by Maxi MacNair
Now James lay on his back, and Randi straddled him. She fucked him in strong, sure strokes, gliding up the length of him and teasing herself on his tip before impaling herself again.
His hands found her breasts and she arched her back, opening herself to him. She found the perfect way to ride him so the soft head of his cock rubbed her g-spot. The orgasm built slowly, rumbling deep within her. With each thrust it grew, grew with a need and a passion which finally flourished as she threw her head back and cried out to the dark room.
She wanted to flop down on him, to rest and revel in the fluttering aftermath. Instead, James maneuvered them so they sat face to face, James cross legged hugging her, Randi with arms and legs wrapped around him. He took control with his hips, moving slowly at first, easing her back into the rhythms. He moved faster and faster, until finally the position constrained him. He pulled out of her, and positioned her on her hands and knees.
He took a moment to kiss her again, to run his tongue over her cleft. She cried out in pleasure as he plunged into her again, his hands on her hips. They’d transitioned from love-making to sex of the purest, most animal kind. His thrusts became almost savage, quick, hard strokes, and his balls spanked against her clit. It became hard to breathe in the best way possible, panting as he rode her. This was all there was. Nothing else mattered if the two of them could make each other feel this way. She could tell he was getting close. His breath quickened, and he gripped her, angled her so he could pleasure himself more intensely. She knew she would come the moment he did, feeling his seed inside her in quick spurts. She loved the way it felt to come in tandem with him, a synchronicity that proved to her, in her mind, she’d done the right thing by inviting him back to her life. To take the steps of further merging their existences.
He pumped faster and faster, now she cried out with pleasure, thoughts slipping away and existing in a field of nothing but ecstasy. He came with a triumphant grunt, holding himself against her and she could feel his orgasm inside her, fluttering. As she predicted, she followed him, her own waves of red heaven taking her over. She scrunched in on herself, still on her hands and knees, and let herself be swept away.
They flopped together on the bed, tangled themselves into one another’s arms. She couldn’t get enough of the feel of him. The smell of him, even though he smelled like hotel soap and shampoo, not like his own.
They lay in silence until she worried he was about to fall asleep.
“So what do you want me to call you?”
His body went rigid in her arms.
“James.”
“What’s your legal name?”
“Eric Simmons.”
“And you don’t use the name because the police got too close?”
In the darkness she felt him nod. “In Austin.”
“So you created the James Moore identity, but didn’t finish it.”
“Right. I didn’t need to.”
“Can you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you get a social security number for James. Build a history.”
“I…could. I mean, it would cost. And it wouldn’t be legal in any way, shape, or form. Which you know.”
“I have an idea.”
When she explained it to him, he lay silent and still for a long time.
Randi went on. “It’s the only way. I can’t lose my job. I don’t want to work anywhere else, or do anything else. It’s the only option I can see where I get to have it all. The work I love, and the family I’m building.”
“I can try.”
Her Yoda quote made him laugh. “There is no try. You’ll be good at it. I know.”
“It’s really what you want?”
Now it was his turn to feel her nod. “The pay is good. Everyone will love you.”
* * *
He woke up early and went to the computer. He logged in and spent the day building up James Moore. James gave himself an associate’s degree in criminology from the University of Phoenix. He slid his information into their system, and requested reprint of his diploma on their website.
He paid dearly for a social security number.
“When should my birthday be?”
“When’s your real birthday?”
“March,” he told her. But he didn’t want to keep his old birthday—Damien’s birthday. James didn’t hurt people.
“Well, what’s your favorite month?”
“October. I choose Halloween. I had a friend in middle school whose birthday was on Halloween.”
“Bummer. We don’t get to celebrate for a long time. If it were me I’d have picked tomorrow and we’d have to go celebrate.”
He drew her to him, sat her on his lap at the computer chair. “Every night is a celebration with you in my life.”
She kissed him, and he could taste the strawberries she’d eaten on her sweet breath. Their tongues flicked together, and he felt heat rise in his pants.
“I gotta finish this. I’m so close.”
“Come and see me when you’re finished.”
He built a resume for James, carefully clicking into the Missoula Montana police department’s personnel files. He inserted himself there, as a former employee. He gave himself a few other jobs, then let it rest.
* * *
The next morning, James dressed in a suit and tie—not his best one, he didn’t want to come across as condescending—and went with Randi to the police station. Met with her supervisor. Luke Hill stroked his chin. “It’s not the way we usually do things, but with Watkins leaving we do have a need for it.”
“I have an excellent record with catching criminals,” he said. “I can really put myself into the headspace of these people, can predict their movements.”
“That is what we’re looking for. I hadn’t intended to post the position until later in the year, but if we have a good candidate now…”
“I promise I won’t let you down.”
The department had to do a formal interview for the vacant criminal profiler position. Randi gave him some intel on the other candidates (“in for a penny, in for a pound,” she said) and he knew they didn’t stand a chance.
In the beginning of February, James Moore was hired as a criminal profiler. Randi and her partner Chris determined the bank robber she’d been chasing was an Afghanistan veteran by the name of Damien Rice, who’d died sometime in January in upstate New York. She produced a death certificate, but couldn’t track down where the body was interred. No doubt in a pauper’s cemetery somewhere.
James excelled in his new role, and took on a side project, working with veterans in the city in a preventative way, giving them work to do before they felt they needed to turn to a life of crime.
Epilogue
In early July, Randi sat at her desk and felt a sudden splash of wetness. Had she spilled her coffee? No, that wasn’t right.
“Chris?” Her voice shook. “I think my water broke. Can you get James?”
Chris swept her up in a big hug and raced from their office up the stairs to James’. Randi leaned back in her chair.
This was it. New beginnings. Their baby was on its way.
Chris and James came back in together, James babbling like a fool. “The bag is in the car. We have everything we need. Extra change of clothes. Toothbrushes. I know I’m forgetting something…”
“Just get her to the hospital. You can worry about it all there.” Chris gave Randi another big hug. “Call me when you get close and I’ll come. These first babies sometimes can’t make their minds up when they want to home.”
Randi squeezed her partner’s hand.
She let James walk her out to the car. Her contractions started when they were halfway to Mt. Sinai.
“Breath. Just…remember to do the breathing thing.” It sounded like it was James who needed to breathe.
It might have been Randi and James’ first baby, but it wasn’t so for the nurses as the hospital. They swept her into a room, got her all set up, and compliment
ed her on how calm she was being. She was so in awe of the life she carried. Of the life she’d built. The man she’d found and saved.
The delivery wasn’t easy, but like everyone said, in the following years she forgot the pain, and the hours of pushing, swearing, and screaming. Abigail June Moore was born at 5:22am, on July 22nd, healthy and screaming, weighing seven pounds and four ounces. Not everything works out as planned.
In the aftermath of the birth, when all was said and done, mother and daughter fell asleep together in the hospital bed.
When Randi awoke and guided the baby to nurse, she found James awake and watching them. “I love you,” she told him.
“I love both of you.”
The End
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The Soldier’s Baby
~
“Can I get you anything else?”
The barista grinned as she punched the order into the register decorated with a string of tiny Christmas lights. The varying colors were punctuated with gold plastic bells and sparkling red ribbons. There was a miniature poinsettia next to the tip jar.
“No, just the tea, thanks,” I said, struggling to open the bag at my side while keeping its strap properly balanced over my shoulder. My new winter coat had a ruffled collar that, while undeniably trendy, already got in the way more times than I’d care to count.
As I searched for my wallet, I was well aware of the line forming behind me. I pulled out pamphlets and crumpled receipts, shoving them into my coat pocket so that I could dig further down into my bag. I muttered an apology to the girl at the register. She nodded with an over enthusiastic smile, but there was no mistaking the tension beginning to form in the air. Having worked retail during the holiday season in my early twenties, I understood how waiting customers could make her shift miserable. But of course my wallet was at the very bottom of my bag.
“Here,” I said, finally handing her a ten dollar bill. She gave me my change and the receipt.
“And your name?”
“Claire.”
“Alright, we’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Luck suddenly on my side, I was able to snag a small table against the window looking out onto the square and the towering Christmas tree adorned with cascading rows of white and blue lights that pulsed with life against the dark backdrop of early evening. It was a beautiful night, some stars actually visible beyond the orange city lights, and not as cold as it had been the last couple days. A group of young people walked past the window, huddled together and blowing puffs of white steam into the air. A child tugged on his mother’s sleeve, perky and wide-eyed as if he’d just heard her mention Santa Claus.
I sighed, running a hand over my stomach and glanced a table over. That was where we had sat together, before he left. We had made jokes about how we were trapped right below the over-compensating air conditioner. Somehow, even with the cafe running heat, I still felt a little cold.
“Claire!”
I jerked up at the sound of my name, my heart jumping at the possibility of him being early. But it was just my tea. I bit my lip, scolding myself for getting so foolishly worked up. Leaving my purse on my seat, I darted over to the counter to grab my drink. I topped it with a single shake of cinnamon, and a drizzle of honey. I looked at the tin of flaked of chocolate, stared at it a little and caught the corners of my lips curling up. He had added so much of them to his cappuccino that I informed him he should have just ordered a mocha. He retorted by saying a mocha wasn’t a “man’s drink”, whatever that meant.
Sitting back at my table, I pulled out my phone. Still early. I checked my email, but there were no messages. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, twirled it around my finger a bit. I sipped at my tea then checked my social media feed. I scrolled a bit, but I couldn’t really remember anything of what was there. Something about “10 Ways To Make A Man Crazy” and something else about “Enjoying The Holidays Without Weight Gain”. My thumb automatically tapped to open the articles, but the text blurred, my mind drifting to images of dark, curled hair and how that single unruly lock would peek out behind his ear. I wondered if the one inside my belly would have a similar lock.
It had been nearly eight months since he had left for duty. Nearly eight months since— whatever it was we had. Was it a fling? Having been deployed to a remote location, his actual job in the military really not something he would openly discuss. Correspondence between us regular but not routine. Usually two to three weeks would pass between messages. When I told him I wanted meet when he returned for the holidays, he agreed, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was just looking for another round of fun before probably getting sent out again.
I scratched at the side of my neck, sighing into my cup. I wondered how would he react to the news. Was any of what we had back then still lingering? Had it truly meant anything? But it could just be my rollercoaster-ing hormones suggesting that. Maybe I should have listened to Tamara when she said to just pretend it was someone else’s and move on… But no. I had made up my mind and asked Derek to meet me today, once his plane landed.
My heart told me I was making the right decision, but my stomach tumbled like there was a little gymnast inside it. I shouldn’t have come so early. I could have easily squeezed in another episode of Sex In The City and still made it on time. At least that would have distracted me.
I leaned back in my seat and watched as an elderly couple entered the cafe holding hands and placed an order to go. The short woman chuckled, adjusting the glasses on her nose, as her husband mispronounced her order twice. Over the speakers, a female voice sang about love and starry, wintery skies. I imagined them walking outside with their coffees, arms laced together to keep each other warm, whispering sweet everythings to each other. They left with their drinks, arms linked together as I anticipated, but lips moving only towards their cups.
I nestled into my jacket, sipped my tea, and breathed deeply, wondering if Derek and I would leave this place tonight in a similar fashion. Maybe it was just the tea or heartburn, but my chest warmed at the thought. The week I had spent with him was one I couldn’t forget, even after all these months and a couple moments of denial. The way he first looked at me, our first real date… the candles and the touch of his fingers along my waist and lower… the sweet signature his lips left on mine. I took another sip of my tea but almost swore I was tasting him, instead. I wonder if the memory of me is as imprinted on him. I wonder if he can, and does often, replay in his mind the first moment he saw me, kissed me, touched me like I can and do more often than I want. It’s hard not to, I carry the evidence of that week together every waking moment now.
~
Another night spent working. I stole a glance at my reflection in the full length mirror at the foyer, pausing just enough to make it look like I was naturally admiring the large standing vase next to it—the vase I had spent a great deal of overtime hunting down. Somehow my amber hair had managed to keep its tidy curls amongst all the activity that comes with trying to network at a client’s open house. It must have been the new hairspray I bought, as it advertised using coconut oil, or something equally as natural-sounding. I also took a moment to appreciate how great I actually looked in my navy, sleeveless cocktail dress, my flat stomach the result of green smoothies for breakfast and sneaking in an extra half hour of ab workouts before a dinner salad that was really more of a snack. It was just too bad I didn’t have time to pluck my eyebrows though.
Another potential buyer came through the front door and I put my glass of red wine to my lips. It was a woman wearing a shimmery gold dress and extraordinarily high heels. That was one thing I liked about cocktail-themed open houses: when I wasn’t handing out business cards, I could at least appreciate what the guests wore, as if it was an unorthodox fashion show.
When the woman finished hanging up her coat, I put on my friendliest smile, introduced myself, and pointed out the realtor currently upstairs talking to a middle-ag
ed man.
“Max can answer any questions you may have about the property,” I said. “But please have a look around first, find yourself a glass of wine and some refreshments if you’d like. The kitchen is around the corner.”
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes shifting around as if looking for someone. “Do you have a copy of his business card I could have?”
I fought to hide a frown. “I’m not his assistant, actually. I’m the interior designer hired by the firm. I can hand you my card though.” I slipped it into her hand. “I can spruce up any space, with any taste.”
“That’s your slogan?” She laughed.
“But I can say it because you’re already looking at my work. Track me down tonight, or give me a call. Estimates are always free.”
I looped around the main floor, nodding at some new faces I already gave my introductory spiel to. There were a few who seemed potentially interested, but nothing solid yet. Thankfully, the night was still young to some degree.
There were about ten people packed into the kitchen alone, mostly huddled around the island, admiring the tile backsplash and the pot lights hidden underneath the counter ledge. Trays of hors d’oeuvres passed through the space and the rest of the house, carried by servers in simple white uniforms. It wasn’t the fanciest open house I had been to, but definitely the fanciest that I had designed and decorated for.
A tall man paused at my side to offer me a fresh glass of wine—somehow mine had dwindled down to nothing. I wasn’t one to decline free wine, even if I was technically on working hours. It was my job to fit in and appear casual, and a second glass of wine certainly wouldn’t hurt. I wasn’t that much of a lightweight—though many of my friends thought I should be since I hardly drank as it was.
It was a shame most of those friends weren’t free to attend. Shay had that consignment shopping event and probably the kids, Megan had some reiki class—who takes class on a weekend?— and Jess mentioned something about having a date. I suppose I couldn’t blame Jess though. If I had a date lined up, I would have been tempted to skip out as well. That left Tamara.
