Due Date_A Baby Contract Romance

by Emily Bishop

  “I’m not saying yes,” I said, my nostrils flared.

  * * *

  “As I said, you have six months to decide,” my father said, speaking slowly. His words kind of trickled through the air. “After that, if you deliver no heirs, you and I can part ways. And we no longer have to speak of this, of Hank, or of your mother—ever again.”

  4

  Remy

  I yanked the towel over the beer spill, noting that the edges of my screenplay were dripping. Marshall, the drunk from just up the road in the Mission, who’d apparently been a seasoned San Francisco drunk for “longer than I’d been alive,” had pushed his elbow into the beer glass and sent it flying. And now, at nearly eleven in the evening, I was disgruntled. Wondering just why the fuck I was working at my brother’s bar in my home city.

  “Honey, you should turn that frown upside down,” Marshall said, slurring the words. “Because you don’t look good without a smile.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, conscious that he wouldn’t remember it tomorrow when he inevitably stumbled in around lunch time. “Lift your arms,” I sighed, watching as he brought his dripping sleeves into the air. “Marshall, I think you better call it a night tonight.”

  Marshall leaned in to me, almost leering. I knew he was generally harmless, yet I felt that familiar twinge behind my eyes. Working in bars my first few years in Los Angeles had taught me that not everyone was a good guy.

  “Baby, why don’t you let me have a beer to go?” he asked. “Your brother always lets me do it.”

  Annoyed, wanting the dark bar to myself, I poured him a pint in a Styrofoam cup and handed it across the bar. I watched as he stumbled toward the dark doorway, catching his foot on the rug and nearly tripping. On the other side of the doorway, a man stood—his leather jacket flipping in the sudden evening wind. This man held open the door for Marshall. Marshall spat out slurred words I could just barely make out.

  * * *

  “That girl in there. She’s quite a bitch.”

  “I’m sorry? What did you call her? That woman who suited you up for the night, when it seems you’re drunk out of your mind—is a bitch?” Wesley’s words grew louder, brasher. “I don’t suppose you want to repeat that, do you?”

  I watched as his fingers twitched. A feeling of recognition rose up in me, memories of the years when Wesley had stuck up for me, fought for me.

  But Marshall was so sloshed he just grumbled and eased past, stumbling down the road. I noticed my rapid, beating heart and tried to ease my nerves by mopping at the edges of my script with my towel. Goddamn, it looked foolish—all these white papers, splayed out across the bar.

  “Hey there,” Wesley said, striding forward, riding a wave of arrogance. He threw that horribly attractive smile toward me, flashing his white, all-American teeth. His eyes, though, seemed strangely far away. They held a different emotion I couldn’t place.

  “Hi,” I said, my tongue nearly sticking in my mouth. “Are you looking for Quintin?”

  “Sure. Yes,” Wesley said, giving me a shrug. He folded himself atop one of the bar stools and blinked at the empty joint. “Seems you scared them all out.”

  “It’s after eleven on a Wednesday,” I said. “We close soon, anyway.” I watched his eyes trace a line toward the taps. Without speaking, I settled a glass under the spout and filled it with a frothy finish. I set it in front of him. How much I had given him, as a younger girl? My virginity. My love. My hopes for a future… Gross.

  And now, the dream I’d rushed off to Los Angeles to chase—in his absence, mind you—was null and void. I was back, scraping at bar dirt like a rat. He was probably grateful we’d stripped of one another long ago.

  “He’s not around anymore, anyway,” I finally said, speaking of Quintin. “I told him he should take the night off. He’s been out-of-his-mind busy lately.”

  “Ah. I see,” Wesley said, his eyes still heavy. He stared into mine, just as he had as a much younger man—with a kind of erotic need, an inner desire to thrust me against the wall and whisper hungrily into my ear.

  “Yes, well,” I said, trying to speak through my nerves. “It’s good he let me have this job. On the weekends, the tips are insane. I’m hopefully going to fight through my debt…”

  “Hmm,” Wesley murmured, sipping his beer. “How long have you been back from Los Angeles, anyway? Every other time I came to visit Quintin, you weren’t around.”

  I paused, surprised at the question. Was he genuinely interested in what my life had been like the previous ten-plus years? I leaned toward him, pressing my tits against the top of the counter. Tension between us felt suddenly elevated, the air sizzling with so many things unsaid. That last fight, when we’d just stormed away, both ready to take on our separate lives… Had it worked out for him?

  “Well, I was trying to work as an actress,” I said.

  “I know,” Wesley said, his voice lowering. “I saw a few of your movies.”

  My lips pressed into a small smile. “You did? They were mostly B movies, at best. I hardly ever had more than, like, fifteen lines.”

  “I saw them. I saw the—the one of you in Thailand, on that beach? They had you go almost naked,” Wesley said. He leaned closer to me, his breath lowering. “You know, I saw that in a weirdo theater in Alabama, maybe six years ago. And I remember listening to all the guys around me talking about how hot you were. What a knockout. And I remember thinking, goddamn them. I had you first. I was supposed to have you for good.”

  What the hell was I supposed to say to this? “Ha, good one,” I said, lamely. I began to organize my sheets from the screenplay, forcing my eyes away from his. I hoped, prayed, he would keep talking while simultaneously hoping he would strut away from Station to Station Pub forever and never utter my name again. I’d been through enough.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice coaxing. “You must have some kind of response to that.”

  I drew my eyes toward his penetrating, blue ones. Each and every cell in my body screamed out for his touch, while my mind questioned him and his intentions. Were the last ten years apart just an accident, an experiment we shouldn’t have ever conducted? We were good together. Our bodies, our minds, our sense for adventure—it had all come together in a kind of explosion. And we’d tossed it away.

  “I couldn’t hack it.” I tilted my head. “The lifestyle was rough, Wes. It was always waiting for the next movie to come along. And then you’d take a commercial, just because you thought that, maybe, fuck it, at least you’re acting and getting a check in the mail every once in a while. Suddenly, you look in the mirror and you realize you’re past age thirty, and it never happened for you. And on top of it, my boyfriend—my ex-fiancé, Tyler— Well. I had to get away.”

  I felt I was word-vomiting at him. I blinked into his eyes, incredulous. I hadn’t told anyone this, not in the month or so since I’d returned like a dog with my tail between my legs.

  Wesley pointed toward the screenplay, still damp from Marshall’s beer. His fingers were thick, his forearm muscular. I wondered what it would feel like to have his hands up my shirt, to have them spread out over my chest and feeling at the dark brown nub of my nipple…

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Oh, this? Oh, um. It’s just…”

  But suddenly, he tore up from his stool and grabbed the papers. He splayed them out on the bar and stared hard, eyes darting quickly left to right across the pages. Within seconds, his face grew serious.

  “You’re writing a screenplay,” he said.

  “Well, sure,” I sighed, knowing I couldn’t hide it from him a moment longer. He was staring down at a page that read, “EXTERIOR - NIGHT - MISSION DISTRICT,” and it felt strange, as we were just steps away from that kind of reality.

  “I see,” he muttered, nodding as he flipped through. “You actors never really want to appear in other people’s things. You want to write your own.”

  “Not many of us, actually,” I said. “I just realized I
’m better at this side of things, even. Or that I get more pleasure out of it. I don’t know.” I paused for a moment, my brain feeling fizzy. “I actually have this dream that I’ll be able to star in it, one day. And direct it myself. Ha. But I doubt the funds from this place will ever add up enough to bankroll a film.”

  Wesley slid his fingers along the page, licking at his lips in an almost provocative way. My own lips ached to touch his. I hadn’t kissed anyone since I’d left Tyler’s place in such a huff, my ears ringing with what he’d told me. That I’d never make it on my own without him. That I might as well starve. And that maybe—just maybe—that starvation would help me land better roles.

  God, he’d been an ass. I really fucking knew how to pick ‘em.

  “I can’t believe you saw that movie in Thailand,” I said, feeling the air grow even tighter around us. “And now, you’re here. And I haven’t seen you in— Well, since I was a much different, much happier girl.”

  Wesley’s eyes flickered toward mine. He dropped the screenplay back to the counter and sipped the rest of his beer, gesturing with his head. “Why don’t you pour yourself one and sit with me, like old times?”

  I saw no reason to refuse. The bar was more or less clean—the glasses stacked, upside down, stretching across the counter by the sink. A bag of chips had been left near the radio, wide open, only a few of them nibbled out. That had been my dinner. Just another after a long string of depressing dinners.

  I perched beside him, an IPA in my hand. I felt the heat from his muscles and the depth of his upper bicep as my arm brushed his when I turned on the stool.

  “Remy, you made it, you know?” Wesley said to me, his eyes flickering. “You were in loads of movies. And now, you’re a screenwriter. You set out to do all the things you wanted to.”

  “So did you,” I said. “You travel across the country, with no one to answer to. It’s beautiful. It’s what we dreamed of doing together there for a second. Just us, a truck, and a dog.”

  “Right,” Wesley laughed. “You were always so bogged down about how we didn’t have a dog, when could we get a dog? Ha. Always wanting to make a family.”

  I took a long drag of beer. We sat in silence with one another for a moment, both of us swimming with memories. It was clear that he thought of me fondly. That all those sun-drenched days on the road hadn’t obliterated us.

  5

  Wesley

  I felt her aura rising up from behind those eyes: one of lust, of desire. She was all but crying out for me from behind that bar. And when I suggested she sit beside me, sip a brew? She nearly danced into my lap. Her lips gleamed, and her tongue snaked over the bottom one. It was a tongue I was familiar with. I was sure that the moment mine touched hers, they’d rejoin like old, naughty pals. Picking up old tricks.

  Of course, it was borderline laughable that I’d ever pick back up with Remy. Sure, she was still absolutely stunning: a full-formed woman, with a sad, sad tale of loss in Los Angeles. It wasn’t that I was attracted to it. I just felt a neediness within her. A surge of want for whatever it was we thought we were crafting back when we were eighteen. And I couldn’t give her that. I could fuck her, only.

  But as she drew closer to me, telling me her story—about how broke she was, about how her only dream, now, was to make her movie. I began to cultivate a plan. With this new plot in my head, my body immediately began to act. My cock pulsed against my pant leg, all veiny and dripping, like I was some kind of uncontrollable animal. My muscles strained in my shirt, and I licked my lips, eager to kiss her and seal the deal.

  This girl. This woman. She’d been mine. And now, I could bring her back to me, to restore balance in my own life. The moment I had her stretched out across a mattress somewhere, I knew my guys would get busy—taking one of her eggs for my own. It wasn’t like they were being used by anyone else. Didn’t have them reserved. And if I remembered correctly, Remy had whispered secret sweet nothings about wanting my babies someday.

  * * *

  “I want to have your kids, Wesley Adams,” she’d muttered, beneath the stars. I’d stirred against her, knowing my primal instincts didn’t align so well with her desires for a family. But I’d been unable to resist her, drawing my lips against hers and almost—for a second—believing it could be true.

  Now at the bar, with her lips so close to mine, I eliminated the distance between us, sliding my bottom lip beneath hers. I felt a slow moan escape from her throat, proof of how much she desired me. Wrapping my firm hand atop her shoulder, I began to massage her, snaking my fingers both up toward the softness of her hair and down to the perky tits tucked beneath a bra. Our kiss grew more insistent, wild. I sensed her heart beating like a rabbit’s beneath her shirt.

  “Wes, Wes, Wes,” she crie, pushing back away from me. She staggered from the bar stool, whipping at her mouth with the back of her hand. She blinked wide eyes at me: hungry ones, ready for me to rip her clothes from her thin frame and fuck her in the back. I knew that look well.

  “I just, I don’t—I feel confused,” she finally said, dragging her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know. I didn’t eat… The beer is hitting my head, maybe.”

  “I see,” I said. But I reached for her, wrapping my arms low around her waist. I tried to catch her eye once more, to draw her into me. After yanking at her slightly, she fell into me again. “See, there? Isn’t it good to hold one another? Isn’t it good to feel?”

  “Wes, you can’t have thought… You didn’t come here for this, did you?” she asked. I felt the love emanating from her skin and glowing from behind her eyes. But still, she drew back away from me slightly, growing colder. I could sense the years of experience on her. She’d fought for her life, for her personality, in the years since I’d last seen her. She wouldn’t fall into me so easily.

  I held her like that for a moment—her trying to fall back, the question burning along my tongue. Just as she began to close her eyes once more, easing her hand along the curve of my muscled chest, I murmured, “You know, I think we can help each other.”

  Immediately, she drew back even more, yanking her hand from my chest. She reached for her beer and held it aloft, her eyes darting around. I was too familiar to her. She sensed I was playacting. Our lips dripped with one another, still hungry, lust-filled. But her rage—so familiar to a much younger me—was growing.

  “All right. What is it?” she asked. “You want money? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got one of the richest fathers in the entire world. You should just ask him.”

  “That’s the thing, Rem,” I said, cutting directly to the point. “The thing is, he won’t let me see a lick of that money unless… Well.”

  “Unless what?” Remy asked, her voice growing louder.

  “Unless I give him a—a grandson,” I finally said, yanking my shoulders back and making myself much, much taller than her five-foot-three height. I felt the words land like a hammer on her skull, making her reckon with what a sonofabitch I’d become in the years since she’d last seen me. Maybe, when I’d been seventeen, I’d still been allowed a sliver of sweetness. Hell, I even remembered waking up early before school for her, tossing some bills on the counter of the flower shop, and bringing her daisies.

  * * *

  But now, Remy blinked up at me, her face growing a ghastly pale. She lifted her hands to my chest, shoving me toward the door. “And you think I’ll just sleep with you and shove out an heir to the Adams fortune, do you?”

  I sniffed, almost finding the whole thing funny at this point. “Well, I’d of course give you the cash, the minute you got pregnant. A huge sum of money, Rem. Enough for you to make that movie of yours, I bet. And even more to live off of. You wouldn’t have to tend bar, that’s for damn sure.”

  The concept ticked along Remy’s face, making that little dimple on her right cheek grow deeper. I waited, splaying my hands through the air. I felt almost certain that she was poised to say yes. That she was just too afraid of “what people would say.
” Was she still holding out to have someone’s baby the proper way? At thirty, was time ticking along for her, mentally? Was she realizing that that asshole she’d left back in Los Angeles might have been her last shot?

  “Come on, Rem. I’m just asking you to procreate with me,” I said, chuckling. “We talked about it so many times, before. And people have kids all the time, right? Even if they’re not, you know. Like me. Borderline incapable of love.”

  This made Remy’s eyes burn with even more anger. She pointed her finger toward the door, her lips quaking. “If you don’t get the hell out of here this moment, Wesley, then I’ll call Quintin. He’ll be here in five minutes, and he’ll rip your fucking head off. You know he’d do anything for me. Even when it comes to you.”

  I knew she was right. I bucked back, adjusting my leather jacket. I felt sure that Quintin hearing about this—erm—proposal would ultimately destroy our friendship. “When you were stumping my sister, I wanted to fucking kill you,” he’d told me a few years before, on one of my trips to the Bay. “I’m glad we’re past that now. I’m glad she’s over you.”

  * * *

  I ducked out from Station to Station Pub, tossing my leg over my motorbike. I still felt the razor-sharp eyes of Remy almost burning their way through my cheekbones. Darting from the Mission, I tore toward the coast, where I’d rented out a room along the shore with the last of my cash. I began to tally up the funds in my account, knowing I was running low. What was it? Five thousand dollars? Maybe less? Jesus.

  There was something off about asking anyone but Remy for this. I didn’t want to make a baby with just any bright-eyed wonder willing to suck my dick. Remy was a good person, an artistic, fiery woman, whom I’d always felt was my equal. Frankly, I’d always known she was better than me—as good as Hank, maybe, with a more adventurous streak. It was why I hadn’t fucked around in high school. I’d really thought, back in that animal, teenage brain, that she was the one.