Bad Boy's Baby_A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Samantha West

“I just wanted to come in for a checkup. I know you guys are the best of the best when it comes to fertility, but I know you are also world-class in general women’s health. So yeah, that’s all I need right now. Just a checkup. No need to get into anything more complicated than that.”

  “Wonderful,” Dr. Belmore says, closing my file, “and if you do decide to try to conceive in the future, I hope you’ll come back to us. We always like retaining our patients. I find it’s in the best interest of the client to have a doctor who knows you, knows your history.”

  “Oh, I agree,” I say, nodding. “I’d love to keep you as my primary doctor.”

  “Very good,” she replies, “now, let’s go over your history and then get you into an examination room.”

  We review my medical history quickly. I confirm the information indicated in my file: I am a non-smoker, I have maybe two or three drinks a week, I have never been pregnant. I have regular periods and the last time I was sexually active was about a month ago. That last bit of information is a little hard to say as it comes out. I learn my weight is within the “average” range for my height, although it is just slightly at the higher end of the spectrum. Nothing for me to worry about now, and without any judgment at all she says it might be something to keep an eye on, but for now I am in excellent health, as evidenced by my blood pressure and cholesterol, numbers she has from my last visit at my old doctor. Quick follow-ups on these tests, Dr. Belmore assures me, will likely verify that I am still in tip-top shape.

  The physical examination itself is quick and easy. Nothing is uncomfortable at all. Well, maybe a little uncomfortable, but having a woman doctor is so much better than having a male doctor.

  And before I know it, we are convening again in her office.

  “Ms. Keane,” Dr. Belmore says as she closes the door behind her, “there is something I’d like to bring to your attention.”

  A look of concern passes over her face as she glances up from my file and we both settle into our chairs. My heart does a somersault inside my chest before landing in my belly.

  “Oh god,” I blurt out, putting one hand over my mouth, “what is it? Just tell me and get it over with.”

  “Oh, no no,” she replies, her lips pulling into a smile, “it’s nothing to be worried about. It’s just that...well, when I was performing the pap, I found something that...well, let me ask you this, as it didn’t come up during our discussion earlier. If anything, it was only very briefly alluded to. Amanda, do you think there is a chance you could be pregnant?”

  I can feel my heart thud deep inside my chest when she says the word.

  Pregnant.

  “Pregnant?” I say, the word slipping from my mouth as though it’s someone else saying it.

  “I’d like to administer a blood test to confirm my suspicions. But yes, Ms. Keane, it appears that you may be pregnant.”

  I clear my throat with a little cough. And then I start laughing.

  “Yeah,” I say, “um, no. Definitely not. I thought you could only tell pregnancy from, like, a pee stick or a blood test.”

  “It is possible to detect signs during a routine exam too,” Dr. Belmore says, “cervical color and positioning can be a sign of pregnancy.”

  “No,” I say again, shaking my head. My heart pulls inside me, but I know it can’t be true. “I don’t think it’s possible. The last time I had sex was about a month ago, and we used protection. I remember that much very clearly. We used a condom.”

  “These things happen,” Dr. Belmore says, folding her hands. “Condoms break. Birth control fails. Even with near-perfect usage, it’s possible.”

  I say nothing. It is possible. Of course it’s possible.

  Of course it’s possible.

  I have a move planned. I have a new job planned. I have a plan to put miles and miles of land between me and Eric without blowing all of my savings. I have a new apartment lined up, a security deposit and first month’s rent paid with certified bank checks. I have a twelve-month lease signed, I have my crap boxed up and labeled in my apartment, and I even have an appointment for my cable and internet to be installed at my new place. A handyman in Newark is installing a new placard on my new office door at my new place of employment to show that I, Amanda Keane, Esquire, have decided to throw proverbial caution to the proverbial wind and cross state lines to start over.

  I feel tears begin to prick at the corners of my eyes, and I don’t know why. I look down at my hands, and I lace my fingers together.

  Of course it’s possible.

  “Let’s do the blood test,” I breathe, nodding my head and looking up at the doctor.

  Dr. Belmore smiles, and as she stands up I follow her lead back into the exam room.

  Of course it’s possible.

  I swallow thickly. My legs feel like jelly as we walk back to the exam room. My head is spinning.

  Anything is possible.

  7

  Dylan

  Approximately One Year Later and Eight Months Later

  “Check outside and get a look at what’s on display out there.”

  Paul barrels his way over to the window and throws the blinds open with one hand. I’m on the phone with a client so I keep my eyes down on my schedule book so I can find a time to squeeze him in.

  “Every fucking year,” I hear Mike say, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Every year these girls come to the shore. They’re literal goddamn beauty queens. I’d say I’ve never seen anything like it before -”

  “But they come here every year,” Paul interjects.

  I hang up my call and feel my fists clench slightly. I fight against them and make myself cool down, starting over to the window to see what’s out there.

  Women from every state come here every year to participate in the contest. DC and Puerto Rico send representatives, too, but I was never good at geography so I don’t know if those are technically states. These women are beauty queens, but it’s not a beauty contest per se, or at least that’s what the organizers of the thing say.

  This used to be one of my favorite times of the whole damn year.

  “We should go out tonight,” Mike says, crashing onto one of the couches. We’re in the waiting room of my shop, getting ready to close.

  Just like we do at the end of every single damn day. And the girls outside on the boardwalk are shooting some promotional shit for the local TV station, just like they do every single damn year.

  “Nah,” I say, “you guys go without me.”

  “You don’t want a literal fucking beauty queen in your bed tonight?” Mike says, clasping his hands on the back of his head.

  My buddies have told me I’m in a funk. They think I’m depressed. They think I have the blues, or some shit. The winter was long this year and when the sun finally came back, I didn’t snap back to my old self again, so they think there’s something wrong with me. Nothing wrong with me, though. I just get into these moods sometimes. I’m certainly not depressed, though. I’m clearly in my right damn mind.

  It’s her. It’s my princess. Is it crazy to be hung up on one girl for this damn long?

  Come home.

  Those two little fucking words made my head spin with anger. With hurt, and with disappointment. I don’t think I’ve ever felt hurt like that before.

  The girls come here looking to get with a guy like me. A big, rough guy with a dirty mouth and something thick between the legs. I’ve been told I have swagger. I’ve been told that I’m a good lay. The girls disappear, but sometimes I manage to get their numbers first. We text but it fizzles out when they get back to their real lives and begin to understand that I was a fantasy all along. And I’m okay with that, because I’m not looking for something real. I provide the fantasy and I yield to the unending bittersweetness of giving my casual flings what they want, loving every fucking second of it, and then having them toss me away.

  And I’m cool with that, because all I want is just one night, too.

  I always liked a lit
tle bit of pain with my pleasure. But not since Mandy. Not since princess. Not since I met the girl with the curves and the ass and the mouth and the heart that made my insides clench up for no fucking reason other than my desire for her. Now, I don’t like the pain. Now, it’s not bittersweet.

  No, now it just hurts, because all I want is her, and it makes no fucking sense.

  When I saw her phone light up and ding when she was in the shower that morning, she called out to me from the bathroom to grab it and bring it to her. She’d left the door open because I’d told her to. I wanted to see her through the glass door before the steam fogged it up. I wanted to watch her as she showered, then I wanted to get in there with her and make her nice and fucking soapy, rinse her off, kiss and lick every part of her perfect fucking curves, and then see what the hell could happen next.

  I’d never really felt like that before. I’d never really envisioned having another morning with a girl after she’d left. But the way her pretty little mouth was so damn demanding and the way she acquiesced when I told her to beg...she disarmed me.

  I wanted her.

  I was falling for her after just one damn night.

  When she called out to me to grab her phone for her and bring it to her, I didn’t mean to look. I didn’t even look consciously. There was a text from one of her girlfriends, but then there was also a text from some guy. And there were two simple words. Two words that tipped my world off its axis and knocked me on my ass.

  And those two words lit up her phone like goddamn skywriting.

  Come home.

  She wasn’t my princess anymore, from that moment on. She wasn’t mine; she was someone else’s. She was never really my princess.

  And that broke my fucking heart. It broke my heart in too many ways to count. In too many fucking ways to quantify.

  She had a home to go back to. She had a place to go back to. She wasn’t my pretty girl.

  I should have talked to her about it. Maybe she had an arrangement with her man. Maybe he was fine and okay with her going off and having a fling. Maybe not. Either way, I couldn’t look at her the same way. I was never supposed to see that text, but I couldn’t help what happened.

  I never stopped thinking about that night, though. I just couldn’t stand to be second place. She’d be my one and only, or she’d be nothing to me.

  Nothing.

  And that’s what I keep trying to tell myself, but I can’t convince myself of it. Can’t convince myself that incredible night between us meant nothing.

  “Dylan,” Mike says, grabbing his backpack and helmet, “you coming with us? Or are you spacing out again?”

  “You guys go,” I say, peering out the window. The trend this year for the beauty queens is short dresses. Last year it was floor-length gowns. Who knows what it’ll be next year, but I’ll be sitting right here in the same fucking spot no matter what. The beauty queens and the tourists come and go, but this is my home.

  “You sure, man?” Paul says. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “No, I’m good. You guys go and have a good time.”

  We say our usual goodbyes for what feels like the millionth time since I took over the shop and took these two guys on. They’re the best artists in South Jersey hands-down. Mike is self-taught and I’m not shy to admit I poached him from a spot in Brooklyn when I saw his work on social media. Paul is an absolute veteran of the scene and slightly more refined. He has a master’s degree in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design and he’s classically trained - which makes him all the more a fucking brilliant beast with a needle.

  But I’m starting to wonder if any of this shit matters.

  The boys leave and I lock up behind them. I switch the lights off and watch the beauty queens on the boardwalk. The sun’s setting and the little amusement park down the boardwalk, jutting out into the Atlantic on a short pier, is beginning to light up the night.

  I laugh to myself. I live in a fucking magical place and I’m like a damn king, but I am missing so much.

  I make my way up to my apartment. Maybe I should go out for a drink with the guys. Don’t want to, though. Don’t need to.

  After getting inside, flipping open a cold beer from the fridge, and pulling my sliding window open, I settle down on the couch. It’s gonna be a long night of channel surfing.

  I flip through the bullshit. Cooking channel, public access, game shows. I can’t settle on any one thing. My mind is not calm. I can’t get settled. I sip my beer and try to coax the alcohol into my veins, try to get it to soften me up and let me relax, but it’s not working.

  And then, when I am about to turn off the TV, something catches my eye.

  I flip right past her at first. But when I realize what I saw, I flip back.

  It’s Amanda. On television.

  “Hi, I’m Amanda Keane. Have you been injured in an accident? Negligence, slip and fall? Do you believe you have a claim for workers’ comp? Call the law offices of Gamble and Associates. We don’t win unless you win!”

  I lean forward on my elbows and toss the remote aside. Miss Mandy folds her arms across her chest in a room that’s filled with shelves of what look like fake law books.

  And she’s smiling. That big, gorgeous smile, with a hint of mischief, and the clear blue eyes that rival the sky on a crisp fall day.

  “Let Gamble and Associates work hard for you.”

  A number flashes on the screen. And little princess Mandy looks right into the camera and recites the number, her sexy little voice cooing for me to call her.

  Work hard for me, Amanda Keane, Attorney at Law?

  Yeah, I’ve been injured in an accident.

  I grab my phone and pause the TV to capture her number.

  I don’t know what the fuck I am going to say to her, but I can’t stop myself from dialing.

  8

  Amanda

  You ever have two thing you know you should absolutely be doing, but you have to prioritize one over the other? I don’t mean like dieting versus exercising. You can do both of those things pretty much simultaneously.

  No, right now I mean working hard so you can give your family the life they should have, versus wanting to spend time with them. What’s a good life if you aren’t spending it with the people you love?

  But there’s bills to pay. There’s obligations. Food to put on the table.

  A nanny to employ.

  My boss, Julian Gamble, Northern Jersey’s best personal injury attorney, knocks softly on the door of my office and pops his head in.

  “Don’t stay too late, Amanda,” he says.

  Julian is a good boss. A great boss, even. He is very generous with me and doesn’t give me bullshit assignments. He’s given me a full caseload which I completely appreciate. My percentage of any settlements or trial wins - and let’s face it, as much as I thought I’d be spending more time in a courtroom, the settlements are a whole hell of a lot easier for everyone involved, and usually better for the clients - goes up with each case I’m able to successfully win or settle. Since Julian’s the owner and I’m just an associate, I’m grateful to be able to earn a percentage of wins instead of just being paid a flat salary. I mean, I do earn a salary, but it’s relatively small. Kind of like how waitstaff in a restaurant earns a salary but depends on their tips for the bulk of their income.

  I actually like the pay structure. It works for me, because the more time and effort I put in, the more money I’m ultimately able to earn. It’s not completely stable on a month-to-month basis, and I probably could get an associate attorney gig like the one I had back in the city, but there’s more real potential to move up quickly here.

  Plus, we even have a theme song and a commercial. Oh, I don’t sing the theme song, but I’m in the commercial.

  Did I ever think I’d be in a commercial? Not at all. Did my parents call my firm “a bunch of ambulance chasers” when I told them what I’d be doing? Yes, they did. I quickly clarified that it’s only me and Julian, and
two people hardly qualifies as a bunch. They said I knew what they meant. Sure, I did. But I don’t care. Better to defend everyday people with damages that can be sought from at-fault parties than to defend the rich from damages sustained from other rich companies.

  Amanda Keane, defender of the little guy.

  “I won’t stay too late,” I say, taking a sip of my hours-old, cold coffee. It’s the same, stale mug I’ve had since late in the afternoon.

  I probably would stay too late if I had the choice. I’d stay here all damn night to get as much work done as possible, toil away to work on my cases to get that sweet cash in my pockets and the pockets of my clients.

  But again, like I said before - two different things are in conflict for me now. My career, which is a means to an end, the thing pushing me toward what’s really most important. The thing that keeps me up at night.

  Jacob. My little man. He’s the reason I want to stay here all night to make bank, and he’s the reason I want to run the hell out of here at five so I can get home to him.

  “The work’s still gonna be here tomorrow,” Julian says as he waves goodnight to me.

  “‘Night, Julian,” I wave goodbye with a smile.

  I stretch my arms out over my head and feel my shoulders pop a little. I roll my neck from side to side and feel it crack. Feels good, but I don’t know what’s happening in there. I probably shouldn’t do that.

  And Julian’s right. I should get home. I look at the time and notice it’s past nine. Shaking my head and pushing away from my desk, I wonder where the time’s gone.

  And not just the time tonight. The time over the past several months. Hell, it’s the time over the past couple of years.

  The minutes go by so slowly when you’re chained to your desk and keep sneaking glances at the clock from the corner of your eye, and the weeks go by slowly when all you want is to get to the weekend, but the months and years go by fast no matter what.

  I grab my phone from the top drawer of my desk. I keep it stashed there so I won’t be distracted checking my texts every minute, but it’s close enough for me to hear it in case I do get a text and have to reply right away.