Unexpected Daddies

by Lively, R. S.

  There are two bedrooms: one for Sam and his date, and one for me. Maybe back in the old days, I'd have considered having Petra – or one of the other women at the party – stay over. Not tonight. Not anymore. Like I said, those days are long over.

  I am tired of everything in my life. Just so tired. I want to settle down somewhere, far away from here. I want to be away from people. From the world, basically. I just want to be alone.

  One day, I tell myself. For now, I walk into the bedroom and close the door, grateful the walls are thick enough that I don't hear my best friend with his lady next door. I flop down in bed, lace my hands behind my head, and stare up at the ceiling.

  I have no idea what I'm doing here, or why, but one thing is for certain: I'm going to give Sam hell for sicking Petra on me.

  * * *

  “Dude, she's not worth it,” Sam said, patting me on the back. “She doesn't deserve you.”

  “I loved her, man. I really loved her,” I muttered. “I bought her a ring. We were going to get married –”

  Sam grabbed me by the shoulders, stopping me from pacing the living room of his apartment. He held me there. I was bigger than him, but the look on his face made me pause and listen to what he had to say.

  “There will be other women,” Sam said. “Listen, she had us all fooled. No one would have known she would’ve cheated on you. You got played – we all did. But that just proves what a lying, conniving bitch she is.”

  “Sam, please –”

  “No, that's what she is, Grant,” he said. “Kaitlyn isn't the girl she used to be back in college.”

  “Maybe if I hadn't left her,” I said. “Maybe –”

  “Stop it,” Sam commanded.

  His voice had risen higher, and yet firmer and deeper, than I'd ever heard it before. He was such an easy-going, soft spoken, laid-back kind of guy. He didn't have a temper to speak of – not like I did. But now, I could see that he was angry. I could read it in his eyes as plain as day.

  "It's not your fault, Grant,” he said. 'You served your country with distinction. She knew what she was getting into when she signed up for this life. She chose to be your girlfriend through it all – and she could have broken up with you at any time if it was getting to be too much for her. She didn't though. Because she's selfish, and because she's a bitch.”

  “I know,” I said, running a hand through my shaggy hair. “I know you're right. We've just been together for so long – I don't know how to date again, man.”

  “You'll figure it out. It's like riding a bike, man,” Sam said. “We've got our business, and that's really taking off. Money’s coming in faster than we can spend it. You'll meet better women than Kaitlyn, trust me.”

  I sighed and plopped down on his couch. It's the only furniture left in this dinky apartment. He was right. It was a real bitch, but I knew he was right.

  Sam and I had a business now – a successful one. We'd bought some prime real estate, right as the economy was struggling the most. Snapping it up for a song and a dance. Sam's father had helped us develop that land, and things continued going up from there. I owed Sam so much. I owed him my livelihood, but more importantly, I owed him my life.

  He was my best friend, but he was more than that to me.

  He'd saved my life, in more ways – and more times – than one. I remember every time – even in the middle of battle – when my temper got the best of me, he managed to keep his cool. He always had such a clear head about damn near everything. And while I was busy losing my cool, Sam was always the one who got us out of situations that I'd have fucked up if left to my own devices.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Sam announced, joining me on the couch. “Let's have a party. I'll book us a pretty sweet suite downtown, we'll invite some people and have us a ‘Fuck Kaitlyn' party. What do you say?”

  At the time, I'd only been with one person in my entire life. Kaitlyn had been my first, and until that moment, I’d expected her to be my only. But life had royally screwed up those plans.

  “Sure,” I said, patting Sam on the leg. “We're young, let's enjoy ourselves.”

  “Hell yes,” Sam said. “I'll take care of everything. Don't you worry.”

  And that's how these damn hotel parties started. Even all these years later, we always held them in that same suite. Every single time. But that was so long ago. I'm not the same person anymore. Nowhere close to being the same person. I'm older, wiser, and tired of that life. Sam seemed to be too, but he just didn't say anything about it. He kept throwing these parties, maybe because he thought I needed them. Maybe, because he was nostalgic. It was about time we had a talk, though.

  Especially if him and Tasha are an item now. No reason to keep up this facade of being wild and crazy kids when neither of us wanted that anymore. We didn't need a hundred chicks in mini-skirts throwing themselves at us when I'm not interested, and Sam is otherwise occupied.

  I’m still in my bed when I hear the hotel door room open. There are muffled voices – Sam and the girl's – and I can't help but smile as they say their goodbyes.

  I hear Sam promise, “Fine, yes, I'll meet your dad and uncle,” he says. “If it means that much to you, I'll do it.”

  I grin to myself. My best friend is in love, or close to it. Good for him.

  When the front door closes, I hop out of bed and peek out the bedroom door. Sam is standing near the door, a big, stupid grin on his face. He's an attractive man, and I'm secure enough in my sexuality to admit that. Just about an inch or two shorter than me, at around six-foot-two, Sam is built like – well, a Marine – with broad shoulders and thick arms.

  His blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes make him an All-American dream boy, and dimples in his cheeks only accentuate that image. He has a nice face. It's kind and open, with a soft, gentle look to it – which is fitting since he's pretty much a good ol' boy. If there’s anything Sam’s good at, it’s impressing the family members of his girlfriends. They love him.

  “She seems nice,” I say.

  Sam laughs and runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair. “She is, but she's troubled too.”

  “You've always had a thing for the troubled girls,” I say. “She didn't seem too bad though.”

  His face fell. “There's a lot of darkness in her, Grant,” he says. “But I like her. I really like her. Like, a lot.”

  “Dude, everyone has a little darkness inside of them,” I reply. “What can be so bad about her?”

  “She's got a drinking problem, for one thing,” he says. “Which is why we hung out upstairs – away from the booze.”

  “She’s getting sober?”

  “She's trying. Her best friend gave her a place to live, and she's working at her family's restaurant right now, trying to get back on her feet.”

  “And you're going to meet the family, huh?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess they're in real estate too,” he says. “Or something like that. I don't really know, but it means a lot to her, so I'll suck it up and just do it. It'll make her happy.”

  “You're a good guy, Sam,” I say. “They're going to love you.”

  * * *

  “Sam, where are you, man?” I plead, leaving yet another voicemail. “Did you forget? The meeting for the McIver project is this morning. Guess I'm going alone. Well, whatever you're up to, I hope you're having fun. Call me so I know you're not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  Fuck it. I decide he's left me with no other option. I'll swing by and make sure his ass is awake. He had a date with Tasha last night, but it's not like him to not answer his phone. Maybe he’d had a little too much to drink last night, and not enough sleep. It's unusual for him, but hell, everyone sleeps through their alarms at some point in their life, right?

  Truth be told, I need Sam on this, and I'm stressing out that I can't reach him. This property is his deal, not mine. He knows everything about it, while I only know the basics. This particular plot of land was left to him by his father when he passed, and this p
roject has been like his baby.

  This particular deal is not just about business, it's personal for him, and I can't make decisions like this without him by my side. We're presenting a plan to the city, to have the property rezoned for residential use and turned into affordable housing – something the city of Chicago desperately needs.

  Not everyone is happy about this. Most notably, the NIMBY's who'd prefer to see more high-end, luxury condos be built in their backyard. But this is incredibly personal for Sam, and he wants to make sure everything is just right. It's his father's legacy, after all.

  Sam was raised in a working, middle-class family. His dad gave him everything he could, doing everything in his power to help make Sam who he is today. A legacy he proudly passed on to his son.

  I park my car outside of Sam's two-story brick home. His car’s in the driveway, but there's not a single light on inside. The curtains are still pulled shut on the bedroom windows, meaning he's likely fast asleep. Probably with his girl snuggled up close to him. Lucky bastard.

  I still haven't met this woman of mystery, Tasha, but he can't stop talking about her. The two of them are moving quickly – as in, he can see himself marrying her one day. He's never felt this way for another woman before, and I can't wait to meet her.

  As luck would have it, I might be meeting her in just a few minutes.

  I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. Several long moments pass, with no sound from inside. I reach out and ring the bell again. And again. And again, I'm met with nothing but silence.

  Finally, I just hold it down and let it ring nonstop, assuming the annoying sound would bring Sam down the stairs any second. When nobody comes to the door, I sigh and reach down underneath the door mat. No key there. I know he keeps a spare somewhere out here and I could’ve sworn it was under the mat, but there's nothing there. I scan the front yard until I see a plastic-looking rock.

  “Seriously, Sam?” I roll my eyes, going over to the fake stone. It's as light as a feather. “All this money, and you still don't have a more secure option. Idiot.”

  But that's Sam for you. He has a nice home, of course, and a decent car, but you wouldn't tell he's as well-off as he is. He doesn’t flaunt it. Our business has made both of us millionaires, but he still likes to live a middle-class lifestyle. Both of us do, actually. Neither of us have much use for extra money.

  I flip open the latch on the bottom of the rock and a key falls out. I'm still chuckling to myself as I walk to the front door, slip the key into the lock and let myself in.

  “Sam?” I call into the dark home.

  The moment I step through the door, something immediately sets me off. I feel my body tense, and my mind goes on high alert. A sudden feeling of dread washes over me.

  I flip on the light switch. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. And yet, something just doesn't feel right.

  The house is eerily quiet. Too quiet. I wonder if perhaps Sam rode with Tasha over to her place, leaving his car behind. I'm hoping that's the case. He’d mentioned she no longer drinks, so if he’d had a few, it's possible she was the sober driver. Maybe they went back to her apartment. Maybe her roommate isn't home, and they were taking advantage of her place. Or maybe he's upstairs, sleeping like a baby. I won't know until I check.

  As quietly as I can, I walk up the stairs to the second floor. I stop as soon as I make it to the top of the stairs. A chill instantly runs down my spine. I look around cautiously, racking my brain to find the source of this persistent ominous feeling. Just like downstairs, nothing seems out of place. I have no idea where this horrible sense of dread is coming from.

  Even though the place is silent, I can't be too careful, and won't let my guard down. I'm not armed like I usually am – I had absolutely zero reason to believe I'd need a weapon. Pressing myself against the wall, I walk slowly down the hallway toward the bedroom, holding my breath, trying not to make the slightest sound. My heart hammers a stuttering, drunken rhythm in my chest. It's beating so hard and so loud, I'm convinced that anybody who might be in the house can hear it. But, other than that, it's silent. Utterly silent.

  Maybe I'm overreacting, I tell myself. I'd seen a lot in my time as a Marine, and all those memories came flooding back. Sometimes your body kicks itself into fight-or-flight mode before you have a chance to remind yourself that you're a civilian now. That there aren't enemies waiting for you right around the corner.

  Still, I'd rather look like a fool than wind up dead, so I keep myself pressed against the wall until I reach Sam's bedroom door. It's cracked open just a bit. I reach up and nudge it open just a bit farther, instinctively flinching and waiting for the sound of gunshots to ring out. When nothing happens, I push it open further and step inside – and immediately wish I hadn't.

  My eyes can't comprehend the scene before me. It has to be a nightmare. I stand there for what feels like an eternity, staring at the bed, trying to wrap my mind around what I'm seeing. Some small part of me had still expected – hoped – to find my best friend and his girlfriend in bed together having sex. Or sleeping. Or anything, really.

  Instead, it's only Sam, lying dead in blood-stained sheets.

  I reach for my phone – and I drop it. My hands are trembling so hard, I can't even place the call. Get ahold of yourself, Grant, I think to myself. My head is swimming.

  Except, I haven’t. I kneel down and pick up my phone, quickly dialing 9-1-1.

  I can't even breathe as I wait for the dispatcher to pick up. My mind is spinning, and my stomach roils and churns. I have to fight back a wave of nausea. I feel like I'm going to get sick.

  I throw up just as the voice on the other end of the line asks me what my emergency is.

  “I - I need to report a murder,” I say, my voice hoarse and raspy. I don't even sound like myself as I give her my location and describe the scene.

  “The police will be there shortly,” the woman says on the other end.

  I don't even hear what else she says. I fall to the ground and pull my knees against my chest. Rocking back and forth, I stay put, stay with Sam, and wait for the police to arrive.

  * * *

  “This is Zulu Foxtrot Three, we're taking heavy fire. Requesting air support and evac,” Sam called into the radio. “Repeat, this is Zulu Foxtrot Three, and we are taking heavy enemy fire. Multiple casualties. Requesting air support and evac. Over.”

  We were pinned down inside some little bombed-out house, in a little bombed-out town. I couldn't even remember the name. But this town was close to a key supply line. Over the last few months, enemy forces had done a number on us, attacking convoy after convoy before melting back into the civilian population.

  We questioned the residents, but nobody ever saw or heard a damn thing. Of course they didn't. Eventually, brass decided that enough was enough and we needed to secure the supply line. Geniuses. It only took a couple dozen men and millions of dollars’ worth of supplies for them to come to that decision. Good thing guys like that were in charge.

  After dropping pamphlets into the town, letting the residents know the Americans were coming and they needed to evac, they waited a few days to let people get out. Then they unleashed hell. After that, we moved in to mop it all up and secure the supply line.

  Except, as shit often does over here, everything went fucking sideways. Clearly not deterred by the hellfire we unleashed on the town, the insurgents waited until the avalanche of bombs stopped falling and took up positions in the rubble. We walked straight into an ambush.

  In the distance, I heard the lieutenant call a retreat. We were separated from our platoon – though, I thought everybody was kind of separated, having taken cover wherever cover was available. Sam and I were the last men at the front line for as far as I could see.

  Almost immediately, I took a shot to the midsection. It entered through my vest. I could feel the blood, warm and tacky on my skin. It didn’t hurt. I was in shock.

  I looked over at Sam. If he was the last person I saw, I w
ould die happy.

  “Go without me, man,” I said, and I meant it. “Retreat.”

  His face turned into a look of grim determination. His eyes flared. “No way,” he simply said. Even with gunshots buzzing around our heads, I could hear him clear as day. “I’m getting you home, Grant.”

  He crouched low and threw me over his shoulder. Somehow, with some kind of strength I doubt even he knew he had, he ran full speed out of there, holding me tight. Bullets whizzed past us, but he was too quick. Before I knew it, we were already outside of town.

  Just ahead, I thought I could see a Motor T transport. It was full to the brim with the others. The engine was already running by the time we saw it.

  “Wait!” Sam called. Two Marines immediately jumped out of the back and rushed towards us to help.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” he whispered to me as they took me off his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  Everything went dark.

  I came to in the medical tent. The first thing I saw was the face of the doctor looming above me. The second thing I saw was Sam. It wasn't lost on me that he had just saved my life. If not for Sam, I’d have been left alone to die in the desert. I owe my life to my best friend, and as that realization hits me, a profound and deep wave of relief engulfs me.

  I guess I wasn't as ready to go as I thought.

  As the doctor started to explain the bullet he’d just pulled out of me, I grabbed Sam's arm and gave it a squeeze, acknowledging the fact that he'd just saved my ass. He gave me a tight smile and a nod.

  Nothing more needed to be said.

  * * *

  The service over, and most of the mourners having already drifted away, I stood there alone, staring at the glossy, highly polished casket before me. The memories of that first time Sam saved my life replay in my head over and over again. In our time in uniform, he’d saved my life more times than I can count. Just as I saved his. It was just the way of things over there. No matter how dangerous things got, I was always comforted to know that I always had him at my back. Sam always – and I mean always – watched my six.