The Marriage Pact: A Baby Romance

by Tia Siren

  But Winston was right. I didn’t care. If I was really having fun dating bimbos like her, I would probably care a little bit that someone else was trying to steal her away from me. But I just didn’t.

  And then, Eva St. Stevens walked by and flashed me a bright smile.

  “Hey, Mason,” she said in a silky voice.

  “Eva,” I acknowledged, before I tip my glass to her.

  “Now, there’s a relationship you should be focused on,” Winston said when she was out of earshot. “Why haven’t you taken Eva anywhere? You know it’s inevitable that the two of you will end up together.”

  “You think my mother is already picking out wedding colors?” I asked.

  “If I know Belinda like I think I do, she’s probably already planned out how many children you’re going to have, and what their names will be.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” I said. “I’m supposed to have a real life before coming back and doing what’s expected of me, right?”

  I turned toward Winston who was taking a long pull off his drink. He finally set his glass down on a tray moving by us, and he cleared his throat.

  “A ‘real life’ doesn’t mean not doing what you’re told,” he said. “You and Eva would be good together, and you know it. She’d be really good at pumping out kids and spending all your money, and you’d be good at filling her with kids and giving her that money. Also, she doesn’t give a shit that you sleep with a new piece of ass every other week. That is true love.”

  “Yeah, love for money,” I murmured.

  “What I mean is, you’re missing out on experiences. You go to the same places and do the same things, and you even sleep with the same kinds of women! Dude, change it up. Go tropical in the winter. Screw Barty’s. Find a fat girl, and drill her into your mattress! Do something new for once!”

  “Calm down, Sir Drinks-a-lot. The alcohol’s clouding your hearing.”

  “Yeah, you and Eva are expected to be together and pop out kids,” he said. “It just comes with the territory. We were born into a life where financial responsibility isn’t a thing, and in return, we follow orders so we don’t have to worry about where our lives will be going. Do you know how many of them worry about that on a daily basis?”

  Winston was pointing out to the skyline, and I knew he meant everyone else that didn’t have the wealth that our families did.

  “Find that out in your research?” I smirked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. It plagues millions every single damn day, and it’s something you’ll never have to worry about.”

  “Then why are you dick-deep in the routine of my life, Winston?”

  “Because routine doesn’t mean you have to stay comfortable,” he said.

  “All right, I’ll bite,” I said. “So, what should I do to get out of my comfort zone?”

  “We’ll start small,” Winston began. “If I can carry that tray of full champagne flutes across this crowded floor without spilling or tipping them over, you have to date a real woman. Not some model and not some rich bitch, but an actual, bona fide, regular woman.”

  “And if you spill?” I asked.

  “Then I’ll move back in with my parents, stop my research, and no longer talk about your sexual escapades with random people I meet.”

  “You what?” I sputtered.

  “Be right back!”

  I watched in shock while Winston gallivanted over and picked up a tray of drinks. I found myself clutching my drink stronger in my hand than I should have been. I watched him quickly dart in and out of the drunk and stumbling idiots on the dance floor, and I felt my heart sink to my toes.

  He really wasn’t going to fucking make it across that damn floor, was he? I mean, he was carrying like twenty fucking glasses full of champagne. And he’d been drinking all day.

  I watched him skirt through the dancing people, and even though he teetered a bit, he set the tray of glasses down at the other end of the reception tent. The drinks remained untipped and unspilled.

  Fuck me.

  I watched Winston stride back over with his cocky smile, and then it finally dawned on me.

  “Fucking research,” I said.

  He grinned. “I waited tables last summer at one of the premier restaurants in downtown. Pay up, you rich bastard.”

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” I asked.

  Winston took my empty scotch glass from me and placed it haphazardly on a nearby table. He plucked two more glasses from the tray of a passing waiter.

  “Take out your phone,” he said.

  I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled it out. He stripped it from my palm and began doing something on it. He typed in some letters and then waited for a while, and when he turned it back around, I saw the home screen for some sleazy dating website.

  I shook my head. “No fucking way, dude.”

  “Make a profile,” he said. “And I’ll know, because I’m gonna look at it before you leave. By the end of the weekend, you have to take some regular, unknown girl out on a date. Just one. That’s all.”

  “Fuck me,” I said.

  “That’s the plan, Stan,” Winston said.

  I sat down at an empty table and made this idiotic profile. I added a picture, filled in some stupid details, and answered some of the asinine questions it wanted me to. Shit like “what’s your favorite food?” and “do you enjoy traveling?” popped up. If Winston wasn’t lurking over my shoulder, I would have just thrown my phone back into my pocket and ripped my date away from that asshole whose lap she was now on.

  “Done,” I said.

  Winston took the phone from my hand and surveyed my handiwork. When he was satisfied, he hit a button and gave me my phone back.

  “Those are the profiles of all those regular women in the city. Find one, and let me know when the big date is!”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “No, fuck her,” he said, smiling.

  I finished my scotch and gripped my phone in my hand. When I was done, I set the glass on the table and made my way to my limo. I was suddenly very tired, and I didn’t feel like fucking someone’s sloppy seconds. My date was all over a guy who probably couldn’t even afford the hotel room to take her back to, and it made me laugh at the rude awakening coming her way.

  “Serves her right,” I murmured.

  Having that second scotch wasn’t a good thing, but I knew the ride back home would sober me up enough to enjoy sleeping tonight.

  But it didn’t stop me from taking out my phone and flipping through the profiles and ads.

  Most of these girls were boring, with stereotypical answers for everything.

  “What do you like to eat?” Pizza!

  “Do you travel?” If I could afford it!

  “What’s your dream vacation?” Two weeks in Bora Bora!

  They were all clamoring for men to take care of them, and it only reminded me of the women I shrugged off on a daily basis.

  However, a profile with the title “Hot Man Wanted” appeared on my screen, and I couldn’t help but click it. My eyes scanned the ad, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at it. It had some humor, a bit of quirkiness, and the owner of the ad even went on a few tangents I found interesting. But it was the last line of the ad that caught my attention and prompted me to send a message:

  “I’ve got big dreams, big hopes, big aspirations, and big goals. But, the big ‘O’ has yet to appear in my life. Up for the challenge?”

  “Oh, most definitely,” I said to myself.

  Chapter 2

  Ash

  The craft store was slow today, which was a good thing because I needed time to declutter. Annoying customers had thrown everything, everywhere, and it felt like I was drowning in a sea of glitter and yarn.

  I didn’t really enjoy working in the craft store, but it gave me the money I needed to save up for my own business, and my job gave me discounts on all the things I needed to make my jewelry. It was a decent tradeoff for now.

>   While I worked, my phone kept buzzing. I couldn’t answer it while I was out on the floor, but when I went into the back for a break I opened up my phone. I’d posted my “Hot Man Wanted” ad a few days ago. I expected many men to message me when I posted it, but some of them were annoyingly persistent.

  I’d check out their profiles and read what they wrote. I passed on most of them without sending a return message. Some of the men got angry because I wouldn’t message back, and others just kept messaging until I responded. I’d get responses like “I could rock your world” or “Is this thick enough?” coupled with a picture of some cock he probably pulled from the internet. All I would do is shake my head and tell the person I wasn’t interested.

  Some would get mad, and others would call me names, but all that did was solidify the fact that I’d made the right decision in turning them down.

  Unfortunately, what I’d written in my ad was true. I’d never had an orgasm. Not my fault. According to my best friend, Frank, I’d only been with boys. Never men.

  “You need a man who knows what he wants, not some boy who’s still impressed by the size of his cock,” Frank had told me.

  She was the one who convinced me to post this idiotic ad, but I had to admit the attention was nice. And it’s not like I’d never experienced an orgasm. I mean, I knew how to work a vibrator, but I’ve never had one in bed with a man. Apparently, they were a thing that was supposed to happen, but they just never had for me.

  Frank told me that my fingers don’t even come close to what a man’s tongue could do, so she sat me down, and we wrote up this dinky little ad on this random dating website.

  I fished through the messages and blocked some of the guys on the app. I was about to close out my phone and get back to work when a message from Mason Masters popped up. My knee jerk reaction was to exit the conversation and get back to work, but his profile picture caught my eye. His eyes were dark, and his hair was luscious. His skin had this sun-kissed tan that was sexy, but didn’t dominate his strong features.

  God, he was hot.

  But his introduction message made him perfect.

  Sounds like the stress of those goals and aspirations are interfering with your love life. Care for me to intervene?

  It was cocky. I had to give him that, but it didn’t come with a dick pic, and that was a plus. There wasn’t any bragging on how thick his shaft was, or any horn-tooting about how every woman he’d ever been with would come multiple times over.

  I liked it, and I enjoyed his profile, so I responded.

  I suppose it depends on your method of intervention.

  I was shocked at how quick his response was, and I slowly leaned back into my chair and smiled at his message.

  I could spout off some stuff about my tongue or the size of my cock, but something tells me you’d prefer a few drinks first.

  He wasn’t wrong. I wrote him back. Straight to the point. I like it.

  But straight to the point doesn’t really cut it for women in bed sometimes, he responded.

  That statement made me think back to all the other guys I’d been with. How eager they were to stick it in so badly that sometimes I had to bust out the lube because they hadn’t taken the time to work me up. I thought about the times I’d woken up to my boyfriend grinding his nasty morning wood into my back, hoping I’d just spread my legs and he’d slip right on in.

  What cuts it for you in bed? I asked.

  When a woman yells my name.

  That statement made me shiver. Sure, I’d had sex that felt nice, but I’d never felt the need to scream out into the room or anything. Part of me thought that stuff was fake, that women only said they did that just to give the impression that their sex lives were awesome.

  Ah, so you like a grand entrance? I wrote.

  He responded. No, just a grand finale. The entrance means nothing if you can’t deliver.

  God, every response was perfect. If his body was just as perfect as that mouth, I had no doubt in my mind that this man could be the one to give me that one thing I’d been missing in bed for so long.

  I must’ve waited too long to respond, because he shot me a message before I could formulate an answer.

  Care to get drinks tonight so you can tell me all about these big goals and aspirations?

  You give a shit about those? I asked.

  If they’re getting in the way of enjoying sex, then they’re probably pretty important.

  My lack of orgasm is probably due to being with men who don’t know what the hell they’re doing, I quipped.

  Then let me buy you a drink and show you how it’s done. Then, you can tell me about those dreams.

  Jesus, my pelvis was burning.

  I write back. There’s a place called Low Light downtown. You familiar with it?

  I could be, he answered.

  Could you become familiar with it by 8 tonight? I asked.

  For you? Yes. He wrote.

  I physically groaned at that last message.

  I’ll see you there at 8. I wrote.

  I felt my phone buzz with his response, but I clicked it closed before I could look at it. My boss, Luna, had come into the room, and I knew she had caught me on my phone texting.

  “New-fangled technology,” she said, shaking her head. “No wonder you kids don’t know how to keep jobs.”

  “Not everything that’s modern is bad, Luna,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Many technological advances have helped many people. Like robotic arms and online web stores.”

  “Ugh, not this again,” Luna said.

  “You could make an online store and advertise your products,” I said. “You could reach an audience broader than L.A. We could provide shipping services, and we would have the capability of tripling what you bring in monthly now.”

  “We do just fine,” Luna said, sighing.

  “But we could do better,” I urged.

  I tried to reason with her, to get her to understand that the difference between being fine and being comfortable was the fact that she didn’t have an online store. Hell, she didn’t even have a website. She relied solely on word-of-mouth and foot traffic to get people into the store, and some months, that just wasn’t enough.

  “That’s what a savings account is for,” she’d reply.

  I knew it was a lost cause, but I wasn’t giving up that fight with her. I needed to convince her somehow that having a website would be the best thing this shop did for itself, even if I had to design it myself. I have no idea how to, but I’d figure it out.

  As my work day continued, I found myself thinking about the night to come. The last message he sent me was a brief description of what he would be wearing: a dark red button-down shirt with black slacks and no tie.

  God, my mouth was already salivating at the idea that this man might actually be between my legs before the night was out. Most men I’d been with had things like washed-out mohawks and piercings up and down their ears. Put together men in tailored suits didn’t look my way, but I had a feeling that was about to change.

  But I couldn’t help that I was worried. My ex, Jason, was the definition of emotionally unavailable. He had a grown-out blonde mohawk with dark roots, a tall and slender build, and piercings I couldn't rip my eyes from. I loved watching his hands play his bass whenever I got the chance to watch him perform, and his arresting blue eyes always lit up whenever he was plucking away at his instrument. But Jesus, was he lazy.

  And a mooch.

  He didn’t appreciate me. He crashed on my couch and ate all my food, and whenever he did get money from his gigs, he didn’t even think about taking me out anywhere. He’d buy some new piercing or he’d get some new clothes, and then I was responsible for paying the bills he racked up but never helped with.

  That meant I needed to keep the upper hand tonight. I needed to make sure I stayed in control so I wasn’t taken advantage of. I was the one who posted the ad, so I was the one who got to dictate what happened. All I want is an orgasm, and if
he doesn’t want to give that to me in the way I think it should be done, then he’s gone.

  “Easy as pie,” I breathed to myself.

  “Ash!” Luna called out.

  “Yeah!?”

  “Time to go home,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  Mason

  My limo pulled up to the front of Low Light, and part of me felt a bit unnerved. The outside was fairly dirty, and someone needed to fucking change the bulbs in the sign. Was this what Winston was talking about? Was this his idea of the “real world?” If so, I wasn’t impressed.

  I got out and slammed the limo door. Judging from the look of the place, I was probably overdressed. No matter. I smoothed my shirt down and walked through the front door. The smell of cheap alcohol hit my nose, and I couldn’t hear myself think above the dull roar of people yelling over their backwash drinks.

  Yep. This was exactly what Winston was talking about.

  The establishments I was used to have painted walls and dimly lit table lamps. The tablecloths were crisp, white linen, and people conversed in hushed whispers. Women ate their miniature salads with small forks that accentuate their delicate hands, and men cut their marbled steaks while sitting back leisurely in their velvet chairs.

  This place had the name Low Light, but it was anything but. Harsh, unflattering lights lit the scene. The chairs didn’t have padding, and the food came in massive portions. Women shoved their faces full of greasy appetizers, and I don’t think anyone was even being seated with silverware. What kind of woman had I talked to that wanted to come here? Jesus, at least have some class.

  “Can I seat you somewhere, sir?” a woman said, all but shouting at me.

  My eyes scanned the dimly lit bar, taking in the tacky paintings on the walls. I shoved my hands into my pockets before I turned myself for the door. Screw this night. I’d be able to find someone to date before the weekend was out that didn’t require me to come to a place where the floors looked like they’d never been cleaned.

  But then, I saw it. That flaming blue hair from her profile picture. She was sitting at the bar with her forearms resting on the poorly varnished wood. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.