Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  Yeah, right. Even after the guy’s out the door, I’m still choking on his cologne.

  I’ve been in Manhattan for less than a month, and my internship isn’t cutting it. You’d think that, even as an intern, working for one of the major stockbrokers in the world would be enough to cover a simple, two-bedroom apartment. You’d think wrong.

  The big boss at my company makes something like 2,500 times my salary. Now, I don’t really expect to bring in the millions as an intern, but I should, at least, be able to hold onto an apartment.

  You know, I’m really starting to think that my landlord only rented me the place for the eye candy. The way he stares at my chest when he talks to me should have tipped me off, but I was just happy to talk to someone who heard my salary and didn’t laugh in my face.

  Right now, I’m going around opening all the windows, hoping to air the place out before my next appointment arrives.

  I’m waiting a while.

  My final appointment of the day, a Dane Paulson, is already five minutes late.

  Maybe he passed the other guy in the hall and had to be wheeled out of the building. I can’t begin to explain how, but opening the windows has only made the lingering stench worse.

  I’m in the bathroom, putting drops in to lessen the stinging in my eyes when there’s a knock on the door.

  “Just a minute!” I shout.

  The last thing I need is for a prospective renter to think I’m some crazy, emotional woman, crying about nothing. Either that would scare him away or make me appear that special kind of vulnerable that the worst kinds of people prey upon.

  Neither one is an acceptable option.

  I’m at the door one minute and three tissues later.

  “Hi,” I say, opening the door. “Here to see the apartment?”

  The man on the other side is tall, tattooed, and handsome. His black hair is cut short enough to nicely merge into his scruff. He’s leaning against the door jamb like an antihero from a noir film. He’s got that self-important look with his chocolate brown eyes staring at me that makes it appear like he lives here already and is wondering why it took me so long to answer the door and let him in.

  I hate him already.

  “Yeah,” he says, acting as if he’s chewing something, which, as far as I can tell, he’s not. “Are you Lily?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I’m Leila.”

  He leans back and looks at my door as if there’s some kind of useful information posted on it, then he looks back at me.

  “I thought the ad said your name was Lily.”

  “Well,” I tell him, “it’s not. Would you like to come in?”

  He doesn’t answer, but just kind of struts in, his thumbs in his pockets. “Nice place,” he says.

  “Yep,” I tell him.

  “That’s quite the smell,” he says. “Let me guess: modeling party?”

  If it’s a line, it’s about the worst one I’ve ever heard.

  “No,” I tell him. “The guy ahead of you seemed to think it necessary to actually bathe in his—what are you doing?”

  He’s by the countertop, leafing through the newspaper I haven’t read myself.

  “I was out late last night. I was hoping to get a peek at the sports section.”

  Yeah, I already hate this guy. Sadly, though, I’m desperate.

  I have some money from my modest inheritance, but it wouldn’t last long in a place like this. And this is one of the more reasonably priced apartments in the city.

  What I really want is to get a full-time position at the brokerage firm so I can save up for a nice house; you know, somewhere far away from tattooed guy and the one who swims in cologne. I’d try for a place like that now, but I’d much rather get settled into my job before I blow all my money.

  “Take it,” I tell him, acting like he’s not being incredibly nosy.

  He doesn’t bother looking up from the paper. “That’s all right,” he says. “My team lost.”

  For the next few seconds, we just stand there: him, still going through the newspaper, me, pretending I don’t want to chuck something at his head for the impropriety.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, finally looking up from the sports section. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dane, Dane Paulson.”

  “Leila Tyler,” I say, and hold my hand out to shake his.

  He looks at my hand, then turns his head toward the apartment. “So, what is this place: 700, 800 square feet?”

  “750. Your room would be over here,” I say and start walking, but he doesn’t move.

  “Nah, that’s all right,” he tells me. “I like it. I’ll take it.”

  “It’s not that simple. I’ve had a number of interviews and some pretty solid prospects. I’ll need to know what kind of income you bring in, I’ll need to check your references. We haven’t even had our interview—”

  “I just moved here, actually. I follow the music.”

  A musician: fantastic. Not only would I have to deal with him, I’d have to deal with whatever instrument he can’t really play and all the nonsense catchphrases that go with it.

  “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I think I have enough—”

  “Guitar, mostly,” he says. He stops looking around the apartment like he’s planning a break-in and looks at me for a moment. “Sorry, most people ask what I play when I tell them I’m a musician.”

  “Sorry for my lack of etiquette. It’s been very nice meeting you, but—”

  “120,000,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Dollars,” he answers. “I make a little over $120,000 a year.”

  “That’s wonderful. Now, if I can just show you the beautiful craftsmanship in the hallway—”

  “I could move in tonight. I mean, I don’t know what your schedule is like, but fuck it. Why wait?”

  “Listen, Mr.—”

  “Paulson,” he says.

  “Mr. Paulson,” I rejoin. “I think it would be best if you just left. I’ve decided not to rent the room.”

  “Look,” he says, “I know $120,000 isn’t that much in New York City, but it’s more than enough to cover my half of the rent. That is the deal, right? We each pay half, have separate bedrooms, but the rest of the place is shared?”

  “That would be the deal,” I tell him, “but you’re not listening.”

  “What do you pay here? It’s got to be, what, $3,000 a month?”

  “It’s something like that. But I just don’t think it’s the right fit.”

  “All right,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you change your mind, I’m still new enough to the city and would never know if you were fucking me.”

  My mouth drops open a little. “Excuse me?”

  “Fucking me,” he says. “You know, cheating me on my share of the rent.”

  Right now, it’s down to him, cologne guy, and the woman who walked in alone and accused me of wanting to sleep with her boyfriend. Lovely.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.

  “Sounds good,” he says, as if certain the room is his.

  “Okay,” I tell him, no longer caring whether he wants to see the open room or not, “I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds great,” he says, and smiles. He turns and heads for the door. “Oh, by the way…”

  “Yeah?” I ask, frustration thick in my voice.

  “Would you mind just leaving the sports page on the counter? New York newspapers are thicker than what we had back home. I can never find the damn thing.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” I tell him.

  He’s out the door a minute later, and I’m on the phone with my friend Mike.

  “They can’t be that bad,” he tells me, somewhere around minute 15 of my diatribe.

  “You have no idea,” I tell him. “Today was a cakewalk. Yesterday, I had four 20-year-olds come in here, not so much to look at the room as a living space, but a spot for their weekly swingers’ club meetings. Don’t
even ask me what that entails, and I’m not saying that because I haven’t been very well-informed. Then, there was the cat lover.”

  “Cat lover doesn’t sound so bad,” Mike chuckles.

  “Oh, did I not mention that she brought the cat, and that the cat was actually an old cardigan with a thin leash around it?”

  “Okay, that’s pretty bad.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “We’re still going out tonight, right?”

  “Nine o’clock,” he says.

  “Beautiful.” It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. “I think I just need to get out there and get shitfaced.”

  He laughs. “You always say that, but after cocktail number one… well, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen you finish cocktail number one.”

  I ignore him. Tonight’s a night to get hammered and make some bad decisions. “I’ll see you there.”

  I hang up the phone and try to visualize what life is going to be like. You know, as soon as I’ve clawed my way out of the hell that has been this week.

  * * *

  By the time Mike and I are at the club, I’m starting to forget about the relentless cavalcade of freaks and psychos.

  Ultra-repetitive dance music can do that to a person.

  Just to prove that I’m not such a cheap date, I order my customary cocktail—a tequila sunrise—and a sidecar.

  I’m not entirely sure what a sidecar is, but it always seemed like the thing to order at a bar.

  “I’ll bet you a shot of vodka I end up drinking at least one of those,” Mike teases.

  He’s lived here his whole life. In fact, he’s the one that got me the interview for my current position.

  Mike and I met when I was 17 and I came through Manhattan on a school field trip. He helped me find my hotel after I got lost trying to find Tiffany’s.

  What can I say? I loved the movie.

  “You’re on,” I tell him, and down the sidecar in a single tilt.

  It’s a terrible idea—I realize that before I finish the thing—but it gets Mike’s attention.

  “So, how much of the sunrise do I have to drink before you give me my shot?”

  “Hell, I’ll buy you the vodka now just to see what you taking a shot looks like.”

  “Drop the money,” I tell him.

  As his back is turned, I take in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to vomit right here.

  He turns back to me, shot in hand.

  “All right,” he says. “Let’s see it.”

  “I’m not drinking it straight, though,” I tell him. “You’ve got to at least get me a chaser.”

  He turns his back again and I sit down on the bar stool.

  I think I’m already feeling the alcohol setting in.

  I’ve never been much of a drinker.

  “You doing okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “What’d you get me?”

  “Cola,” he says. “Now, let’s see this shot.”

  I scoff and take both the shot and chaser in my hand.

  “Take a deep breath,” he says. “Hold it in and don’t let it out until you’re drinking the chaser.”

  “You’re acting like I’ve never taken a shot before.”

  “Have you?”

  I’d rather not answer that question, so I take a deep breath and down the shot of vodka. It’s a sensation unlike anything else I’ve experienced.

  It’s not a pleasant one.

  “Here,” Mike says, patting my cola hand, spilling a little in the process. “Sip it slow so you don’t get a ton of carbonation in your stomach.”

  I do as instructed, trying to make my expression portray nonchalance. That falls apart as I take a short breath before the vodka taste is completely out of my mouth.

  “Hold your breath,” he says. “Drink the soda.”

  He’s laughing.

  Mike and I became pen pals when I got back to Waterloo.

  He’d given me his phone number and address in case I found myself lost again. We’ve always been closer friends than anyone I ever spent time with back home.

  When Dad died, he was the one who got me through it.

  Now, though, he’s laughing at me, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.

  By the time I get halfway through the cola, Mike puts his hand on the glass.

  “That’s more than enough,” he says. “You don’t want to get sick.”

  “I thought that was the point of the chaser.”

  “The point of the chaser—” he sighs. “Who cares? You did it! You took your first shot!”

  The people at and around the bar look over at me with surprise and confusion. It doesn’t help matters that Mike’s holding his hands above his head like I’ve just accomplished the unthinkable.

  “Now,” he says, “do you still want that sunrise? Really, I’m just looking forward to those two shots.”

  I was hoping he’d forgotten about the other drink.

  “Two shots?” I ask.

  Maybe if I keep talking, I won’t gag.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve still only finished one of the drinks you ordered. If you don’t drink the other one, it’ll take you one shot to be even, one shot as the spoils of my victory.”

  “First off, your math there is a little fuzzy. Second, I can’t drink that now,” I tell him. “It’s been sitting on the bar, barely guarded, just waiting for a roofie.”

  “You are so full of shit,” he says, “but that’s all right. I’ll take the free drinks.”

  I didn’t bring that much money.

  New York still kind of freaks me out, so I only brought enough for cab fare, club cover, and a couple of drinks. If I don’t want to walk home or have Mike pay my way, I’m going to have to down that other drink.

  “All right,” I tell him, “but if I end up passed out in the back of some guy’s van, I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” he teases.

  He’s kind of a smug bastard, isn’t he?

  I force a smile and reach for the drink when the bartender grabs my hand.

  “Maybe you should slow it down a bit,” she says.

  “I’m good,” I lie. I am a cheap drunk.

  “Well, I’ve seen you in here before and this is the first time I haven’t ended up dumping your drink.”

  Mike just looks at me with that big, stupid grin.

  “He’s my designated driver,” I tell her.

  Mike’s not happy to be volunteered for such a position, but he seems content enough to see what I’m like drunk.

  To be honest, so am I.

  Chapter Two

  Paper-Thin

  Dane

  “I don’t know,” she says as we’re walking out of the club. “My roommate really doesn’t like it when I bring guys home.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, then,” I say. “I’m still waiting for the callback on my new place. We could always go back to my hotel room, but—”

  “Fuck that,” she says. “Did you ever see that show where they took a black light into a hotel room and had some guy explain all the different fluids and shit?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I wanted to ask “Which one?” but it doesn’t really matter. I know where she’s going with this.

  “All right,” she says. “We can go back to my place, but you’ve got to be quiet.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” I mutter, trying to hide my smile.

  “What was that?” she asks.

  “I said that it’s not going to be a problem,” I lie. Eh, it’s close enough to the truth.

  It’s bad form to brag about one’s prowess. It just makes you come across deluded. Better to let her find out, that’s what I always say.

  “All right,” she says.

  She’s buzzed, not drunk. I’ve never liked getting with a drunken chick. Too much hassle, nowhere near enough reward.

  We get a cab. The driver cringes when Buzzed Girl undoes my pants in the backseat, but
the man doesn’t say anything about it.

  “Do you want me to go down on you?” she asks.

  Now there’s a stupid question.

  “Yeah,” I say, “why not?”

  I’m sitting in the back, pants around my ankles. I refuse to drop my boxers in a cab, though. You never know what kind of shit happened on these seats.

  To prove my point, she’s slipping my cock through the slit in the fabric, and I’m looking in the rearview mirror at the driver. This isn’t my first time in the back of a cab.

  Sure enough, she’s about halfway down my dick on her first time down when he looks up and spots me watching him. I just smile and shrug my shoulders. The guy’s got to be lonely driving all night, may as well give him a show.

  “Do you like that?” she asks.

  I’ve never been a fan of that question in this context. Chances are, if I’m not telling you to stop, I’m not complaining.

  “That feels great, babe,” I tell her. I don’t really like the term, but it’s a lot easier than trying to remember her name.

  “Get another drink or two in me, and I bet I can deep-throat that,” she says.

  It’s not a terrible idea, other than the risk that alcohol and gag reflexes can cause when put together.

  “We’ll see,” I tell her. “I’m more interested in what you taste like.”

  Yes, it’s a line, but it works.

  In response to my “selfless act,” she’s all the more adamant in her action. Tonight’s not a bad night.

  She pops me out of her mouth a moment to lick my sack. This is why I shower three times a day. I never know when it’s going to happen; only that it is going to happen.

  “That’s fucking great,” I mutter, hoping the driver can’t hear me. I don’t like talking during the act any more than I like responding to that ridiculous question she asked a minute or two ago, but if that’s what she wants, that’s what she wants.

  The driver glances up at the mirror, and I can see his eyes squint into a smile.

  It’s when he angles the mirror down to get a closer look at exactly what’s going on that I put my hand on my companion’s shoulder. I’m fine with the driver having an idea what’s going on, even catching a glimpse here and there, but having another guy staring at my junk is just awkward.

  “What’s wrong?” the woman asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”