by Lane Hart
Maggie breastfeeding is not something I need to be thinking about. Ever since I accidentally caught a glimpse of her bare, heavy breast, I can’t get rid of the image. I need some Clorox to scrub my memories free of that damn titty. The idea that the simple sight made my cock hard and my mouth water with an overwhelming desire for a taste is so fucked up that there are no words foul enough to describe how big of a pervert that makes me. She’s barely legal and she’s my brother’s girlfriend or ex-girlfriend for Christ’s sake! And holy hell, don’t even get me started on seeing her in those tiny shorts or panties. I don’t know what they were, but they weren’t covering much of her curvy ass at all.
Telling myself that I will be a goddamn gentleman and not look at my brother’s baby mama’s lady parts tonight, I juggle carrying the stacked cardboard boxes and brown paper bag up the stairs to her third floor shitty apartment and knock on her door.
This time Maggie answers without me having to yell at her to do so through the damn door.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks, her big indigo eyes still looking tired with dark circles underneath. Last night on the drive home, when I had time to think, I realized why I didn’t recognize her at first. She looks tired and worn down by the world, instead of the vibrant, happy, carefree girl she was with my brother. At least when they weren’t fighting.
Tonight, she looks so exhausted that it’s a wonder she’s even able to stand. Her brown hair is pulled tight in the same ponytail and at least she’s wearing pajama pants instead of just panties like yesterday. Only, this top is a hundred times worse. While her shirt the night before had been thin, it’d been baggy enough that her tits were mostly hidden. But now, standing in front of me in a pink spaghetti strap tank top, the swells of her very large breasts are as clear as a cloudless sky, and those two pointy nipples are going to make eye contact nearly impossible now that they’ve grabbed my attention.
“You eat yet?” I finally manage to force the words out, and my voice is deeper, making me sound like a caveman. You. Woman. Eat.
“Yes,” she answers softly, and I’d swear she’s lying when I see her throat move as she swallows deeply.
“Well, you can eat again,” I say before turning to the side to get past her. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek so that I don't groan when my chest brushes against her breasts. Her gloriously braless breasts.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, and I worry she felt the growing bulge in my jeans, but then she says, “That smells so freaking good.”
“Damn right it does. Do you like manicotti, calzone, stromboli or ziti?” I ask while heading for the kitchen.
“Yes to all four.”
“Good.” Sitting the boxes down, I open the cabinets to look for plates and grab two, offering her one.
“Thanks, Jordan. You didn’t have to do this. Don’t you live in Danville?”
“Yeah, but I needed to come to Greensboro anyway to get a part for my truck.” I quickly make up the lie. Which reminds me of the phone. I pull it out of my pocket and set it down on the counter with a wall charger, since I know she probably won’t accept it if I just hand it to her.
“Here’s a phone I picked up on the way. It’s got an unlimited plan, so use it as much as you need. The number’s saved in it.” Realizing I don’t have the number for it, I pick it up and dial my own phone, and then hang up after it rings a few times so I can add it to my contacts later. “There, now you’ve got my number in it.”
“Jordan…” she starts to say from behind me.
“Don’t,” I warn her.
“This is too much,” she says, completely ignoring me.
I hear the baby make a fretful sound; and for the first time since I got here, I look up and notice him in the living room, sitting in some sort of seat thing. I’ve never actually gotten a good look at him wailing in the back of her car or while he was sucking on her titty, so I cross the room and squat down on the floor in front of him.
He’s tiny, with wisps of chestnut hair on a mostly bald head and dark chocolate eyes just like mine, my brothers and our dad.
“You can hold him if you want,” Maggie says from the kitchen. “Mind if I go ahead and eat?”
“Go for it,” I tell her, and then I debate on how to go about picking up the small bundle without breaking him. I ease one of my hands underneath his back and realize he’s more fragile than I thought, feeling all the bones in his spine.
“Keep one hand on the back of his head,” Maggie thankfully says before I picked him up. I slide my other hand under his fuzzy head and then lift him up until I’m standing again, holding the little guy straight out in front of me. His face scrunches up like he’s gonna bitch, so I maneuver him around until his head rests in the crook of my arm, the side of his body against my chest. That seems to make him happy. His face relaxes, and he blinks his dark eyes up at me. We engage in a silent staring contest. He's giving me sad, puppy dog, Are you my daddy? eyes, while mine likely convey my own thoughts, No, and I'm sorry your daddy's not around and is a fucktard. He seems to handle that news pretty well, and instead of crying he starts gnawing on my shirt, looking up at me as if asking, Where the hell are your tasty nipples, man?
I’ve never really been around many babies, other than a few of my cousin’s at holiday get-togethers, but I have to say this kid is pretty damn cute.
At the sound of a camera shutter, I look up and find Maggie smiling while taking a picture with her new phone.
“You’re the first person to hold him,” she says in explanation, which is just so freaking sad. “And I haven’t had a camera to take any photos of him. He’s already grown so much.”
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
I never expected my heart to sound like Rice Krispies when it breaks. I want to punch somebody, mostly my brother, because anger is a helluva lot easier to deal with than the enormous weight of pathetic sadness.
There's this other strange emotion that's grown exponentially since last night. One that’s invoked an overwhelming need in me to take care of these two like they're mine. Probably because no one else is doing it, and that just seems…wrong.
If my parents were alive, hell, I’m certain they wouldn’t stop until the baby had not only what he needed, but one of every single item in the baby store just because. And Maggie…they always wanted a daughter, but were given four boys. My mom, in particular, couldn’t wait for us to all get married so we could start giving them grandbabies. But out of the four of us, we didn’t give them a single wedding or grandchild before they were killed four years ago by a drunk driver. Which makes me feel guilty since I’m the oldest, about to turn thirty next month. I should’ve settled down years ago so I could've shared those memories with them, and now I never will. It’s depressing as shit.
So, yeah, Maggie would’ve been welcomed into our family with open arms, despite our brother being a complete jackass.
“He’s really cute,” I tell her.
“Yeah, he is,” she agrees, taking a seat on the sofa with a plate of ziti, salad and bread.
“Camden, right?”
“Yep. Camden Douglas.”
I nod, knowing she picked Douglas because it’s Jason’s middle name.
“Your last name?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” she says around a mouthful of pasta. The girl eats like she’s starving, which probably isn’t far from the truth. “I don’t usually eat this fast, but I know it won’t be long before he screams and is ready for his dinner,” she explains, like she knows what I was just thinking.
I gulp in fear at the thought of enduring another feeding. Part of me wants to bolt, while the other part wants to kick back with my hands behind my head and take in the show. I tell myself I can’t leave until I at least eat some dinner. Which is partially true, I guess.
Turns out Maggie knows Camden’s schedule well, because not five minutes later the baby starts kicking and fussing when my shirt doesn’t produce any milk.
“Here, let me have him before I star
t leaking,” Maggie says, after she puts her plate away.
“Leaking?” I ask, handing the bundle over to her, and nearly cursing when my knuckles accidentally brush against her boob.
“Yeah, the sound of his crying releases the milk. Then my shirt gets soaking wet. It’s a big mess.”
Thinking of her shirt wet is highly inappropriate I warn my cock, but the bastard ignores me and gives a salute.
To steer my mind from that shit, I go fix my own plate of food and dig in. My traitorous eyes ignore my command and watch as Maggie yank’s the side of her tank top down. Her back is to me so I can’t see anything, not that I wasn’t trying.
Much to my horror, I even make my way back to the living room quickly as to not miss any of the action. By then there’s a blanket hiding most of the baby from view, but it’s too late. I know what’s underneath; and despite how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it. I resolve to Google my fascination later to see if I’m the only freak. Maybe there’s a support group I can join. If not, I'll start one, Pervy men with breastfeeding fetishes. While I’m searching, I’ll also look for Pervy men who think naughty thoughts about their brother’s exes. I’ve reached an all-time low in my life.
“This grosses you out, doesn’t it?” Maggie asks, penetrating my dirty mind. Thank God I have a natural year round tan or she would see me blushing right now.
“I’m not grossed out,” I assure her. More like perving out. “I just don’t think I’ve ever, um, seen this sort of thing before.”
“I was pretty self-conscious before I had Camden, but now it’s like whatever. He’s gotta eat,” she says with a shrug, at the same time she scoots lower on the couch. “The only problem is it makes me milk drunk.”
“Milk drunk?” I ask, still shoveling pasta into my mouth. It’s like dinner and a show for the price of admission.
“Yeah, it makes me sleepy and gives me this weird, happy, euphoric feeling.”
“Like an orgasm?” I say before my brain can filter the question.
“Yeah,” she giggles. “I guess it’s sort of like that, but more of the drowsy than elation. Although, that could just be from sleep deprivation,” she says with a yawn, her eyes closing as she rests the back of her head on the sofa.
She needs help or a break. What’s today? Monday? Shit. I’ll have to work four more days, but then I’ll stay Friday night so she can sleep. I’m sure she can pump or let him have bottles during the night, so she can rest. I bet she hasn’t slept all night since he was born.
“How old is he?” I ask, cleaning my plate, even though I don’t remember what it was I just ate.
“Four weeks, three days,” she says without opening her eyes.
“That’s a long time to go without sleep.”
“Tell me about it,” she says with a smile on her peaceful face. “He was sleeping for four or five hours straight until recently. Now he's back to wanting to eat every two or three, which is exhausting.”
“I’ll go so you can get some rest,” I tell her.
“Thanks again for dinner, Jordan. And for the phone,” she says, lifting her head and watching me through heavy-lidded eyes.
“No problem,” I tell her as I wash my plate and put it in the dish drainer. Seeing her phone on the counter, I grab it and go over to take a few photos of her since she said she doesn’t have any. She doesn’t even open her eyes or take notice. After I send one of the photos to myself for some unknown reason, I put the rest of the food in the fridge and sneak out, hoping she remembers to lock it when she gets up. Then, I worry all the way home that she won’t remember to lock the door. And she lives in a shitty neighborhood. So, when I pull up at my house almost an hour later, I send her a text reminding her to lock up. I spend the rest of the night with my phone in my hand, panicking with worry that she won’t see it and that I left her and my nephew in danger. I’ve got to get them out of that hellhole or I won’t be getting any sleep either.
Chapter Five
Maggie
After I finish feeding Camden at two a.m., I can’t stop myself from going to the fridge and heating up some of the leftover stomboli from earlier. The Italian food is too delicious and too tempting. Sort of like Jordan himself.
That man…there are no words. He bought me a freaking phone and days’ worth of food. Not only that, but he drove them all the way over here, almost an hour each way, on a workday.
Once I stuff my face, I pick up the new phone, a much too expensive smartphone that has internet and all the bells and whistles, to look at the pictures of Jordan and Camden I took earlier.
On the screen, it shows I have a new text message that says, “Don’t forget to lock up behind me.” It was sent at nine-thirty, likely when Jordan got home. He’s trying to take care of me from miles away, and it’s…sweet, yet unexpected.
I really did want a photo of Camden with his uncle, but I would use any excuse possible to take a picture of the tall, dark and handsome Jordan Young.
Instead of finding his photo, I see some of me and Camden. I was practically passed out at the time, and only Camden’s little feet are sticking out from the blanket draped over me to cover my breast. My cheeks burn with the embarrassment of Jordan seeing me sacked out from exhaustion, but I do appreciate him capturing the moment. The first picture of me and my son. I can’t wait to take more.
Even though it’s late, I still decide to reply to his text message.
“Thanks for the reminder. Thanks for everything.” It seems like an inadequate thing to say, but when nothing else comes to me, I send it anyway. I wasn’t expecting the almost instantaneous response. Two separate ones.
"You’re welcome.”
“Get used to it.”
Since I’m awake and have nothing better to do, I send back, “Shouldn’t you be asleep? There’s not an infant living in your house too, is there?”
“Not unless you count me :) I couldn’t sleep.”
I respond with, “I know the feeling :(”
When he says, “If I were there, I would let you sleep”, I think my heart swells just a little inside my chest.
“That would be crazy, since you have to go to work in the morning” I type back.
“I’m starting to think I might be going a little crazy.”
“That’s just the insomnia talking,” I assure him.
“I wanna throttle my brother.”
“Me too, but it won’t do any good,” I reply.
“True, but I think I would feel better,” he says then after that, “Go to bed, Mags.”
“I am in bed.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“Yes, sir. Sweet dreams.”
“Night, hon ;)”
Hon? Winking emoticon? Even knowing he’s just being his typical, nice self, I can’t help but wish these small things meant more. I’m not an idiot, though. With a saggy belly and breasts post-partum, looking like a hot mess after weeks of sleepless nights, there’s no way a man like Jordan would look at me twice. He’s a nice guy, trying to do what he thinks is right while his brother is in the military, and nothing more.
…
The next morning, even though I wake up to Camden’s impatient screams like usual, there’s this new happiness bouncing around within me. I feel lighter than I have in a long time just thinking about Jordan. How sweet and caring he is. It’s been so long since someone has done something nice for me, and he’s done a lot of nice things. And he’s so incredibly sexy that I almost need to wear sunglasses to look at him. I swear just the sight of him is all it takes to make me blush.
I bet he has a girlfriend or is dating lots of beautiful women. He easily could. All it would take is a smile and a wink to make any woman melt for him.
After my shower, I pick up my phone and see a message on it. An invitation to some sort of game. From Jordan. I quickly accept, which opens the screen up to a Scrabble looking board, with random letters lined up along the bottom. I select the letters to form the word years, proud of myself f
or using a Y. The game says it’s Jordan’s turn, but it only takes a few minutes for the word, ants to appear using my A. Before I can formulate my next word, the chat window in the game opens with the message, “I apologize in advance for whooping your butt because I’m awesome at this game.”
Smiling to myself, I type back a rapid response, even though my mind is still stuck on the notion of his hands literally spanking my bottom. “I apologize in advance for embarrassing you when I win.”
“It’s on. Now you have to put your money where your mouth is.”
Sheesh. More naughty images form just thinking about the places to put my mouth. Shaking those ridiculous thoughts from my mind, I set up my next word.
“How’s my nephew?” Jordan asks after his turn.
“Sound asleep.”
“He must have his days and nights confused,” he responds.
“Yeah, he was born in the middle of the night. Hopefully he’ll figure it out soon.”
“When’s his birthday?”
“April 6th.”
“My mom’s was April 9th.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened to your parents,” I tell him. John and Diane Young were well-known by everyone in Danville growing up. So nice and always helping anyone that needed it, either with donations or volunteering their time at the school. Jason and I had just started dating and were sophomores in high school when they were hit and killed by a drunk driver. He was, of course, devastated. All of the boys were, but Jason was the youngest. His drug use went up after that, and it was rare to see him sober for the next year or so.
“Thanks. Your turn.” Jordan obviously wants to change the subject, and I don’t blame him.
Even with the cold distance that’s come between my mother and I, and with my dad always on the road since I was little, I can’t imagine losing one of them. Both at the same time is too much to even comprehend.
