by Liz Crowe
She sucked in a breath and at that moment began what amounted to an entirely new Chapter of the Sophie Lynn Harrison Fucked-Up Book of Life. “I will be a mother to his child. But he will never know it’s his. Never. Now get the hell out. I have work to do.”
The room seemed stunned into quiet, then Jack rose. “You heard her, boys. Move along.” He waited as the room emptied. Turning to her, he said, “Sophie, listen….”
But she stopped him. “Nope. No words necessary. It’s not rocket science, being pregnant, having a kid. I’ve got this. It will be fine.” Dropping into her seat, she tried not to scream. She had no one, really. Her parents were long gone. She had no close girlfriends to speak of. She had Lance, of course, and his boyfriend. And she had herself. As always. Which had worked thus far. Why would it stop working now?
Jack touched her shoulder, but she didn’t move. Finally he left, shutting her door with a firm click.
Now, here she was, full-fucking-circle, staring down the business end of Brody’s dark gaze, which seemed to fill with remorse, with memory. She clenched her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest. Finally, he left, trailing the last vestiges of anything like reconciliation. What’s left to reconcile anyway? He is not the man you met and fell head over heels with like some stupid weakling. Get over it. You have new purpose now, and you damn well know it.
She picked up the picture again, held it to her chest, and tried not to cry.
Chapter Two
Brody observed the show in front of him. Putting a glass of something that smelled strong and tasted stronger to his lips. A man walked onto a small stage, sporting nothing but a giant, straining erection and a smile at the sight of two equally naked, hot chicks on the bed. They’d been busy for about the last half hour, between acrobatic sixty-nines, loud moaning, and various, somewhat messy, orgasms.
Brody touched his crotch, acknowledging his own arousal. Who wouldn’t be turned on? It was expected of him. He glanced around at the other people observing the live sex show at the party he’d been invited to, along with his bitchy agent girlfriend who, at the moment, put on the show as one of the chicks on the bed.
Funny how that fact didn’t bother him in the slightest. He felt a little clinical about it actually, as if he were watching himself, watching his girlfriend get eaten out by some other girl. Nicely done, he thought at one point. Have to remember that move next time I go down on her.
Sipping the alcohol, he hoped it had the desired effect. The man let the girls pull him onto the huge bed. Brody leaned forward, his cock painfully trapped behind his zipper, enervated, yet somehow numb to the scene. That’s how he rolled—and he liked it. He stood, got closer so he had a better view as the man flipped his agent/girlfriend over onto all fours and slid his huge dick into her.
Brody loved that part, the penetration moment, the actual physical connection. His pulse raced, while the rest of him prepared to get in on the action. The other girl kissed the strange man while he pounded into Brody’s girlfriend from behind.
He stripped out of his jeans, breathing a sigh of relief as he dropped onto the bed, groaning as the other girl pounced on him and swallowed him nearly immediately, moving up and down his shaft, poking her tongue into the slit, licking around his head. The word nice kept floating through his head—better than nice. He turned to see his agent/girlfriend make her O-face, saw her tits jiggle with every pound from behind. Putting his arms behind his head, he played audience, observing as she came, with that funny detached feeling again, no longer even feeling the girl’s lips or tongue while she still sucked on him like a lollipop.
“Fuck.” He shoved her aside in disgust.
Amber dropped down beside him and ran her fingertips over his chest. She tweaked his nipples hard, bit his shoulder, and palmed his slowly-softening shaft. “Poor baby,” she whispered. “Numb again?”
He nodded, agitated, antsy, wanting to get the hell out of there, but needing to stay, needing something…He sat up, disgusted with himself.
Somebody put a flogger in her outstretched palm. Grinning, she gave it to him and his body revved up again, ragingly painful erection and all.
“Give it to her,” Amber whispered in his ear, her arms draped around his neck from behind. She pointed to the girl who knelt at the foot of the bed, her eyes cast down. “She wants you to. Show me, Brody.” She pinched both his nipples so hard he groaned.
Getting to his feet, he pointed to the bed without a word. The nameless, naked girl bent over it, and he smacked the sweet flesh of her ass until she moaned and writhed. He smelled her ripe, raw, and lusty desire.
“Fuck her, Brody,” Amber yelled from her new position in front of him, fingers already down between her own legs again. Another naked girl had fallen into their mix. She went down on Amber—Jesus, am I dating a lesbian?—and he blinked. He’d never met a girl who liked getting head as much as Amber did.
He dropped the flogger and pounded into the girl, again and again, letting the orgasm take control, continuing to smack her hips and ass. Finally, she gripped his cock hard, cried out, and pulled him right over the edge. His hips bucked, he released his load into her then pulled out nearly immediately, done with this scene until next time.
****
Brody’s skin tingled and his spine relaxed under the hot shower in a way he only got after a monster orgasm. His head had that odd, annoying, echoing feeling he’d been experiencing more and more lately. The scalding hot water hit his face and he pressed his thumbs to his eyes, hard. The parade of images had begun again, and he was powerless against them. He groaned and propped his hands on the tiled wall, but the memories invaded despite his willing them away.
A large woman, with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, laughed at him, a throaty, raspy noise that made his heart beat fast with anxiety. She pointed at him, while a fat, sloppy-looking boy stood at her shoulder, smirking. Shame flooded his nerve endings that he had no reason to feel. His knees shook. He slid down the wall, helpless against the onslaught.
The next one showed up right on cue, like it had pretty much every night for the last two weeks or so. A girl, a pretty one, stared right at him. She wore a long, formal gown and tugged at him until they were in a dark room, fumbling around, kissing like the amateurs they were. His dick hardened under the shower water. The sensation of impending disaster crept into his brain, lodged there, at the memory of kissing the girl’s lips, groping her small, exposed breasts, and then, a telltale tingling in his spine and….
“Oh…unh….” He grunted, and her face fell. She gathered up her dress and flounced out, leaving him a smelly mess, the trousers he hadn’t even taken off dark in the crotch from his spunk.
“Jesus.” Brody gave up and flopped to his butt, while the images bombarded him, reminders of moments he would swear happened to someone else but were inexorable in their ramp-up. Every day he got a new one to add to the rest. His heart pounded, chest tightened with anxiety when a drop-dead sexy woman appeared at the front of what appeared to be a classroom. She had long red hair piled up on her head. Her curves were emphasized by the clingy dress and heels she wore, but made teacher-appropriate somehow by the square glasses she peered through. At him.
He shoved that image away, his whole body convulsing with the effort. “Fucking leave me alone!” he shouted, twice, into the empty shower room. “Fucking bitch!” He scrambled to his feet, got out, and dried off.
Fury blinded him. The sort of anger dangerous to anyone nearby crowded every corner of his aching skull. The fits of poisonous and painful rage hit him more and more lately. Sucking in a deep breath and counting to ten, twenty, then fifty helped a little. At least he managed to get dressed. Requiring fresh air, he barreled through the sex room, heading for the door.
Confusion, hurt, anger, fear, and a small lick of dread rolled around in a sick, breathless stew. He walked out and started for his motorcycle. God, he loved that thing. A long ride would clear his head.
“Brody!” A female voice hit
his ear. He turned, not recognizing her for a second. Then sighed.
“Oh, uh, hey, Amber. I gotta go. Can you get a ride…home?” He gulped. The bitch actually lived with him now he realized with a sinking feeling.
“I guess. You okay, baby doll?” she cooed, starting toward him across the giant lawn of the house where they went to fuck other people, sometimes each other while other people got off watching them. He winced when another image hit his poor, ragged brain. Another woman. Her—the legal lady, with her long brown hair, huge blue eyes, her determined face…and that ass…he clenched his fists and glared at Amber.
“No. I’m not, but I will be after a long ride,” he ground out, gripping his keys and praying she didn’t come any closer. He honestly didn’t know what he’d do to her at that point, the rage in him at such a fever pitch.
She drew a large robe around her thin frame. “All right,” she said. “Hey, did you talk to the BJ’s owner yet?”
“Not now, Amber. I need some space. See you…later…I guess…at home.”
Sophie’s words flashed through him: pushy cunt…and no matter how high your opinion of yourself…we aren’t ready to let you go.
Thing was, he didn’t want to leave the BJs as they’d started referring to themselves. The Black Jacks were the only thing resembling consistency and family that he had now. He knew full well that Amber, his agent/girlfriend/swinger pal, had determined to get him away from them for some reason. To line her own pockets he figured, but she must have another motive. He’d picked up on her time to settle down together and not in this shithole called Detroit vibe one too many times already.
He shook his head, climbed on the bike, and smiled at the throaty rumble vibration underneath him. His heartbeat slowed. His head stopped aching. And he rode, finally bringing some peace.
Chapter Three
Sophie juggled the grocery bags, her laptop case, and a giant bag of cat food into the house, barely making it to the kitchen counter before dropping everything all over the floor. Sighing, she leaned over the jumble of bags, owning up to how exhausted she’d been these last few days. Player trade season sucked every year, but this year had been especially awful, given that several of their key players, including Brody, were being heavily courted away by bigger, more famous teams. She winced at her own weak urge to think about him.
She had the food tucked into pantry and fridge within a few minutes and a chicken casserole into the oven a half hour later. Glancing at the clock, she acknowledged she’d been measuring her life in ten and twenty-minute increments for almost three years, and that it seemed, to her anyway, part and parcel of motherhood.
Ten more minutes of sleep while the newborn snuffled around, pre-waking and demanding food. Twenty stolen while napping together before having to get up to do some work. And yet ten more over coffee, before the rambunctious boy rose for the day, feet hitting the floor at a dead run. Of course, the twenty before he got home from his afternoon play date, driven there by the young girl who cared for him during the day, allowing Sophie a single glass of wine while dinner bubbled away in the oven. She caught her reflection in the dining room window. She, Sophie Harrison, had a nurturing gene that included breastfeeding and gazing at her baby’s face for hours on end. And now, making healthy meals every night? Shocking.
“Mommy!” The voice shattered the illusion of peace, bringing the chaos of her life back into focus. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
Sam always greeted her that way, like a worried puppy, convinced it must be dumb luck that he got to see her again, as if she would disappear forever unless he acted ecstatic at every greeting. Incredible, really, the sheer power of her child’s love for her—and as intimidating as hell. Every day he amazed her all over again, terrifying her and charming her by his existence.
She welcomed the full force of his wiry body into her arms. Her son would grab on for dear life for a few minutes, his sweet-smelling face tucked into her neck until she peeled him off, usually so she could move on to whatever next step their busy held. Sometimes, she honestly believed he would stay, wrapped around her if she would let him.
The progression of obsession with her child could be measured not only in ten-minute increments, but also by how he felt in her arms. The newborn, terrifying and small, helpless, like a baby bird. The six-month-old baby who would draw stares from strangers everywhere they went. Everyone always wanted to touch his chubby, angelic face in the grocery store and at the pool, which made her want to smack their grubby hands away from him.
The early toddler, a full-on walker by ten months, running by a year, steady and focused and…athletic. Now a child on the verge of actual little-boyhood who currently held her so tight she had a hard time breathing. She smiled at his sitter and disentangled his arms from her neck hating to do it because soon enough she’d be begging him for hugs.
Funny how the super-independent, former law firm partner, in-control Dominatrix, attorney for one of the most popular new pro sports teams in the region might be reduced to near tears by the feel of her son’s arms around her.
“Hey, Sam. How was the park?”
“Hot,” he declared, frowning down at his eternally dirty fingernails. “Mommy.” He put both hands on her cheeks about to impart one of his classic Serious Sam Observations. “Some dogs were being funny. I saw them. I thought they were dancing. Jen told me they were doing some mommy-daddy things,” His sober gaze never flinched or appeared amused in any way. She had a hard time keeping the laughter from escaping her lips.
Jen shrugged behind him, set his backpack and water bottle on the table, and grabbed her purse. A twenty-one year-old college student on the outs with her parents and taking some time off classes to find herself, she represented savior-hood to Sophie. She’d found her through a friend, and her references as babysitter had been impeccable, so she became a part of the family and had been for nearly a year.
“Sorry,” she mouthed behind Sam’s back, miming with her fingers what the dogs had actually been doing.
“Okay then,” Sophie said, wanting to set Sam down so she could pay Jen for the week. The boy gripped her face, his eyes narrowing. She sat still, waiting for him to finish his thought.
“Where is my daddy?” he asked, surprising her. This had never come up before, no matter how many other kids’ daddies crossed his path.
“Um….” She wracked her brain, unwilling and unready for that particular conversation.
“I told you, Samster,” Jen said, tugging him off his mother’s lap and swinging him around in a circle, one of his favorite pastimes. “Your daddy just figured your mommy could handle things on her own, and you guys didn’t need him around.”
The boy’s delighted squeals hurt Sophie’s ears. She realized that this did not represent the last of the questions. Sam would fixate on it, worry it like a dog with a bone, and come back to her demanding more. But for now, she went with the babysitter’s view: that all she required, the one perfect thing left to her now, was the small boy with dark hair and a smile that lit up any room he entered.
****
After dinner, bath, an hour of Lego wars and a few puzzles, Sam nestled into her side while she read his favorite book, Love you Forever, with its tales of toddler, childhood, and teenager woes and then the aging mother, who for always and ever my baby you’ll be. Able to recite the thing in her sleep, Sophie still let it get to her.
She listened to him breathe—her son, Samuel Robert Harrison. The living, breathing, walking, running, talking miniature of his father. He shifted, his ever-active mind not settled, as usual. The kid required little sleep and hadn’t from the start. Usually she used a routine to get him to wind down: warm dinner, thirty minutes of cartoons or a video, bubble bath with requisite singing, an hour of play—his choice—then a story or two.
“Mommy,” he said, his voice sounding small and far away. “I’m sorry.”
She kissed his hair, sucking in a huge breath of her son’s familiar scent. “For what? You sho
uld never apologize for no reason, you know.”
“Okay. But….” He sat up and pinned her with a dark stare. The compulsion to weep, to gnash her teeth, to call Brody, make him come help her parent this beautiful, serious child, held her in its brief, unreasonable grip. She shoved it away as she’d been doing pretty much every day since Sam emerged into her world.
“I don’t want a daddy. Daddies are dumb.” A tear wobbled on the edge of his thick lashes.
“Oh, baby, no they’re not. But in this house it’s you and me. We’re the home team, okay?” She touched his nose, then hers, and he giggled, sniffled, and wiped the lone tear away.
“Like the Black Jacks?” He brightened, his newfound obsession with the real-life soccer players peopling his small world forcing thoughts of absent daddies out of his head.
She smiled and stood, covering him up with the blanket emblazoned with the logos of all the expansion league teams. His pillowcase and sheet boasted the ubiquitous black and red balls, his rug was like a green soccer pitch, with the Black Jacks’ logo in the middle. She sighed. Whoever said biology didn’t count for much had shit for brains.
Sure he’d been immersed in her life as lead attorney for a major league soccer team, had been in his baby seat during matches or when she worked in her office, players and coaches and marketing people coming and going, talking nothing but soccer.
“Yeah, Sam, like the Black Jacks.”
The team dubbed him their official mascot, and he’d been allowed to watch and sometimes run alongside them as they prepared for practice. Nicco in particular had warmed to him and for some reason, her son had taken to the guy. Brody hardly gave Sam a second glance. He’d been so caught up in his own selfish world since the radical, emergency surgery he’d undergone in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure of his swelling brain, and that suited Sophie just fine. Mostly.
