Baby Maker

by P. Dangelico

  “And I thought my situation was hopeless. If you’ve got your heart set on it then do it. This woman sounds like a good bet. And there never was a woman born that you couldn’t sweet talk, babycakes. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  His confidence in my abilities immediately elicits images of the little porcupine, as I’ve come to think of her. This is gonna be harder than he realizes.

  “She called me…” I probably shouldn’t. Probably a bad idea.

  “Called ya what, handsome?”

  “Quit it, will you. This is serious.”

  “Fine. What’d she call you, Dane?”

  “It ain’t gonna be easy to convince her is all I’m sayin’.”

  “What. Did. She. Call. You? I gotta get back to work.”

  “Foghorn Leghorn.”

  Silence. Painful silence. Succeeded by an explosion of laughter. An eternity later, he settles.

  “Woooooweeee! I do like this woman. This is definitely the one, Dane. No chance in hell this one is ever gonna fall for your ugly mug.”

  He’s right. This woman is exactly the kind I need to mother my child. There isn’t a single chance she’ll develop any feelings for me. Except irritation, that is.

  She’s clearly not looking for marriage because she’s a female, which makes her cunning and crafty, and if she wanted to be married she would be. And something about her, probably her generally uptight attitude, tells me she is rock solid. This is a woman that sees her tasks through come hell or high water.

  “Thanks for the pep talk, asshole.”

  “You comin’ home any time soon?” When his inquiry is met with silence, he sighs loudly. “Didn’t think so. Later, boo.”

  My mind made up, it was time to execute my plan. That being to convince the porcupine to give me another chance. After some not-so-gentle, verbal arm-twisting, Ethan eventually gave me her work address.

  I’ve been camped out front of her building since noon. By four, it started raining. By six, I’m soaked and in dire need of a piss break. That’s when I see black hair slicked back in a tight bun coming through the revolving doors. Hallelujah, I may not catch pneumonia.

  As soon as I take off my helmet––the only way I could avoid being recognized––she immediately spots me. Her expression does a couple of flips. From surprise, to irritation, to anger, and back to irritation. I smile. She frowns and makes a hard right, taking off down the street at a steady clip, her short legs moving quicker than I’d anticipated.

  She’s wearing a black suit again. It seems the only thing the woman wears is black so she’s easy to tail. My eyes move down, looking for the swell of her heart-shaped ass beneath that shapeless suit and get nothing.

  In seconds the rain goes from a steady shower to torrential downpour. All at once umbrellas of every color pop up. I almost lose her in the crowd. Her stature allows her to make sharp cuts through the congested sidewalk. Mine doesn’t. Not unless I want to end up mowing down a couple of folks.

  Breaking into a jog, I finally catch up and step in her path. She makes an abrupt stop and some dude almost plows into her from behind. I reach out in time to block him. For this kindness, I’m rewarded with an eye roll and a none-too-pleased look on her face.

  “What’s the rush, Shorty?” Her eyebrows shoot up. Okay, maybe not the best start.

  “What do you want, Wylder?”

  “I’d love for you to call me Dane.” I smile again, trying to loosen that stranglehold she’s got on happy but it ain’t workin’. This is one tough nut to crack.

  “I didn’t ask what you love. I asked what you want.”

  Raindrops pelt her rosy cheeks and slide down to her chin. She makes no move to wipe them away. My instinct is to take her arm and guide her somewhere warm and safe but I’m pretty sure I’ll be missing a limb if I do that.

  “Can we talk?”

  “We have nothing to discuss.”

  “What about your hasty departure the other day? You didn’t allow me to explain why I’m the perfect candidate for your babymaking scheme.”

  “Babymaking scheme?” she repeats, frowning. I’m guessing those were not the right words because it looks like her mood just took a turn for the worse.

  “You know––”

  “Yes, I do know,” she says, interrupting. “And what I know I don’t care for. The answer is no. I will not have you co-parent a child with me.”

  Stepping around me, she keeps walking and I keep pace. “Why not?”

  “For obvious reasons––which are too numerous to list.”

  The rain comes down harder. We’re both drenched to the bone. The porcupine, however, makes no attempt to seek cover.

  “Give me a chance to change your mind.”

  She weaves through the umbrella-armed crowd easily. I almost knock over a teenage boy in my effort to stay with her. Turns out she’s surprisingly nimble which bodes well for my kid’s athletic prowess. The boy smiles when he realizes who almost knocked the teeth out of his head. We’re on the move again before he can ask for an autograph.

  “Stella––”

  She finally stops at the top of the subway entrance. Maybe it’s the desperation in my voice. Maybe she’s tired of running from me and is ready to negotiate. Either way, I may have scored a point. At least, I sure as shit hope so.

  Turning slowly, she faces me with mistrust and irritation in her big eyes. “Look––Wylder. This is a kid we’re talking about. Not a puppy you can drop off at the pound once the novelty wears off. We’re talking seventeen years plus of fevers and dentist appointments and piano recitals and ballet lessons and…and…if I wanted an absentee father I’d go to a sperm bank. I’m not gambling my kid’s future on you. Not on a guy that can barely remember to show up for an appointment and looks like he’s not done fucking around and partying hard.”

  A flare of anger kicks up and it’s a big one. It shoots right up my spine and gets my dander up.

  “You got that backward, darlin’. I fuck hard and party around.”

  The moment the words leave my lips I want to call them back. I want to shout that I don’t mean it, that I’m not that guy. But I can’t because I’m trapped in my own personal hell. She gets me so dang angry I lose all capacity for rational thought and speech.

  Her face remains perfectly blank. This worries me even more. I can practically hear what she’s thinking and it ain’t good. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut and a heavy weight sitting on my chest and for the first time in my adult life I’m ashamed of myself.

  Raindrops catch on her lashes. She blinks rapidly and licks the water off her lips, expression stoic as she gets hit in the face.

  “Thanks for making this easy.”

  With that, she turns and glides down the subway steps, disappearing from sight, while I stand there trying to shake off the feeling that I just got pancaked by a three-hundred-pound defensive lineman.

  Chapter Six

  Stella

  “How was your meeting? You didn’t say.”

  The question jumpstarts an immediate playback of the whole dreadful experience.

  “That’s because I’m trying to forget it ever happened.”

  I look up from my computer screen, at the man asking the questions. A thick head of white hair that would make anybody envious and a tan recently acquired in St. Barth. Leaning against the doorframe with his hands neatly tucked into his navy pinstriped suit pants, Ira warmly smiles back at me, though it must be said the smile is edged with cynicism. As if the joke’s on you and you just don’t know it yet. In this case he’s absolutely right. The joke is on me.

  As soon as I jumped on the line two subway train to 14th Street, I took out my phone and sent Ethan a text. This is how that went.

  Me: Thanks for giving your friend my work address. What were you thinking?? Red-faced, angry horns emoji.

  Ethan: He’s worse than a hungry dog with a bone when he wants something. Cute dog emoji.

  Me: And this is what you call a man of great
character? Poop emoji. Eye roll emoji.

  Ethan: He is. Thumbs-up emoji.

  Me: I have yet to see any evidence, counselor.

  Ethan: Give him a chance and you will.

  It is never. Going to. Happen.

  “That bad?”

  Ira Spitzberg is as close to a father as I’ve ever known and one of a few men I trust implicitly. Goldman Sachs made me an offer right after graduation, and at the time Ira was running the private banking division. I was one of a few people that stayed at the office later than he did. He took notice of the girl with big curly hair––before I figured out how to use a flat iron––and the rest is history.

  Safely ensconced under his wing, he taught me everything he knew. Only later did I learn it had been a difficult time for him. His only son had recently died of an overdose and he was struggling with depression. I became a worthy distraction and four years later, when he decided to leave Goldman to open his own hedge fund, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  “A total bust. I don’t know what Ethan was thinking.”

  Walking into my corner office, he takes the seat on the opposite side of my desk and crosses his legs.

  How many times has Ira done that? Countless times. Most often it was to explain why he decided to pull out of a deal, or dump a stock I thought was performing well and had more to go before a pullback.

  Without Ira guiding me every step of the way, I wouldn’t be nearly as successful as I am. Confidence goes a long way in this line of work. Knowing when to listen and take advice and not let your pride override logic takes you much farther.

  “So you’re really doing this?”

  After the BIG decision, changes had to be made, starting with my current work schedule. Working twelve-hour days is not conducive to having a personal life or being a good parent so I stepped down as head trader, assuming less responsibility. At first it was nerve-racking. Now, getting out of work by six feels like I can breathe for the first time in my life.

  My mother was never home because she had no choice. As much as my brother and I needed her, we had to do without.

  I have a choice, however. I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to making enough money to feel safe, to be able to make choices not coerced by guilt or fear, and I finally had.

  I’d made enough money to take care of myself, my child, and my family without breaking out in hives every time I made a purchase. Business had been good. Hypothetically, I never needed to work another day in my life again––not that I would ever do such a crazy thing.

  “I need a life.”

  “When does the clock start?”

  “Not for a while. And I’ll only be gone for six months. Besides, David is practically giddy with delight.”

  I hate giving that little shit any satisfaction. It’s a given that when a woman starts climbing the rungs of the boys club there is always one snot-nosed boy who tries to knock her down. David, Ira’s nephew and an all-around douchebag that can’t wait to take my place as head trader without doing a damn thing to earn it, has gladly assumed that role at Spitzberg and Co.

  “David is a little shit and not nearly as good as you at anticipating a change in the market.”

  “I won’t disagree with you.”

  A man suddenly appears in the open doorway of my office, a man I’d hoped never to lay eyes on again.

  Hair a disheveled mop, scruff that tells me he hasn’t shaved in a week, black eye turning an interesting shade of green. I blink and blink but no, I’m not hallucinating.

  “Hi there,” he says, all chipper and smiley, like someone told him he won a trip to Disneyland. Or better yet, the best little whore house in Nevada. That’s probably more his style.

  “What are you doing here?” And then it dawns on me. “How did you get in here? Unannounced?”

  “Jennifer––”

  “Jessica?”

  “That’s what I said. The nice lady at the front desk mentioned you were not currently in a meeting.”

  I bet she did. Good to know any rapist murderer armed with a great smile can waltz right in. Outside the glass-paned wall of my office, I see every single head poking out from cubicles turned in our direction.

  Someone coughs and I remember we are not alone.

  Wylder’s eyes move to Ira. As do mine. With his chin resting between his thumb and index finger, Ira appears to be wearing a suspiciously sly smile. I know that smile and it worries me. It’s the same smile he wears when he gets a hunch about a stock.

  “The bust?” Ira remarks. I return a stiff smile in answer.

  “Dane Wylder.” With an outstretched hand, the man in question walks into the office and heads straight for Ira who, now standing, is more than happy to shake the trespasser’s hand.

  “I know who you are,” Ira answers with way too much amusement dancing in his voice. “I’m a season ticket holder––twenty years now. I was there for the Hail Mary win over Green Bay. That fingertip catch was something special.”

  “My first Super Bowl,” Wylder rejoins with a crooked grin.

  Instalove alert.

  It’s hard to watch, and quite frankly, disappointing. I never thought I’d see the day when Ira Spitzberg, financial genius, the leading authority on merger arbitrage, makes a fool of himself over a guy that plays with balls for a living.

  I cough loud enough to be heard in the hallway. Both men turn to me as if only now realizing I’m still in the room, intruding on their tête-a-tête.

  “Dane Wylder, this is Ira Spitzberg––my boss.” Heavy emphasis on the title lest he think about jumping into round three of an argument. I’m assuming he has basic common decency. Big assumption on my part.

  “Nice to meet you, Ira,” the trespasser replies.

  “I’ll show you out, Wylder.”

  His attention swings back to me, his eyes bright with, dare I say, nervous anticipation. “I came to take you to lunch.”

  After our last two encounters? He must be kidding. That or he’s a glutton for punishment.

  “No,” is my simple and immediate reply. I wouldn’t let him take me to the ER if I was bleeding to death.

  I fuck hard. Those three words have been ringing in my head for days. It’s driving me nuts. I can’t seem to scrub them from my brain. Which is plain odd because I’ve heard things that would make a Marine drill sergeant blush. Working around type A men for nearly a decade, you pick up a few things.

  Jaw clenched, lips pressed in a straight line, Mr. Fuck Hard is itching for another debate. It’s plainly written on his face.

  “I feel like you got the wrong impression of me and I’d like to rectify that as soon as possible.” After a brief glance at Ira, he adds, “There’s a particularly delicate matter I need to discuss with you.”

  Delicate? Rectify? I sigh tiredly. At least he’s eased off the corny accent.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Yes––no. I mean…just no. No lunch. No discussion.”

  Expression wavering between total dejection and disbelief, his reaction almost has me laughing. I don’t think this guy has ever heard the word no before.

  An awkward quiet falls. Wylder makes no move to leave, standing in the doorway paralyzed by indecision. That pesky no word sure has him stumped.

  “Maybe you should hear what the man has to say, Stel.”

  I shoot Ira a death glare, one straight out of the Mercedes Donovan playbook, which only makes him chuckle.

  Judas.

  “I won’t take much of your time.”

  And now I’m on the spot. As genuinely contrite as he is, and I can see that he is, this is a waste of time. There’s absolutely no chance this guy qualifies as father material. It looks like he’s not done growing up himself.

  He waits me out, his long fingers drumming against the black motorcycle helmet he’s holding like he might actually be nervous.

  Yeah, right. He’s playing me. I know the type––balls to the wall, win at any cost, accustomed to get
ting what he wants and can’t bear to lose at anything.

  I’ve been around men like him my entire life. The financial world is rife with his type. Good thing I’m skilled in handling this brand of bullshit. Except, I don’t want to look like a total bitch in front of Ira who seems to have fallen hard under this guy’s spell. Embarrassing if you ask me.

  “Lunch,” I say with yet another heavy sigh and a glare.

  “Perfect.” Then he smiles. He smiles broadly.

  “A very short one,” I snap, though at this point my demands seem petty and pointless which only infuriates me more.

  “Anything you want.”

  “I need to be back here in an hour.”

  “We’ll eat somewhere close.”

  Sauntering past the trespasser with a smug grin, Ira says, “You two play nice,” and walks out the door.

  I make a metal note to murder mentor slash boss later.

  Snatching up my purse and my suit blazer off the back of my chair, I head for the door. “You’re on the clock.”

  “After you, ma’am.”

  “Why am I here?”

  I glance around the lunch crowd of Harry’s Cafe. Located a stone’s throw from the famed Wall Street Bull, it’s close enough to my office to make this lunch as short as possible. I catch a few people watching us. Or more precisely, watching the man I’m having lunch with.

  The young waiter who came to take our drink order looked ready to swoon when he realized who was sitting in his section.

  I don’t get all the hoopla. I really don’t. So the man was good at throwing a ball…or catching one? Whatever, the man was good with a ball. Did he cure cancer? No? Then why the hell would anyone want his autograph? Besides, I don’t need a legendary anything. I need a dependable father for my child.

  Grimacing, he can’t seem to get comfortable in the wooden chair. This guy is big, and the ceiling of this restaurant lower than usual. It’s one of those basement-level restaurants, making him look like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput. His thighs alone could be described as twin ship masts. Frankly, I can’t believe the chair hasn’t collapsed under his weight already.