Alton's Secret Baby

by Iris Parker

  “Okay, I’ll try to cancel,” I reassured her, wondering if she had ulterior motives. Turning down a bonus interview with Dominick didn’t make much sense—unless, of course, she wanted me alone.

  Well, I could give her that. And more.

  Excusing myself for a moment, I made my way back through the crowd and discreetly explained everything to Dominick. Since it was just the three of us getting together, rescheduling turned out to be easy indeed. Feeling triumphant, I returned to Jessie.

  “We can do Friday,” I announced, and her tension seemed to vanish. The stakes for her and WBSX must’ve been quite high indeed, but now the pressure was off. And yet, a twinge of sadness seemed to linger on her face as we made arrangements for the interview.

  Friday afternoon, followed by the actual ‘date’ she’d bid on later that evening. We’d go for dinner at one of the trendiest places in the area, a restaurant in Cambridge named La Perla. I’d have to dress up in something other than my favorite combo of jeans and a t-shirt, but that was a small price to pay to avoid a full-day PR operation with the aging wife of some CEO.

  Not to mention more time with Jessie.

  I took another look at her and smiled.

  Yeah, dangerous as it seemed, I could definitely live with that.

  Jessie

  “Hello, Mom?” I asked, whispering into the phone even though I was home alone. But there was a sanctity on the other end of the line all the same, on the off-chance that Ezra was sleeping peacefully. He might only get a few minutes of real rest in the entire night, but there was no way I was taking any chances. Those brief moments were more precious than anything else in my world.

  “Hi, honey,” my mom's voice sounded tense and tired.

  I hated that I had to put her through that.

  “How's Ezra? How are you?”

  “He’s had a rough day, but he’s sleeping now,” my mom said softly, the words squeezing at my heart. “You? How is it going there?”

  “I’m good,” I lied. “Work is intense. But I’ll be back at the hospital first thing tomorrow morning.”

  We chatted for a few minutes, but there wasn’t much to say. Nothing had changed since yesterday, or the day before that, or the week before that. The situation wasn’t good, but no amount of talking was going to change things. I was incredibly grateful for my mother and her support. Her retirement from the Cape Cod school board had started just before Ezra became ill, and she’d been my rock ever since. Always strong in spite of the worry on her face.

  And always available to take over at the hospital, which is the only thing that allowed me to hold on to the semblance of a professional life. I’d been doing everything I could to make ends meet, from my regular job at WBSX to freelancing for anyone who would have me.

  I thanked my mother again and we hung up, both of us drained from two very different but equally exhausting evenings. I couldn’t believe that the plan had actually worked—Alton Greene was fickle and unreliable, but I had a good feeling about this. I’d given it everything I could to make sure I would succeed, and now only one step was left. Friday would—had to—go as well as tonight.

  It would.

  I stood in front of the mirror, glass in hand. It wasn't the best wine, but it was my best dress—an elegant, lucky find from a thrift store that I’d gotten for just this occasion. It was strikingly beautiful, sparkly and revealing just enough cleavage. Not that it'd be needed, if I'd profiled Alton correctly from the many articles I’d read on him.

  I drank a bit more, trying to loosen up. I needed to be careful not to tip myself over the edge of reason, even though nothing about my life had been reasonable since I got the news about Ezra. Or maybe even the news about Stephen. Yeah, nothing seemed reasonable, especially not lately. From convincing WBSX to go with the insane PR stunt to placing such a huge gamble on basic human biology, I’d probably lost my mind months ago.

  I took another drink.

  I couldn’t stop to think about any of this. I couldn’t afford to reflect on just how indecent and monstrous it was, because it was the last chance I had left.

  And show me one mother who wouldn’t move heaven and earth to keep her family safe.

  I finished the glass, taking off my dress and climbing into the tub. Baths were a luxury I hadn’t had in ten years now, not since Ezra was born. Immersing myself in the hot water meant leaving him alone, and I just couldn’t take that risk. First it was the baby cries, followed by those dangerous first few steps. After that came the tendency to write on the walls, and the thousands of questions he always had to ask me. There had always been something to do, some new danger to protect him from.

  I’d done it with gratitude and happiness.

  I’d done it alone, too, after Stephen’s death left me a young widow.

  And now there was nothing left. No video game playing in the distance, no sports playing on the radio, no rowdy friends laughing and screaming.

  Nothing.

  Just the emptiness of my small apartment, and a bathtub that only reminded me of what I was losing.

  Tears started streaming down my face, and for once, I let them come.

  At least now I could cry and not worry about Ezra seeing, or my mom. I didn’t have to worry about how much damage it was doing to their poor hearts, and God knew that none of them deserved any more pain.

  I leaned back in the tub, hoping the warm water would provide some relief to the tension in my limbs. But I knew full well that I was kidding myself. I’d been so damned hopeful at first. Why did it have to come to this? Alton had been willing to donate once, and what kind of monster would refuse to do it again under the circumstances?

  But I’d waited, and waited. And heard nothing back from him. Not in the first month, or the second. And all the time I watched my son get a little sicker every day.

  And Alton hadn’t even had the decency to say no.

  That justified all this, didn’t it? What other choice had he left me?

  The truth was, I knew the answer was no. Nothing justified this, but that wasn’t going to stop me.

  I’d already lost Stephen, and I wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to our son.

  Chapter Three

  Alton

  I walked into WBSX’s small studio, following a very professional-looking Jessie Wilson. She was dressed in a smart black suit, complemented by a pencil skirt that seemed almost glued to her form. Her hips sashayed exquisitely in front of me, crinkling the skirt and making it hug her curves in all the right places.

  She might’ve been petite, but this blonde beauty in front of me was definitely a bombshell.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Greene,” she said, her voice suave and slightly gruff. With a motion of her hand, she offered me the vinyl armchair sitting across from a couple of idle cameras. I sat, placing myself at the center of a mini recording area set against a dark backdrop, complete with light booms and reflectors. Jessie smiled and sat right across from me, just out of sight from the camera.

  “Alton, please,” I corrected.

  “Right, Alton,” she said, her eyes scanning through the papers in front of her. "Have you had a chance to go over the interview?"

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Feeling comfortable?”

  “Sure," I answered, my gaze scanning her lovely figure.

  “We'll do an hour-long interview here, and then we'll head to La Perla. I’ll get an article from that, on top of the recorded interview.”

  “Article? For WBSX?”

  "Actually, no," she squirmed in her seat, suddenly looking a lot less confident. “I also freelance for the written press." For a second, her embarrassment made me think there was a catch somewhere. Was she profiting from the WBSX auction bid to sell her own article? But I didn't really care—John had probably gone over the whole deal, and what did I risk? All press was good press. That was something I had learned early on in my career, and besides, I didn’t care much about publicity anymore.

  A second l
ater, a middle-aged man walked in and introduced himself as one of the cameramen for WBSX. We got started shortly after that, and before I knew it we were filming. The interview was extensive, and Jessie was merciless about covering the most intimate details of my life.

  Growing up in the projects of Roxbury, my parents’ crippling alcoholism, my childhood friendship with Dominick, even that summer when the two of us had taken off together down South—Jessie had clearly done her homework, leaving me stumped by the quality and depth of her research. It was a small mercy that she hadn’t quite unearthed everything about me, because some stuff was better left in the past.

  Needless to say, the interview ran for well over an hour. We were only halfway through before we even hit the point where most interviews started, with my recruitment to the Bruins. Jessie called it a “modern-day fairy tale without the princess,” though by that point I was already feeling exhausted and emotionally drained. When she signaled the end of the interview, I couldn’t help but match her tired smile and feel relief that it was over.

  Resting my head against the back of the armchair for a moment, I watched Jessie as she pored over her notes, refining the random scribbles on paper into the furious clicks of a keyboard. She looked as tired and tense as I felt, but somehow she was still gorgeous.

  I’d always had a thing for fun girls, the ones who thought nothing of wearing a pair of Daisy Dukes with their pockets out, the short shorts creeping up their thighs. Cowboy hats, cowboy boots, a beer and a wicked smile. You knew where you stood with girls like that, and I liked it.

  Jessie was…the opposite of that in every way possible. Dressed all in black, her blonde hair contrasted with the seriousness of her tight-fitting clothes. Her attitude was different, too. I was used to women throwing themselves at me, but Jessie seemed to be all work and no play. She was clearly focused on getting every tiny detail right, and it showed.

  But yet…somehow it worked. It should’ve been severe and off-putting, but she actually pulled it off. The outfit just oozed sex appeal and femininity, while her lips were deliciously plump in spite of the solid line they formed. For all her gravity, everything about Jessie was undoubtedly feminine.

  Feminine and delicious, all wrapped up in a way I’d never seen before.

  I loved it.

  When she finally looked up, I’d already studied her face with so much attention that I could’ve named every detail. From the small scar above her right eyebrow to the way she clenched her jaw with tension, I practically could’ve sketched a picture from memory. She flashed me a smile and checked her watch, surprised with how late it was.

  I’d known it was time to leave, but I had been enjoying the view. She’d grilled me with intimate questions, and I’d ogled her with an intensity that matched. Somehow it seemed fair. She was gorgeous, and it was frankly refreshing.

  But we still had more time together later tonight. An actual date—kind of—at La Perla, and I had to get ready for it. We parted with a wave, but Jessie’s tension seemed to grow. As I turned around one last time before leaving the station's offices, I spotted her wringing her hands nervously in the distance.

  I rushed home to shower and shave. The traffic was intense, and once more I thanked my motorcycle for taking me where I wanted to go in a fraction of the time. But even as I walked back into my apartment, Jessie and her sultry figure were still on my mind.

  Her long, wavy blonde hair cascading down her back.

  The sharp contrast between the pale blue of her eyes and the dark black of her suit.

  The pertinence of her questions as she prodded me to spill more about myself than I’d revealed to…well, anyone.

  How happy had my childhood been? What made me wake up in the mornings? What did I want to accomplish in life? Who am I really? The cutting, deep existential questions had been well-hidden behind a maze of mundane questions about schools and sports, and I’d hated them, but somehow she’d gotten me to answer them all the same. I was glad that there was no way she could broadcast nearly all the material she got, because I certainly never wanted to talk about this stuff in public.

  But somehow it hadn’t seemed like I was talking in public. I’d been talking to Jessie, and that had felt different. Of course I’d tried to sell her the same crap I gave everyone else who got too close, but she hadn’t fully fallen for the act and occasional glimmers of truth had slipped by.

  So she got a mix of both. The womanizing bad boy I sold to the public, and the…rest, whatever that was. I didn’t really know myself; I didn’t like to think about it any more than I liked to talk about it.

  How happy had my childhood been? Jess had asked.

  Miserable. But happier when I first pushed my tongue in a girl's mouth, I'd answered.

  What made me wake up in the morning?

  Coffee. Particularly when it’s being made by a pretty blonde, I’d fired back with all the subtlety of an elephant, staring straight at her golden hair as I spoke.

  What did I hope to accomplish in life?

  A hot body in bed every night would be a good start. That had gotten to her, and watching her struggle to maintain a straight face had been rewarding.

  But like I said, she was relentless—not at all the type to just accept whatever answer I gave.

  A nice start? Jessie had pushed. What comes after that?

  I didn’t know.

  More women. A new one every night, I’d said after an awkward pause. It’s hot women all the way down.

  And that’s all? A new woman in your bed, every night, forever?

  Somehow she’d made it sound like that wasn’t every guy’s idea of heaven.

  Well no, I’d finally cracked. Eventually I’ll die. But hopefully I’ll get the occasional hot mourner to visit my grave, you know?

  What else could I say? The tabloids ate that crap up, and my reputation as a lothario had become larger-than-life at some point. It was laughable, but at least I was the one laughing as I ran with it.

  I headed to my bedroom and showered, my mind replaying the interview over and over—the image of Jessie burned into memory, her shapely legs wrapped around each other as she sat in front of me. I wondered what they would feel like wrapped around me, and I still held out hope that I’d find out soon.

  And after that…well, I’d said it to her myself. Someone else tomorrow night, right? That was the plan.

  It just didn’t sound very appealing for some reason.

  What did seem appealing was the way Jessie had turned bright pink every time I shocked her with an answer. I’d enjoyed that, made a game of it. Making her cough and squirm, her eyes going wide with surprise. I didn’t know if it was just discomfort or if I was getting to her, but the truth was that I pushed harder than ever before.

  Seeing the prim, proper journalist turn into a flustered, beet-red mess was exquisite. How often did you get to do that?

  Twice in one night, I hoped.

  Albeit for very different reasons the second time.

  I couldn’t wait.

  Jessie

  “So, Alton, that interview wasn't so bad, after all, was it?” I prodded the small heap of ratatouille spread artistically on my plate, forcing myself to consider eating at least a bite—if only to save face.

  “It was…interesting. But I enjoyed it. Or at least, I enjoyed the part about meeting you. Not to mention getting you out here on a date tonight,” he replied, his smile charming and disarming. He'd pulled out all the stops as soon as he saw me enter the restaurant—French rosé wine at the bar, a sparkle of mischief in his eye, and a deluge of compliments.

  Alton was the exact opposite of Stephen, who’d always been so restrained and delicate with me.

  “What's that you're thinking about?” Alton asked.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I see you lost in your thoughts.”

  “Oh. Nothing important,” I explained. It was true, in a way—it was nothing that Alton would consider important. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that, under th
is charming persona he was putting on for me, there was a ruthless bastard who’d just as soon let a sick child die than to take an hour out of his day.

  I emptied my glass in a long swallow, grateful when Alton promptly filled it back up.

  “And how did you enjoy the interview, Jessie?” His blue eyes were piercing and inquisitive, and I felt my skin erupt with shivers despite the warmth of the restaurant.

  “I did,” I said after I drank the chilled rosé wine that went perfectly with my dish. "Except you're not fooling me."

  “I'm not?” One of his dark eyebrows rose up, and a perplexed look dawned on his face. He looked fantastic, I had to admit.

  “Just because I let you off the hook easy doesn’t mean I believed you,” I explained patiently.

  “That was letting me off easy?” Alton asked, the surprise on his face obvious.

  “I usually do investigative reporting, but you’re not a criminal or a whistleblower. So yes. But tell me, what really makes you wake up in the morning?”

  “Is this your way of telling me you’re not going to make coffee?” Alton parried, deflecting the question as best he could. His eyes crinkled with laughter, and I found it hard to not stare. There was a boyish quality about him—the result of a good, unencumbered life, I assumed. Sure, he’d grown up in poverty, but that was only a distant memory now. Alton Greene didn't have unmet needs anymore.

  And some needs are being met more than others, I reflected, picturing myself carrying him a cup of coffee. The image sparked a flurry of confused emotions in my head, ranging from gut-wrenching guilt to genuine longing.

  “Oh come on, you can tell me, can’t you?” I cooed, wondering if maybe I’d given him too much credit. Why did I care? Why was I even trying?

  Why couldn’t I just thoughtlessly use him the way he was undoubtedly planning on doing with me?

  “Well, there’s the hockey of course,” Alton said, surprising me with a different answer. “Competition runs hot in my blood. Always has.”