A little voice tries to be heard. It tells me what I don’t want to hear.

  It whispers something like You’re obviously jealous Killian.

  No, I’m not. Definitely not. I’m concerned for Rebecca.

  I don’t want her to get hurt. Brian has a reputation.

  He’s known to break women’s heart faster than a Ferrari can drive around a race track. I realize it’s a crap analogy, but heck, I’m struggling to string a fucking sentence together.

  From what I can gather, she’s just left one failed relationship behind. She wouldn’t want to enter into another.

  I down another gulp of whiskey.

  Now, there’s something dependable right here. A whiskey won’t let you down.

  It gets the job done, with the added benefit of tasting fucking good every single time.

  Rebecca laughs, and Brian leans toward her. I’m ready to jump in and pull him off her, but then I realize he’s shaking her hand.

  Obviously he’s said something amusing; otherwise, why would she be laughing?

  “Farewell, my friend,” Brian says to me, but I only shoot daggers at him.

  Either he doesn’t notice, or he chooses to ignore me. He gives me a wave and then he’s gone.

  “He’s nice.” Rebecca’s eyes are shining as she stands up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she says, then turns to leave.

  “Where’re you going?” I don’t mean to sound so sharp.

  She stops and turns toward me. She briefly furrows her brow. “To the toilet if you must know. Want to supervise?”

  She sounds sarcastic, and I regret my question.

  Holy fucking shit. What am I doing?

  Instead of pacing up and down near our seat, I decide it’s time to fucking get out of here.

  What’s the point of hanging around? I don’t want to be here and watch the speeding train crash.

  And if Rebecca falls for the smooth-talking, two-timing sleazebag Brian Flannigan, she’s going to be sorry.

  If I tell her, she won’t listen to me, I know that much. She’s one headstrong fucking lady.

  Anyway, what’s it to me?

  I sigh. And I hesitate.

  And I fucking hover at the end of the bar close to the front door. It’s as if my feet are suddenly glued to the spot.

  My mind’s screaming at me to get out of here, to leave and run as fast as I can, but my feet refuse to obey.

  In total fucking frustration, I stomp my foot.

  Someone bumps into me.

  “Fuck man, watch where you’re going,” I bark and glower at the offender.

  “Chill, Killian,” he says and leaves me to it.

  Chill.

  Easy for him to say; he isn’t in my shoes.

  Again, I can’t understand myself. How am I supposed to shed any kind of light on universal fucking turmoil or whatever the critics say I fucking do again?

  Those days are behind me, if nothing else. Might as well start writing horoscopes to pay the fucking bills.

  For an interminable period, I just stay where I am, with one foot pointed toward a quick getaway and the other holding me back. It’s like I’m suspended in limbo, the place between heaven and hell.

  Fucking hell.

  This is what Dante must’ve been fucking writing about. I’m loitering somewhere around the Eighth Circle at the goddamn moment.

  Fucking appropriate, because I had just watched a fucking fraudster in action, chatting up the woman who was supposed to be my business partner.

  One bright spot is that I’m free to leave this hell at any time.

  And if I leave, what’ll that achieve?

  Absolutely fucking nothing, I remind myself.

  In fact, if I leave, I’m practically handing Rebecca to Brian on a silver platter. I may as well draw up a fucking contract for the two of them to have their own relationship, cutting me out of the partnership completely.

  No fucking way.

  “
A bottle of Jameson,” I shout to the bartender and prowl back to my seat.

  I’m not a runner. I don’t fucking run away from life.

  In fact, I glare it right in the eyes and ask it, What the fuck do you want?

  There’s no point in running away anyway. I mean, what am I running from, exactly? I remind myself over and over and again that I’m fucking overreacting.

  Killian, you’re overreacting.

  It almost becomes a mantra.

  Back in my seat, I stare at everything and nothing. People all around me are having a good time.

  There’s jovial conversation, friendly banter, and lots of laughter.

  A joyful vibe fills the air, and I take a deep breath, trying to inhale just a touch of it for myself.

  I grab the bottle of Jameson and pour myself a glass. Then, I pick up the glass and down in with one large gulp.

  Before I’ve finished fucking swallowing, I fill the glass the again.

  By now, my eyes are glued to the door. I’m waiting for Rebecca to come back.

  The second glass goes down as fast as the first, and I’m onto my third.

  On my fourth glass, I remind myself I’m a worthy human being. My value doesn’t decrease because some other fuckhead can’t see it.

  And what does it matter, anyway?

  I mean, at the end of the day...it’s all bullshit, anyway.

  And with that thought, I gulp down my fifth glass.

  Fuck the lot of you. I don’t need you, any of you.

  Rebecca

  Well, this is surely the last thing I expected to see.

  Not Killian taking down a glass of whiskey. That’s too fucking expected in any day ending with y, especially down at the local pub where they seem to have no issues enabling every one of his bad habits.

  Okay, one of his worst habits. It’s a fucking big one, but...

  Seeing Killian pour amber poison straight from a poorly-cleaned glass right down his throat is not what’s taking me by surprise in this moment.

  It’s the face he seems to be making after each swallow. And sometimes, in between—although there doesn’t seem to be many gaps.

  “Okay. Okay,” Killian weirdly repeats the word as he finishes his latest glass.

  The way he says it doesn’t sound to me like he’s saying okay, I’m done, that’s enough for tonight. His inflection seems to be saying, okay, I’m finished with that one—boy, this is hard work, but I’ve got a lot more drinking to do tonight.