by Amy Brent
“So what about the future?” I asked him.
“Our future?” he asked. “I hope it will be a bright one.”
“But have you actually thought about it?” I put down my fork and peered at him from across the table. “We had a fun few weeks out there, sure. But did you ever stop to think about whether it was going anywhere?”
“Actually,” he said, “I haven't been able to think about much of anything else.” He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, then set it on the table. “Listen, Camille. I'm not going to make any promises. This is just the beginning, right? We've got time to figure things out. I just want to get to know you more, to become a part of your life. And we can figure out the rest as we go along, can't we?”
“No,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “We can't.”
“Why not?” He looked so distraught, half rising from his chair as if he thought I was about to run out the door and he'd need to catch me.
“Because I'm pregnant.”
He stared at me for a long moment. He settled back into his chair. He cleared his throat, then took a sip of his champagne.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh?” I stared at him, leaning forward with my palms on the table. “Oh? Is that all you have to say? God damn it, Jack, I'm having a baby. Your baby. Don'tcha have anything more to say about that?”
“Have you been to a doctor yet?” he asked. “I can find you the best OBGYN in the state. And don't worry about the cost, I'll take care of everything.”
I sat there and stared at him. “That...that's it?” I grabbed my napkin and threw it at him. “You want to know about the damn doctor?”
He caught the napkin and set it aside. “I'm not sure what else to say. I'm a practical person, Camille. Your health, the baby's health, that's the most important thing. The first thing I thought of.”
I let the tension release from my shoulders. It was actually sweet, when I thought about it. He heard that I was pregnant, and his first instinct was to take care of me.
“What else do we need to talk about?” he asked. “Living arrangements? We've got time until the baby is born, so maybe we—”
“I want to talk about us, Jack.” I clenched the edge of the tablecloth in my fists. “I wasn't ready for this. I don't know what's going to happen. And before you even think it, don't go popping the question on me now. I want to focus on doing what's right for this baby, first, before we consider whether we want to get married or something. But we need to figure 'us' out. Figure out where this is going, how we're going to manage things.”
He smiled and rose from his chair, then circled around the table and knelt beside me. He took my hands in his and gave them an affectionate squeeze. “Don't you worry at all, Camille. We're going to take this one day at a time. We've got months before the baby is due, and we can spend that time getting to know each other more. Growing closer to each other. I'll make sure the baby is provided for, you have my word on that. And we'll figure 'us' out. The important thing is moving forward, right? We'll make a great future together. And when the time is right, when we have all the pieces in place and we know we're doing it for us, and not for the wrong reasons, then we'll talk about marriage, and the future, and all of that. Okay?”
Tears welled in my eyes. All I could do was nod. I leaned over and kissed his lips, glad that he was here for me, that he wasn't going to try to push me into something before I was ready. It was going to be a strange life, raising a baby with a daddy who was a billionaire and an ex-Navy SEAL. And a white boy, on top of that. My mama wouldn't bat an eyelash at the rest of it, but when I brought a white boy home to meet her, she was going to blow her top.
I put my arms around him and cradled his head against my chest. I hadn't expected any of this to happen, and I knew I wasn't ready for it. But was anyone ever really ready for a baby? The important thing was that our child would have two loving parents who would do anything to support and care for them. And I knew Jack would do whatever it took to provide for his child. Our baby wouldn't have to live through the kind of struggles my family had gone through while I was growing up. It wouldn't ever have to worry about whether there would be dinner on the table, or whether we could afford to take it to the doctor. It would grow up and go to college without ever having to worry about debt.
I cupped Jack's cheeks in my hands and raised his face towards mine. We kissed as tears of relief fell down my cheeks. After a few moments, our kiss became more urgent, filled with need. Jack stood up and took my hands, then led me out of the restaurant and to his car. We kissed more sitting in the parking lot, his hands roaming my body like we were a couple of teenagers. Then we went back to my apartment.
We headed back to the bedroom almost immediately. I worried about what Jack would think of my simple place, with my IKEA furniture and my dirty clothes strewn all over the floor. But he didn't show any signs of judgment for my middle-class lifestyle. He just focused on my needs, on my touch.
He lowered me onto the bed, gentle as can be. There was none of the urgent, athletic movement from our prior encounters. He was slow. He was tender. We savored every moment. He slowly pulled my clothes off, one piece at a time, his lips trailing kisses over the bare skin he exposed. Shivers ran up and down my body, and while part of me wanted to tell him to hurry and give me what I desperately needed, a bigger part of me wanted to cherish this experience.
We made love deep into the night, an elegant melding of our bodies into one. I lost track of time, of where Jack ended and I began, and of any worries beyond his touch, his kiss, his loving caress. Then, once it was over and our energy was spent, we lay there together as two lovers sharing each other's embrace.
Eventually Jack dozed off, and for a time I watched him sleep. My fingers traced tiny caresses along the lines of his face. I thought about the future and what it would bring. I thought about the life growing inside of me. I wondered whether it would be a boy or a girl. No matter what, this child would know love, support, and kindness in its life.
Our new life together would start the next day. I could already see it now. A new home, something simple, with no need for excessive luxuries. A big back yard our child could play in, unlike the row home I'd grown up in with barely more than a patch of scruffy grass out back. The best schools, the best care. And once our baby was grown, I knew we'd see the world together. I'd take my child to Africa, make sure it knew its roots. Recapture all of the history that my family had once lost. Laying there with Jack, dreaming of the future, I almost felt like I could actually see it all happening, like the folds of time were open to me and my baby's life was laid out there for me to explore.
In the morning I awoke with Jack still there in my arms. He opened his weary eyes and looked at me, a pleasant exhaustion etched across his features.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning, love,” I said, smiling at him.
We kissed, then we touched, then we made love again as streams of early dawn sunlight poured over us through the bedroom window. Eventually we got dressed, lost in the quiet comfort of two people who had shared the deepest parts of themselves. The gentle romance of the moment lasted until a grumbling in my stomach reminded me that we hadn't really finished dinner last night.
“Hungry?” Jack asked as he pulled on his shoes.
“Mm-hmm.” I sighed, remembering that I hadn't stocked up the fridge since I got back into the country. “Can we go out to eat?”
“Certainly.” Jack smirked, standing up and buckling on his belt. That swagger that had first drawn me to him was back in his every step. “As a matter of fact, I know a lovely little place.”
“Oh?” I could see by the mischievous light in his eyes that he was up to something.
“In Paris,” he said. A grin slowly spread across his face.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” I said. We didn't bother to pack. Jack promised to buy me new clothes once we got there. I couldn't wait to see what the most romantic city in the world had in store for u
s. And it would be nice to travel around the world for pleasure, for once, instead of digging up ancient ruins and getting shot at by terrorists.
Though I reminded myself that when you were dating a rich, powerful, charming Navy SEAL, just about anything could happen.
Steamy Menage Collection
Christmas with 3 cowboys
Christmas had always been a bittersweet time for Shandy Price. Her parents, divorced since her birth, had always managed to turn the holidays into a parade of who was the bigger martyr and which one she should have loved more. It had not been an overly acrimonious divorce, as far as these things went, but Christmas always seemed to bring out the worst in them, rather than the best, and all she’d ever wanted was a merry Christmas. It had only gotten worse and worse the older she got, and by the time she left home she was of the opinion that Christmas was the worst season ever.
Her father eventually re-married, and slowly and quietly faded into the background of her life. By the time she was ten she’d largely forgotten him altogether, seeing the reprieve from weekend visitations as a boon rather than something to be mourned. Their visits together had gotten steadily more awkward over the years—it was bad enough that she loved American Dolls and the Disney princesses, but when her chest started to swell and she needed a bra her father could scarcely stand to look at her. At first she’d thought it was because she was hideous—her body misbehaving the way it did, all these lumps and bumps—but now, at eighteen, she realized that it was because he was afraid of his own sex drive when he was around her.
She had never realized that she could be attractive—being one of the few black kids in her mostly-white school made her more an object of fascination rather than true attraction. The few boys she’d dated had only ever wanted to know what she looked like naked—were her nipples really as dark as those they’d seen on porn sites? Was her pussy really pink? She shut down those inquiries as soon as they were made. Boys.
Now, though, men in the diner were constantly telling her that she was gorgeous—there were so many times she’d gotten an arm around her waist that she almost didn’t notice them anymore. At first she’d thought that this was normal—weren’t all men kinda boorish, and didn’t they all try to hit on her? But then Darlene said something about what a relief it was that she was there to take all their eyes off of her—Darlene told Shandy it was because her skin had a touch of honey in its color, making her seem luminous even in the waitressing uniform (red-and-white striped dress). “You’re prettier than me,” Darlene said, winking. “Them gropers and ass-grabbers are your problem from now on.” Shandy thought it was insane: Darlene was a beautiful woman, statuesque, with long, straight, blue-black hair and a haunted, sad beauty to her eyes. Shandy, on the other hand, was short. She was curvy, her hips and bosom narrowing into a nearly-impossibly slim waist. Her hair was unruly, falling into a mess of loose curls that never could be contained for more than fifteen minutes. And she looked happy all the time—she had wide eyes that made her look as if she were seeing everything for the first time, turned-up lips that gave her an agreeable expression, as if she couldn’t possibly be annoyed that men were always trying to grope her. “Honey, you’re pretty,” said Darlene. “Get over it.”
Easier said than done: she was finding that this was mantra of adult life. Laundry—who knew that cottons couldn’t be bleached or that polyesters needed to be ironed on low heat? Money—how did people remember to get the eggs and milk and still have money left over to pay their bills? Food—how long could someone survive on peanut-butter sandwiches and ramen noodles? Her mother had never taught her these things before she left home, telling her that all she needed to do was get good grades and do enough extra-curriculars to be accepted into college and everything would be all right. And maybe it might have been the case, but then there was a car accident and all of a sudden she was alone in the world—alone and eighteen, with nothing to her name, nobody to guide her into the complicated world of adulthood. One semester into her freshman year in college, she just couldn’t anymore—so she got behind the wheel of her car and just drove. She didn’t know where she was going, or what she was going to do, and by the time she came to her right mind about the pointlessness of it all it was two weeks later and she’d tapped out all of her savings. There was just enough to pay for one last tank of gas, which got her to Vernon, Oklahoma. There was a diner there looking for help—the owner, a sturdy, stocky guy named Marvin, looked her up and down, asked her to lift her shirt (she refused) and said, “You’ll do.”
Vernon was a place where things passed through, not stuck around. Even the litter that got sprinkled in the parking lot’s diner blew away before it could annoy anybody. The few people that lived here catered to the drivers who passed through: the gas station had more diesel pumps than gasoline pumps, and special hoses to pour as much as diesel into a tank as fast as they could. The stores here sold things that were small, easy to bring along or leave behind. There was no artisanal craftsmanship here—a spoon was just a spoon, it was up to the user to imbue it with meaning.
The transient nature of everything in Vernon suited her. It was a place that felt much the same as she did—unsure of her future, forced to keep her options open, waiting for something or someone to come along that would give them meaning. In Vernon’s case this came in the form of a bi-annual county fair, which brought in people from the seven surrounding counties to ride the rickety ferris wheels and throw balls at weighted milk bottles. For those two weeks the people were united, more or less, in the sentimentality for small-town life. In her case, eight months after she settled here, she was still trying to figure out what that was.
“Busy day,” called Jack Tremain, the short-order cook, as she came in through the back door. The stainless-steel kitchen and the linoleum floors gave off the scent of cooking grease. Out front, the diner had been decorated with plastic poinsettias and strings of colored lights that flickered intermittently, but the menu was still the same: eggs available three ways, iceberg lettuce, ketchup or mustard, lemon meringue or banana. It kept things simple.
“So I see,” she said, peeking out at the diners. It was crowded today—everybody was going to family, and out in Oklahoma, that meant at least a 4-hour drive to anywhere. She tied on her apron and pulled the scrunchie tight around her hair, checked her makeup in the reflection of the walk-in freezer, and stepped out.
There were lots of families, which was something that she didn’t usually see here. There were some truckers, which were more usual. All of them got a big smile and quick service from her and Darlene, the other waitress. Most of them tipped well, too. But the talk in the diner wasn’t about long-distance friends or family. There was a huge snowstorm rolling in off the Rockies, and Shandy heard phrases like “polar vortex” and “haboob” being bandied about. “Bad weather’s coming in,” everybody agreed. “Best get on our way.”
By three in the afternoon the skies were dark—if it’d been tornado season the tornado alarms would be going off like crazy—and the first flakes, hard and brittle from the dry air, were swirling around the cars in the lot. As if on cue, people began paying and leaving—on the TV, the weatherman was pointing out a massive cloud of red superimposed on a map of Oklahoma and Texas: storm was approaching, quickly.
“You oughta get home,” Shandy said to Jack and Darlene, as they watched the ring of yellow approaching their corner of Oklahoma.
“You sure?” asked Jack.
Shandy shrugged. “I ain’t got no family,” she said. “And my apartment’s just a mile down the road. Not like I have to drive twenty minutes.”
Darlene nodded gratefully and hung up her apron. The storm had been worrying her, and as she grabbed her keys she said, “You’re a doll, Shandy—I’ll pay you back for this.”
Shandy nodded and waved them good-bye but she didn’t say anything. Truth was, she didn’t want to be in her apartment, with its cheap thrift-store furniture and no Christmas tree, watching It’s a Wonderful Life and N
ational Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation over and over again, reminding her of what she’d never had. She could borrow Marvin’s boots—he hadn’t come in today but he was usually the one shoveling the lot when it snowed—if she had to walk back. He wouldn’t mind.
She filled a bucket and got a few rags, and began wiping down the empty tables, washing up the pots and pans. The power hadn’t gone out yet, so she fired up the jukebox and set it to cycle through every album in its collection. Keep busy, don’t think about Christmas—
She was wiping down the griddle when she heard banging on the front door. Who’s out now, in this God-forsaken weather?
She realized, when she came out front, that the diner’s lights were still on. “That explains a lot,” she muttered to herself, as she unlocked the door. There were three men standing there, one of them slumped between the other two. It wasn’t until they were inside that she realized that she was alone—that this could be a ruse—that they could—
“Thanks, miss,” said the first one. He was tall, square-jawed with the kind of brooding good looks that reminded her of nothing so much as the Marlboro Man. His eyes were even blue, and his hair—what she could see of it under his hat—was a dirty straw-blond. She felt her guard go up right away—she and Darlene called these kinds of guys the “ass-handers”, because they were always grabbing their asses. But they tipped well, so if their hands occasionally went up her skirt she kept her mouth shut. “We’ve been trying to get Truman—”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong wi’ me,” said the one who was slumped between the other two. Truman looked younger than she was, even, though it might have been that his face had gone slack from being drunk. He had long hair—he reminded her of the hero on the covers of all those Harlequin novels, patrician nose, the intense stare (well, it would have been intense had he been sober enough to stare), the shirt opened to the waist, revealing a chiseled body. To be sure, they’d probably opened his shirt so that he wouldn’t throw up on it—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the view.
