Red Hot Daddy: An Mpreg Romance

by Austin Bates

  Smiling, Tommy got to his feet. "I'm glad to hear it. One more session, and you'll be done." Still staring at his arm in the mirror, the guy reached up to trace the bold lines framing the outline of flames around the sugar skull in the center. Tommy caught his hand before it could make contact. "Don't."

  "Sorry." He smiled sheepishly. "It's just so perfect. It's like you've been in my head."

  Tommy picked up his wrapping supplies and a clean pair of gloves. "It's all part of the job." He carefully wrapped the design, handing over a pamphlet of care instructions.

  "I still have the one from last time," the guy said, laughing as he flipped the pamphlet into the garbage.

  "Store policy," Tommy said with a tight smile.

  "I hear that, man. The owner must be a real hard ass." Grabbing his jacket, the customer followed Tommy out to the register. The shop was empty and quiet, the clock on the wall reading just past 2 am. Anne had left an hour ago to get enough sleep for tomorrow's classes; their long time receptionist was preparing to defend her master's project.

  "He is." Tommy entered his notes into the client tracking program he'd paid extra money for when he'd opened the shop five years earlier. The client, Jim according to his file, wandered to the window and looked out, his hand twitching at his pocket as he glared at the no smoking sign hanging by the door. "I'm out of town next week, but we can schedule your last appointment for the week after that if you're available," he said, scrolling through his schedule. "I have Wednesday and Saturday nights open."

  "The sooner I can get back in here, the better. I'll make time whenever you can fit me in, baby." Jim smiled, sauntering over to the desk and leaning down. "You heading somewhere fun?"

  Gritting his teeth, Tommy ignored the pet name with years of practice. "A funeral," he said, entering the appointment into the program. "Wednesday it is. Your last payment is due before we get started that day."

  "I don't like talking money with omegas." Jim pulled his wallet out, and Tommy ducked his head to hide the sneer he could feel stretching his lips. "Let's just settle that tab now, and then we don't have to have any of that left between us, okay, sweetheart?"

  Tommy didn't say a word, running the guy's card with quick, efficient movements. Once the receipt was signed and stored away, he yawned. "Thank you for your business. Have a nice night."

  "You heading home?" Jim asked, his eyes flicking to the line of inked skin revealed by the gap above Tommy's low slung jeans. "I got time. We could have a drink over at the Sports Grill."

  "Sorry," Tommy said, forcing a smile. "I've gotta get packed up to head out in the morning."

  Jim frowned, tapping his fingers on the glass case. "Some other time, then. I'll take you out to dinner, and we can have dessert at my place."

  Just when Tommy thought he'd seen it all, some guy came along and surprised him. "I don't date clients," he said, herding the guy out the door. He made a mental note to ask one of the other artists to stay late the next time Jim had an appointment.

  "Hey, no worries, babe. I'm all paid up." Jim smiled what he probably thought was a charming grin, but Tommy could see the darkness swirling behind his eyes.

  "No, thanks. I'm not interested." Tommy paused in the doorway, ready to slam the door in his face if he tried to make trouble.

  He looked away, staring down the road with the muscle in his jaw clenching. "Look, man, all I'm asking is for you to have a drink with me. Just be friendly. Don't act all stuck up. I know how you omegas are."

  Tommy rolled his eyes and shut the door between them, saying calmly as he turned the deadbolt, "You don't know squat. Get out of here, and I won't cancel your appointment for next week."

  Raising his hands in surrender, Jim backed away. "Hey, don't be like that. I'm going."

  Not bothering to watch him go, Tommy stalked back into his office. He'd give it a half hour while he finished up his paperwork. That was more than enough time for the guy to get bored if he decided to hang around. Running a hand through his messy blond hair, Tommy glanced at the faded purple ends. If he hurried, he'd have time to get the dye touched up before the funeral.

  In the five years since he'd opened Vivid Ink, he'd taken exactly one vacation. It had been a complete disaster, and he'd sworn he wouldn't do it again until the shop was rock solid. He hadn't even taken a sick day in the last two years.

  Sighing, Tommy racked his brain for anything that they might need while he was gone. It just figured that Sid would force his hand. He realized his hands were shaking and squeezed them together. His necklace shifted against his skin as he leaned forward and rested his cheek on the desk. He wasn't ready to go back to Golden, and that bastard hadn't left him a choice. If it hadn't been for the house, passed down through his mother's family for generations, he'd have left Sid Laurence to rot.

  He stared listlessly at the clock. It was almost 3 o'clock. He needed to get home if he was going to get to Golden in time to get a room tomorrow night.

  Dragging himself to his feet, Tommy set the packet of important papers on Anne's chair and shut off all the lights. The security system blinked sleepily at him from the high tech pad by the back door as he pulled on his coat and headed out, helmet tucked under one arm.

  It was calm and still, his breath puffing ahead of him the only thing moving in the tiny employee parking lot behind the shop. In the distance, he could hear sirens. Dragging his mind away from that path, Tommy pulled out his keys. He patted his bike gently as he walked up to her. She was an old junker, held together by love and hours of Tommy's blood, sweat, and tears. She may have once been a Honda, but in the last ten years, he'd rebuilt or upgraded almost all of her components. Only the frame, paint worn off in more spots than it covered, had stayed the same.

  He straddled her easily despite his short stature and pulled on his helmet. She started with a purr; his odd hours meant he'd invested in a premium muffler after the first dozen noise complaints. Rolling up to the curb, he checked for traffic. Old Man Stephens was home again, his 18-wheeler parked across the street. His kids would be happy to see him, especially if he'd remembered to get candy on his way in this time.

  Too lost in his thoughts, Tommy didn't notice the guy walking up on him until he climbed on the back of his bike.

  "Hey, lover. Where are we headed?"

  Ten years ago, Tommy had walked into the La Junta Martial Arts Academy and refused to leave until they agreed to teach an omega. He had the guy off his bike and on the ground in a blink. "What the fuck?" Staring at Jim's startled face, Tommy growled. "Are you serious? I'm not your lover. I'm not interested. Get it through your thick, testosterone-poisoned, alpha skull."

  "Don't be like that, babe. I know how you omegas get when you need a real man..." Jim smiled and tried to roll them over. Tommy didn't budge.

  "Get away from me. Consider your appointment canceled. You're not welcome at my shop anymore." Lifting the guy a few feet in the air, Tommy shook him twice and then dropped him on his back.

  "You know," Jim drawled, trying to sound nonchalant with all the air knocked out of him, "the owner isn't going to like you tossing out a paying client like this. When I tell him about how you lead me on..." He spread his hands, an evil light in his eyes as he struggled to sit up.

  Tommy paused, looking down at him through the tinted visor of his helmet. He loved this part almost as much as he loved his bike. "I am the owner." He watched Jim's face fall, rage twisting it into something ugly. "Now get off my property before I call the cops."

  Hopping back on his bike, Tommy spun the wheels and zipped off down the road, leaving the guy sputtering in his dust.

  ***

  Morning always came too early. Tommy dragged himself out of bed just before ten and pulled his travel pack down from the closet. He didn't have much to pack because he wasn't staying long.

  He pulled in to a coffee shop on his way out of town, his hands flexing against the grip of his motorcycle as he stared at the mountains in the distance. Only three hours before he ha
d to face that damned town again. It didn't seem long enough.

  Dragging his feet added half an hour to the trip, but it was still light out when he pulled into the parking lot at the Fairlane Hotel. His skin prickled as he stared up at the run down building. He stayed there for long enough that he could see Missy Fairlane peering at him through the front doors. She'd gotten older. That surprised him for some reason.

  Time to face the music. "Hi, Missy," he said as he set his helmet down on the counter.

  "Do I know you?" she asked, her eyes tracing the swirls of the red ribbon that curled over his collarbone.

  He sighed. "I have a reservation. It's under Laurence."

  She gasped, "Tommy?"

  "Yeah."

  "You look... different." She cleared her throat and dragged her eyes away from the leather of his riding pants. The Fairlane was a small hotel, so it didn't take her long to find his room key. "I'm sorry about your dad," she said as she handed him the key.

  He nodded, turning the tiny bit of metal over in his hands. "Is McDaniel's Diner still 24 hours?"

  Flashing him a strained smile, she nodded. "Best pancakes in the state."

  "Thanks." He tapped the key against his hand again, glancing around. The feeling that he should say something else pressed down on him, but he couldn't think of a topic.

  "I'll let Mom know that you're coming?" Missy's hand hovered over her phone. She was staring at the line of black ink poking out from under his sleeve.

  "That'd be great," he said. "I haven't had a good pancake in ten years."

  Startled, she glanced at his face, then away. "Has it been that long?"

  "Time flies." He glanced at the doors. "I'm going to head over to the Diner, okay? It's been a long drive."

  "Of course." She picked up the phone, not quite meeting his eye. "I'll let her know to have the first plate ready. My treat." Her smile was small but sincere, and he nodded.

  "Thanks, Missy. It was good to see you again." He was surprised at how much he meant it.

  McDaniel's Diner was just down the street. The town had grown since he was a kid, but the historic downtown was still the same. It made his hair stand on end, staring at the faded storefronts and tourist friendly photo spots. Looping his helmet on his motorcycle, Tommy rubbed his arms and watched the beautiful sunset burn orange and red over the mountains.

  The chill sinking into his bones roused him out of his thoughts, and he patted his bike as he headed down the street. There was no point riding, and the walk might help him shake the anxiety creeping up his spine like the moment before a lightning strike.

  By the time he made it to McDaniel's the sky was fading to purple. The light streaming out of the place lit everything around in a golden glow, softening the edges of his memories. Maple syrup and cooking sausage tickled his nose as the door swung open, and he half expected a lanky alpha teen, his hair long and wild, to be standing there instead of Mrs. Fairlane.

  "Tommy Laurence. I never would have recognized you if Missy hadn't told me you were here." The motherly woman pulled him into a hug, tutting over his purple hair. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

  Glancing around the diner, Tommy felt a flush creeping up his neck when he realized everyone was staring at him. "Work. Life. The usual." Tugging his jacket off, he could hear the muttering start as his skin was revealed.

  "I know how that goes," Mrs. Fairlane said, glaring around the room. "Come have a seat. Your pancakes should be out any second." She put an arm around his shoulders and tugged him along to the back of the room. "You have so many lovely tattoos. I've been thinking of getting one, you know." Voice raised, she met the eye of each person in the diner and stared them down.

  Tommy smiled at her. "If you decide you want one, and you don't mind making the trip, you should come by." Pulling a card out of his pocket, he handed it to her. "I'll give you a discount."

  Delighted, she flipped the card over. "Look at that. You grew up to be an artist after all." She patted him on the shoulder. "Didn't Damien always say you would be?" His heart seized up, and her face fell. "Oh, Tommy, I'm sorry."

  "It's fine," he said, his voice thready. Clearing his throat, he looked away, his eyes burning. "I thought someone promised me the best pancakes in the state."

  There was a long pause, and she ran her thumb gently against the dove on the crest of his shoulder. "Coming right up," she said quietly.

  Nobody tried to talk to him after that, and he was grateful. There were enough ghosts in the room clamoring for his attention. He kept expecting to see dark hair and a sly grin peeking through the kitchen door. The pancakes were excellent, but they tasted like ash in his mouth. He ate two plates.

  The lobby of the hotel was quiet when he slipped back in, Missy's voice floating out of the office, a harsh whisper. He didn't try to listen to what she was saying. His room was on the second floor, so he didn't bother waiting for the creaky old elevator. The hallways smelled like lilacs and old carpet, just like he remembered. They'd switched out the art, but the ugly wallpaper still showed the outlines of the old frames.

  His room was on the corner, one of the only ones in the building with a window that wouldn't catch the morning sun. He'd requested it specifically. Dropping his bag by the door, he fell back onto the bed with a groan.

  "This was a terrible idea," he said to the empty room. He closed his eyes for a moment, the smell of the sheets taking him back. "I should have stayed gone, just like you." He rolled over, stuffing a pillow under his head.

  The phone ringing woke him at exactly 10 am the next morning. He could barely get his arms to work, his shoulders stiff and achy as he picked it up. The outline of his body was clearly visible on the bedspread; he hadn't moved much, if any, all night.

  "Hello?"

  "You requested a wakeup call," a tinny male voice came through the line.

  "No, I didn't." Tommy ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his back popped.

  "I've got a note right here," the guy said. "Wake Tommy up by ten. You Tommy?"

  "Yeah. I'm up. Thanks." Putting the phone down, he walked over to the window and stared at the diner. The parking lot was full despite the fact that it was Tuesday. Smiling to himself, he scratched his chest and headed for the shower. Half an hour later, he was out the door.

  Mason's Funeral Home was a couple miles down the road, plopped down in the quiet of the woods near the Golden Cemetery. It was peaceful, with well-groomed plants and paths for grieving families to take a moment to compose themselves.

  Tommy strode into the main hall at ten minutes to eleven. The room was surprisingly full of people, and his steps stuttered as he took in the rows of heads. Straightening his shoulders, he lifted his chin and walked to the front of the room. Jacob Mason came down off the dais to shake his hand.

  "Tommy," he said loudly, raising heads all over the room. "So glad you could make it, son."

  Forcing his back to stay loose, Tommy pasted on a smile. "Mr. Mason. Thank you for taking good care of Dad." Behind him, he could hear the whispers spreading.

  "Of course, of course. If you want to take a seat, we'll get started in just a minute. Are you sure you don't want to give the eulogy?" He patted his mouth with a cotton handkerchief, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the cold of the room.

  Tommy looked away, his eyes scanning the crowd. No one was paying any attention to the coffin. "I have nothing to say."

  "I understand," he said, patting Tommy on the back. "Grief takes us all differently."

  Dark hair near the back caught Tommy's eye, and he stopped breathing for a moment. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Grief is funny like that. If you'll excuse me."

  The service was brief, and his skin crawled with all the eyes on him the whole time. Standing by the door accepting condolences, he made a point of meeting people's eyes when they were able to drag themselves away from the dark shadows of his tattoos where the showed through his thin dress shirt. When Mr. Graves wouldn't let his hand go, staring a
t his skin, he handed the man a card.

  It was Mrs. Stockman that moved him on, elbowing him aside with one bony thrust. "Get a move on, Roger. The circus won't be in town for six more months." She glared at the other man, her watery eyes fierce under her mop of carefully styled white hair. "Acts like he's never seen a tattoo before. The man was in the navy, can't tell me he doesn't have an anchor on him somewhere. You've got enough ink for a whole battalion, don't you?" she added, squinting at him. "About time you came home."

  "Didn't I hear you moved to California?"

  She sniffed, sticking her nose in the air. "We're not talking about me, you scoundrel. How is that alpha of yours?"

  Tommy flinched, looking away. "Mrs. Stockman..."

  "Don't give me that. Anyone could see that you two were made for each other. You can't expect me to believe that in an entire decade, you didn't go crawling back to him." Her translucent skin showed every blue vein, and he rubbed his thumb gently over the cluster at her wrist.

  "He left town, Mrs. Stockman. Just like the rest of us. The lucky ones, anyway." He gave her a strained smile. "Do you need to get to the airport?"

  "Don't you hurry me, boy. Just like my daughter, always trying to rush me off to my appointments. I'm not leaving for two more days, so you can just cool it." She frowned at him, her eyes drifting off to one side. "I thought..." Brightening, she raised her hand. "Maria! Yes, you. Get over here, and don't dawdle."

  Swallowing hard, Tommy stood frozen, his heart thumping in his chest as the click of heels came closer. He should have stayed in La Junta.

  "Mrs. Stockman," a soft, feminine voice said. It had none of the rough overtones of her brother's, but he recognized it instantly. "I'm surprised to see you here."

  "Don't you sass me, girl. I was just telling Tommy here that I thought I'd heard something about your brother moving back to town a few years ago." Mrs. Stockman dug her carefully French manicured nails into his arm, pulling him around to face the other woman.

  "Maria," he said, his voice cracking.