The President's Secret Baby: A Second Chance Romance

by Gage Grayson

  “No. This is my boyfriend, Michael.”

  Michael nods and smiles politely.

  “What can I get you, Michael?”

  “Beer.”

  “We have, uh...pilsner draught, coming right up.”

  It’s been a couple months since that night we saw Josie playing darts here on her own. Whether she was seeing this Michael guy then, I have no idea, but needless to say, a lot has changed.

  Maddie did an awesome fucking job negotiating with the landlord of this building. The guy makes a fortune renting the apartments above the bar, and he realized—shortly after the Lush Republic owners left—that the people paying thousands of dollars a month to live here wouldn’t be thrilled about having a tobacconist just below them.

  It would be one of the few places in the city they could still smoke indoors—if you’re wondering why they’d give a shit. This bar may still have an old-school feel to it, but nobody’s fucking smoking inside.

  The space was empty for a couple days before we signed a ten-year lease, which is standard for a place like this.

  More patrons start filing in while I’m serving Michael. Stacia, thank Christ, files in with them.

  I’ve been learning a lot in these first few weeks of owning and operating a bar. I mean, it would be a real fucking problem if I weren’t learning, right?

  Anyway, one thing I learned about this specific bar is that Stacia not only waits tables, but cooks most of the food herself.

  We’re still looking to hire a few chefs, along with a few more bartenders. This place certainly has the cash flow for it.

  Selling my apartment and investing in a few safe index funds didn’t hurt, either.

  As usual, these days, Maddie and I don’t get home until almost 5:00 a.m.

  Where’s home, you ask?

  Hey, if you didn’t, that’s okay. I’ll tell you anyway: Saint Mark’s Place, between First and A.

  We own an entire fucking building. A brownstone.

  It’s been renovated recently, and there are four bedrooms. It was easily affordable after the windfall from my apartment.

  “The Captain’s Demise is doing awesome,” Maddie says as we walk up to our bedroom.

  “I know, that’s half the drinks I serve every night.”

  “I guess you would know, Mister Bartender.”

  Business is booming at Ohana’s, and the fact we’re serving some of our favorite drinks from Hawaii is not hurting at all.

  Maddie and I kiss as Ohana huffs up the stairs in front of us.

  We’re not landlords—this building is meant for a single family, and it has four bedrooms.

  What’s going to happen with all of those rooms, you ask?

  Again, if you didn’t ask, I’ll answer anyway: I don’t know.

  We’ll have to wait and see.

  For now, we’ve got a nice, quiet building in the middle of the East Village. And, thankfully, tonight—or, more accurately, this morning—we’re about to get a few precious hours of sleep.

  Lying in bed, about to drift off, I realize that there’s a question haunting my mind, something I need to ask Maddie before she falls asleep.

  “Hey, Maddie...”

  “Make it quick, I need to fuckin’ sleep.”

  “Whatever happened to that checked baggage bill?”

  “What?”

  “When I gave you all those gifts in Hawaii.”

  “Oh...I actually got free checked baggage. Lifetime perk.”

  “Oh, right. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, love.”

  Yeah, my heart just fucking melted when she called me that.

  Also, I’ve been able to shed light on a lot of the Mysteries of Maddie now that we live together.

  Like, for one, now I know that she was briefly a flight attendant before attending grad school.

  I also now know about her asshole ex John, whom she caught cheating on her just before her Hawaiian vacation. Catching a long termer cheating like that, well, I understand why she was a bit guarded when we met.

  And what kind of fucking crazy person would cheat on Maddie? It beats me. But, needless to say, I’ve never been happier in my entire life.

  Not even close.

  We wake up early the next afternoon, and I make Maddie her favorite Sunday breakfast of red velvet pancakes and Hawaiian roll French toast.

  Afterwards, it’s time to take Ohana on a nice, long walk around the neighborhood before we get ready to open the bar.

  “Man, it’s about time for spring to finally...spring, right?” Maddie tilts up her face to take in the sunshine.

  “So much for April being the cruelest month.”

  Maddie shakes her head. “T.S. Eliot may have known a lot about cats, but he was a shitty meteorologist.”

  It’s a beautiful, warm day here on Saint Mark’s Place. This area has changed a lot over the years.

  Or, maybe it’s just the way I see it. That’s part of it, at least.

  It all seems so much nicer than it once was.

  Warmer.

  Friendlier.

  I can’t wait to see what the future brings.

  Lucky Neighbor

  A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

  By Gage Grayson

  Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

  Want Gage Grayson in your inbox? Get freebies, new release updates, bonus chapters, and more!

  Sign up for my newsletter!

  Killian

  “Ah, you again? So, it’ll be the usual, will it?”

  Huh. Okay, then.

  Walking up to the bar, I try to place the barkeep’s face somewhere in my memory. I give that up right quick as soon as I realize how much effort it’s taking.

  “Why are you asking me questions before I’ve even said a word?”

  “You think I don’t know you well enough by now? Killian Walsh.”

  So, he remembers my name. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

  It’s only been a hundred days—that’s what it says on my chip at least.

  The chip I’ve been moving up and down the fingers of my left hand from the moment I walked through the doors of the local pub.

  Okay—I’ve been holding it all day. Since early this morning.

  For fuck’s sake, I’ve almost earned a 101-day-chip at this fucking point.

  “Pint of Guinness, Mr. Walsh? I’m right about that, aren’t I?”

  No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. My memory’s not that far gone yet.

  Or maybe it fucking is at this point.

  Hopefully not, because I’ve got a fucking novel to write. The ink’s still drying on the contract.

  A hundred thousand fucking words—and that’s a minimum.

  Look, that shouldn’t be a problem for me. And I’m not too bothered even if it turns out to be.

  Either way, the advance check is already locked safely in the fortress of the local Bank of Ireland branch, a few kilometers down the road. It should be clearing well before I get that first nagging phone call from the publishing house.

  “So, that’ll be a pint of Guinness, will it?”

  This young fellow’s being rather insistent, isn’t he?

  “Are you expecting a big rush or something? You seem to be in one.”

  I flash a little bit of that famously charming fucking smile to show that I’m just taking the piss.

  Seems like all I do these days is take the fucking piss, but this fellow doesn’t seem even a wee bit offended.

  “Seriously, though—what I’m craving is that Tall Blonde in the Black Dress.”

  A flicker of recognition fizzles through the bartender’s face.

  “I haven’t heard anybody call it that in a while.”

  “Ju
st how long could a while be in your young life?” I query, stepping around the stool in front of me and resting my weary duff for the duration of the celebration.

  The pre-novel writing celebration that lies ahead of me, that is.

  “Long enough to read two or three of your books, Mr. Walsh.”

  Of fucking course—another fan. Another young fellow who connected with my own typewritten angst, writ large across several internationally bestselling tomes—and yes, that includes the list in the New York Fucking Times.

  It’s not like any of them came out too long ago. Maybe I’m just shaking off the last of that youthful angst myself.

  Maybe I’m still in the thick of it without knowing.

  Fuck, I shouldn’t be taking fucking notes, shouldn’t I?

  “Blonde in the Black Dress,” the barkeep says. “Coming right up, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Call me…Killian.” I like saying my name like that. On a few rare fucking occasions such as this one, anyway. “And I’ll call you…”

  “Rowan.”

  “No kidding. Well, Rowan, to answer your question…” I’m still running that chip through my fingers under the bar. “What was your question again?”

  “Never mind that, Mr. Killian.” Rowan’s focused on trying to pull the perfect pint, trying to impress, well, one of the more famous authors to emerge from this tiny village—or hamlet—or whatever the fuck you want to call it, in the middle of the sparsest yet greenest county here on the island of Eire.

  “Blonde in the Black Dress,” Rowan announces, placing a fresh pint on the little cardboard coaster in front of me.

  Would you believe that the coasters in this place are fucking blank? I don’t even know where they get them. You think those promotional ones would come free from Guinness or from fucking Killian’s Irish Red or, I don’t know, one of those fucking whiskies or something.

  You gotta love this fucking pub, though, with these blank, dark red little circles of cardboard to protect the ancient, dusty wooden bar from our glasses sweating the nectar of life.

  Trying to forego the pretense of having anything to fucking hide, I hold up my hundred-day Alcoholics Anonymous chip. It’s partially a show for Rowan, but he’s not even watching me. He’s busy chatting up some crowd of fleece-wearing tourists at the other end of the bar.

  “That’s probably for the best,” I say to myself, letting go of the small, bronze coin and watching it sink into the pint of lager.

  My sponsor told me that these chips are some of the rarest sobriety chips that you can find. A hundred days now—you wouldn’t think it’d be that fucking rare.

  He’s splitting town for a while, anyway. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is by now. A day can carry you a long way sometimes.

  Now as for me, I’m happy to let the chip fall where it may—right into the Blonde in the Black Dress.

  If any of you out there are worried about sanitation issues, I’m convinced that this stuff could kill the bubonic fucking plague if it wanted.

  With just a few wee nips, it’s already starting to kill that coiled up tension and anxiety that’s loved to do nothing more than eat away at my fucking gut for the past three fucking months.

  Speaking of wee nips, there’s a sudden stiff wind nipping at my back as more townsfolk of various fucking kinds are filing into the pub.

  I can hear them but not see them. It’s a sonic blur of laughter, loud voices, people excited to be going out on the drink.

  All I need is another few sips of stout. Then another few.

  There’s a point I lose track of my rare, bronze AA coin. That point comes early enough in the evening.

  The point where I can judge what point I’m at in the evening comes and goes with some swift fucking speed, too.

  “Pint of Guinness, Mr. Killian? Lady in the Blonde Dress?”

  “Are you drinking tonight, Rowan? You just used the words blonde dress as if that’s a normal thing for a human to be doing.”

  “It’s a busy night, Mr. Killian.”

  “Just call me Killian.”

  “Would you like a shot of whiskey to go with your next black-blonde dress stout in a pint glass, then?”

  “What’s the well whiskey here, Rowan?”

  “Ah, you should know Mr...You should know, Killian. My stars, it feels strange calling such a figure as yourself by just your first name, sir.”

  “Is it Jameson?”

  “Of course it is, Killian...sir.”

  “Then I’ll have to say thanks but no thanks. Just keep the Guinness flowing, if you don’t mind.”

  The Guinness stops flowing at some point, but only because I choose for it to stop. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Most likely, I just make an executive fucking decision, which I can’t even fucking remember.

  Another such executive decision I make is to find my way to the coat rack and slow dance with it to a Pogues song playing on yonder jukebox.

  Another such executive decision is to sit at a table with that group of fleece-wearing tourists and let them buy me stew from the kitchen while asking me repeatedly when my next fucking book is due on store shelves.

  Then, sometime before closing, the Guinness starts flowing again.

  It’s probably the best executive decision I’ve made all night. A few more heavy pints to send me on my way.

  “Are you sure you won’t be having a shot of Jameson to go along with your last Blonde Lady, good sir Killian?”

  “You know, that nickname I don’t mind, Rowan. But for feck’s sake I can’t be drinking any shots of that whiskey tonight or ever. I’m not enamored with taking that tone, but please stop mentioning that word that starts with the tenth letter of the basic Latin bloody alphabet.”

  “No problems at all, Mr. Killian.”

  Maybe I made the next executive decision, or it could’ve been some other entity, but after some length of time, every patron in the pub is joined in a song, belting at the top of our lungs.

  Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking,

  Breaking windows, cursing, sinking,

  Every raking, never thinking,

  Live the Rakes of Mallow.

  That collection of loud, boozy voices soon becomes just my own solitary voice, singing the same song, wandering through the quiet night air along the side of the road connecting the heart of the village with my little cottage.

  Living short but merry lives,

  Going where the devil drives,

  Having sweethearts, but no wives,

  Live the rakes of Mallow.

  I’m not even sure if I’m getting the fucking melody right anymore.

  Rebecca

  The fine line between dream and reality is becoming goddamned thin.

  Watching the headlights flood the perilously narrow stretch of barely paved road in front of me, I realize that I’d crossed that line ago.

  Hours ago, possibly.

  Thousands of miles ago, even more possibly.

  What was the last normal, believable thing that happened to me, anyway?

  Fuck, I may have to go back years for that one.

  Left turn ahead onto…

  The voice coming through my smartphone speaker crackles and fades abruptly.

  “Left turn onto where? What left turn? It all looks straight! Help! Where did you go?”

  Okay, a left turn, that’s what I’m looking for.

  If my eyes stay open.

  Fuck, should I just pull over and sleep in this goddamned SUV?

  It’s certainly frigging big enough.

  Much bigger than I thought I’d be getting at Shannon Airport. I booked a subcompact to make the drive out to my cottage in…

  Somewhere in the middle of Ireland.

  Even in my head, I sound like a stereotypical American dope. That’s one reason I wanted to get the most unassuming vehicle possible to drive to my rental home in the middle of nowhere.

  I didn’t want to stick out in any way. Of course, this meant not making a big stink when they
handed me the keys to the largest vehicle they had on the lot.

  Possibly the largest vehicle in any part of Europe at that, without a built-in GPS, which I had not only booked ahead of time, but went so far as to confirm several times with the rental counter via email and VoIP calls from the States…

  Erm—maybe I had this coming, actually.

  It’s fitting, really.

  I acted, albeit unwittingly, like an obnoxious American, so I ended up with an obnoxious American car.

  Although to refer to this rolling behemoth as a ‘car’ would be stretching the very definition of…

  In...hundred…eters, take a slight right onto D…

  “What? What? Wasn’t I supposed to turn left? Now I’m turning in a hundred meters, or nine-hundred kilometers, onto some street with a…no!”

  This really is a dream, isn’t it?

  Next, I’m going to be back in high school, except, Jack Nicholson’s going to be the principal, for some reason; and Principal Nicholson will tell me I have to come back for a semester to take some course I had somehow missed twelve years ago. But then I’ll forget to attend any classes and get lost on my way to the final ex…

  Left turn ahead onto—

  Static. Then nothing.

  It’s too frustrating to even yell anymore.

  And besides, it’s not my poor phone’s fault I accidentally pissed off the staff of the car rental counter at Shannon Airport.

  In fact, it did have me heading in the right direction for several hours.

  At least, I think it was the right direction.

  Fuck. If I really wanted to eschew American stereotypes, I could’ve taken a goddamned bus or something.

  Although, if all the roads in this area are as narrow as the one I’m on, I doubt there’s much bus service in the area.

  It looks like I’ve got about a half tank of fuel left, and I’m bound to reach some sort of civilization eventually.

  I’m not keen on just stopping out here in the middle of the moorlands.

  If that’s even where I am.

  Dream or not, I’m not convinced there aren’t some sort of sprites or faeries—the type of creatures who’d be at home in an illustrated book of Celtic mythology—but would turn out to be quite real and furious about my intrusion on their moorland homes if I were to stop here for even a minute.