by Liv Lane
I’ve never met my father, he was a drifter like my mother, and she doesn’t even know his name. She remembers his eyes, though, because she sees them every time she sees me.
I should call her. I don’t call her often—I think about it, but I don’t press the buttons. It’s a one-way monolog with the occasional pause for a drag of her cigarette.
I’m in the wrong headspace, and it’s probably for the best in more ways than one that Matt couldn’t make it today. I’ve moved on from my past and taken control of my life. But you can never fully disconnect. I don’t want to; it’s part of who I am. Letting people into my circle is hard, as Betty will attest. I want genuine, I need a genuine connection with those I allow into my life, and I don’t know what Matt is yet. I do know he’s always been a player, and my post-cocktail enthusiasm has waned a bit.
He’s hot, successful, can have any woman he wants. Sure, he was having fun with me before he got a call, but now I’m thinking that this kind of fun and moving on isn’t going to be for me.
My phone vibrates, saving me from my introspection. There is a telling spike in my heart rate before I see it’s not Matt. It’s a message from Doreen saying she’s been asked to work an extra shift at the care home, and that she had promised to take Mary to the shops.
I shoot a quick message to Doreen and then to Mary, telling her I’m free whenever she’s ready. She may be in her eighties, but she surprises me with how tech-savvy she is, so I know she’ll drop me a message when she’s ready.
Returning to my living room, I settle back onto the worn couch. My thoughts are scattered after last night, so I’m actually grateful for the distraction, and now I’m hoping she’ll hurry up.
The book stares at me—I stare at it. I want to know what happens next. I mean, Matt told me what happens next, and I can still picture the smirk on his face as he turned the page. It suddenly feels hotter in here as I put the coffee down and snatch up the book responsible for my most recent embarrassment.
Flicking back a few pages, I start to read.
“You want to suck on my cock, sugar?” Mitch asks.
My phone vibrates again, and I drop it on the floor in my haste to answer it. Then I drop the book.
Abandoning the book, I grab the phone. It’s Mary.
“Oh, yes!” I say, trying to get my head back in the game. “I’m free now. Come on over.”
Mary likes to bake, and as thanks for helping her, she always brings a gift. I’ve tried talking her out of it, but she enjoys it, says baking is her therapy, so I’ve stopped fighting.
Her brownies are particularly good—I’m hoping it’s brownies today.
I shove the biker romance under the pile of free papers that I brought in with the mail…as the door buzzer goes.
Mary is a sweet lady of eighty-two years young, as she refers to herself. She likes day time quiz shows, and she has a weakness for ice cream. Her mind is still razor-sharp even if her body isn’t on the same page, she’s doing well, all things considered.
“Morning, Emma!” Mary beams as I open the door. “I was surprised you answered the phone. I thought to myself—ten percent today.”
“Ten percent?” I ask as she makes herself comfortable on the armchair. There is a plastic cake container in her hand, and I’m all but twitching trying to work out what’s inside as she puts it down on the table.
“Ten percent chance you would answer. Ninety percent, you would reply with a text.”
I laugh because my best friend, Betty, isn’t the only person who knows me.
Then, like she’s psychic and can detect a hidden shame, she picks up the free paper. “Oh,” she says, pointing at the steamy biker book I’d hidden underneath. The paper, now forgotten, is discarded on the chair arm.
God, that book! It’s face up (the universe is not my friend), and Mitch’s ripped torso is emblazoned on the front, along with the title, Wilde Ride Book Three.
It’s the gift that keeps on giving. I can’t help but sigh.
“Oh, that’s one of my favorites!” Mary exclaims. “I read the first two in the series, and I couldn’t wait for Doreen to drop by with book three. Mitch is such a badass! Makes me wish my Percy was still alive. We had some wild rides in our time.” She chuckles to herself and points to the cake container on the coffee table. “I made brownies, dear. I know they’re your favorite. I’ve got some more cooling on the rack for the seniors’ afternoon tea at the church—they’re always popular.”
My brain can’t keep up with this conversation; further, it doesn’t want to. I was blushing like a virgin when Matt found that book. Meanwhile, my eighty-two-year-old neighbor is throwing ‘Mitch the badass’ into the same conversation as brownies and the church afternoon tea! This is a hundred shades of wrong.
“I won’t take too much of your time, dear,” she continues. “I need a prescription from the pharmacy on seventh. And Doreen dropped off book four yesterday, so I can’t wait to get back. I think Jacob might be my favorite Wilde brother.”
I’m saved from more of Mary’s oversharing by my cellphone vibrating—I’m not usually this popular! I might have been tempted to ignore it, but given Mary’s sudden propensity for divulging her smutty reading habits, it comes as a relief.
It’s Betty. “I’m outside!”
“What?”
I’m not sure why I’m questioning this, Betty is the most spontaneous person I’ve ever met. When we were in college together, she drove me nuts with her spontaneity.
Moments later, she arrives. Betty is a tiny woman, with pixie-cropped dark hair and big brown eyes that sparkle with mischief. She’s wearing skinny jeans, an oversized shirt, and a bright red beanie, and still manages to look cute. If I wore that I’d look a hot mess—Betty can carry anything off.
Greeting Mary with a hug, she steals a brownie and starts grilling me. “So how did your first week go? Any more on super-schmexy Matt?”
Mary, I notice out the corner of my eye, has taken a brownie too, settled back into my worn armchair and is ready for the show.
“Matt?” I hedge, my sight drawn subconsciously to the ripped biker on the book cover. Mary has put it back on the coffee table, and it pulls all my focus. I never got to see Matt without a shirt, and I’m super sorry about that. I’d gotten my hands on the firm plains of his chest enough to know that I would not have been disappointed.
“You know, Matt. God in human flesh—Matt,” Betty elaborates like I’m suffering from amnesia. She whips out her cellphone and scrolls through it. “The guy with a voice that sounds like a caramel latte.” She reads, giving me a raised eyebrow. “I’m not sure about that one…but the reference to women spontaneously impregnating from breathing the same air has set the expectations bar, high.”
“I—” My brain delivers a bombardment of flashbacks rather than a valid deflection I might use.
Mary has been playing ping-pong between us as Betty talked, but now both of them are staring at me.
“He was here last night.” Why the hell did I say that? “He—ah—likes my—ah—books.” My eyes dart toward the damn biker romance, and two other sets of eyes lower too. “I might have made a goat noise.” Shoot me now! They both blink at me. “He left.”
Betty smirks and winks. “Oh yeah? Was Matt responsible for the goat noise?”
What? “No!” I shake my head like this might emphasize my state of denial. “He…no…after…” My face blazes like a furnace. He was sort of responsible for the goat noise…
“But we have established that he was here,” Betty continues, eyes narrowing in glee as they return to the book. She points at it. “You left Doreen’s biker romance smut lying around when he was here?”
I nod before I can stop myself. Betty bursts into guffaws of laughter.
“At least he understands the competition, dear,” Mary says. “Mitch is quite the man.” She makes like she’s fanning herself, which Betty finds hysterically funny.
I roll my eyes, wondering how I backed myself into t
his corner.
“Mary needs a prescription. Want to join us?”
“Oh a deflection,” Betty says, giving Mary a nudge. “That means the gossip is going to be good. How about we pummel her with questions on the way until she gets flustered enough to slip?”
Mary chuckles again. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MY SISTER IS a disaster. Sometimes I wonder how we came from the same parents. I’ve convinced myself on more than one occasion that there was a mix up at the hospital the day they brought her home. Or maybe she’s adopted.
I’ve said as much to my parents.
They think I’m joking—I’m not.
Kat is ten years younger than me and a single mom.
Her ex is an asshole. I enjoyed the day I punched the prick in the mouth, and I’m comfortable admitting it. How she stayed with him long enough to get pregnant not once but twice is one of the mysteries of the universe.
But she did, and it is what it is. Thankfully, she woke up and got out before the deadbeat could have further influence on her kids. I paid the bastard off two years ago when I heard he was applying for joint custody. Drink, drugs, and children under five don’t mix in my opinion, but social services were talking about children being beneficial to his recovery.
Fuck that!
He’s a grown man, and he can sort his own problems out…far away from impressionable toddlers.
The useless excuse of a man smirked when I gave him the money. Signed the paperwork rescinding all claim to the children, and we’ve never seen him since. He was after a payout, he got one, and any lingering guilt I felt in my approach disappeared that day.
Kat has been fiercely independent ever since. Occasionally, she asks for help—like last night, when she called me from the hospital.
Thomas is a five-year-old hellion, and a broken arm is not slowing him down. After a night in observation, we were allowed to take him home. No sooner had we pulled out of the hospital parking lot, then he’s demanding ice cream, which Kat in a moment of weakness had promised him so he would behave for the doctors.
The kid is smart, I’ll give him that, and can negotiate like a pro.
So, here we are at the ice cream shop where they do all the fancy sprinkles. My niece, Anna, is two, unstable on her feet, and the world’s greatest chatterbox. She sits on my lap and is dripping more of the ice cream than she’s eating. It’s smeared all around her mouth, and I’m pretty sure some of it has gotten onto my pants.
My clothing has become a magnet for females to discard their food and drinks on…and that makes me smile.
Anna begins chattering, a mumbled jumble of syllables that might be words if the ice cream wasn’t getting in the way…Or not, unfortunately, I only understand about ten percent of anything she says with or without the ice cream, and she gets frustrated with me.
“Down!”
I understood this. “Not happening,” I say. Anna may be unstable, but she can cover a hundred paces faster than an Olympic sprinter when she sets her mind to it.
Her demand is accompanied by her small body contorting in my arms. Tiny back arching, and small feet kicking against my shins. I wince because the last kick caught me good.
“You can get down in a minute.”
It’s been a long night, and I admit to being tired and cranky myself. Leaving a hot, post-orgasmic woman while suffering the mother of all boners, to spend a night kid-wrangling, could test a proverbial saint. Perhaps it’s for the best that I had to leave. Emma’s not my usual type—not a quick itch-scratch and move on. The one time I tried more than that, I had an awkward conversation with my mother regarding my impending nuptials.
Emma’s not the kind to blast my name over social media along with not very subtle hints of a ‘spring wedding’, and yet, I’m still wary.
Sensing I’m not giving her due attention, Anna grunts and strains with greater rigor. My sister, who has developed psychic awareness for her children’s predicted next move, snatches the melting ice cream from her sticky fingers just as Anna’s face turns beet-red, and a wail erupts from her lips.
Thomas giggles. He’s been given drugs while in the hospital, and he still looks a little too happy. This stop off for ice cream was the worst of ideas.
My sister, ever wily, turns her phone to a colorful app, and the writhing bundle in my arms instantly softens as she snatches up the phone.
Thank you smartphones!
My sister smirks. “You’re welcome.” And offers me the dripping ice cream that Anna has slobbered over.
I shake my head slowly, deciding that she’s screwing with me.
I love my niece and nephew. I would lay down my life for them, but they’re not my kids, and I’m pretty sure even if they were my kids, I wouldn’t finish off their half-eaten food.
Shrugging, she drops it in the nearby trash can because Anna has had enough and is more interested in the game. Extracting a moist wipe-thing out of her cavernous bag, she wipes my niece’s face. Anna does not appreciate the interruption, and I fear we’re about to have another altercation, but Kat is efficient, and the deed is done before her angst can build up a decent head of steam.
“Eat your ice cream properly, Thomas,” I say. The little monster has decided to bite the bottom off the cone while we were distracted—because he clearly wasn’t making enough mess eating it the usual way. His arm is covered in a cast, and the cast is covered in a protector that gives him a spider-man arm—he now believes he has superpowers.
I foresee some testing times ahead.
He grins and licks the top again with the worst fake-innocent expression I’ve ever borne witness to. A blob of ice cream drops from the hole onto his t-shirt. He finds this hysterically funny.
How does my sister manage two of them on her own? I’ve never suffered any urge to start a family, and I’m confident my sister’s rug-rats have scoured out all future possibility of me changing my mind.
My sister extracts another moist wipe-thing out of her bag and deals with the spill diligently. She looks tired—we’re all tired, except Thomas, who is wired as hell.
“Come on, Thomas,” Kat says. “We both know you’ve had enough. Let’s go home, and you can watch the dragon movie.”
The dragon movie must be a winner because he whoops and wriggles off the chair—cast aloft—dumps the melting mess into the trash can, and holds his hands out to be wiped.
I shake my head in wonder.
“He’ll be asleep in five minutes,” Kat whispers to me.
“No, I won’t!”
I swear they have the hearing of a bat.
“Yes, you will,” she teases. “Now, hold my hand until we reach the car unless you want me to pick you up.”
Thomas doesn’t like being carried unless it’s part of a game, so he holds her hand since it’s the lesser of the two evils.
My niece in my arms, we head out for the SUV.
I see her first. There’s a stretched moment where our eyes lock before hers skitter away to take in the scene.
Despite Thomas’s broken arm, we probably present the image of an average happy family. I’m guessing this since her face loses all color before she plasters on a smile. “Mr. Dexton,” Emma beams, before ushering the elderly lady who has an arm looped through hers. There’s another woman on the other side, a tiny pixie-like thing with a bright red beanie and grey shirt that’s about five sizes too big. The pixie doesn’t smile; she shoots me with a glare that leaves no doubt that she knows everything about me and what I did with Emma, and further, would like to cut my cheating-heart out with a blunt spoon.
Her censor irritates me, and I’m about to introduce Emma to my sister so we can all move on. Only Anna chooses that moment to drop the phone. Her wail, inches from my ear, demands all my attention. By the time I’ve retrieved the phone, Emma has disappeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’VE BEEN ON a rollercoaster for the last week, and my insides are in knots as I make m
y way to the office. I’ve blocked his number, and ignored all the calls from unknown numbers.
All ten of them.
The bright enthusiasm I had last week has lost some of its luster—I can’t believe he’s married.
Married with children.
Their little boy had a broken arm. There was a cute spider-man sleeve over it, which I would have found adorable under other circumstances. Except Matt was with me, rocking my world, when he should have been with them, and now I feel like a dirty little secret.
Only I’m not a secret, and all I feel is dirty.
How did I not know this? How could this possibly not be on social media? His whole life is on social media! I went and checked after I got home and encouraged both Betty and Mary to vacate my space so I could process what had happened.
Scoured the internet in the kind of detail that put my prior stalking to shame.
Nothing, not one thing. And worse, his little boy has to be around five years old, which means some of those other documented relationships were also happening while he was married with kids.
I’m such an idiot. I don’t think I could hate myself more than I do right now. I have a standard, and I’ve leaped it with a pole-vault. I’m that woman—the one that his wife probably complains to her friends about. Seriously, I popped an orgasm in less than five minutes, two in less than ten. No man acquires that level of skill without racking up the mileage. He’s amazing in bed and ridiculously wealthy, and she has the children to consider so I could understand why she might be inclined to look the other way.
I mean, I wouldn’t, but I can see why she might.
Actually, I don’t have a clue what I’d do in her place, he’s the kind of man who makes women do foolish things, I’m a testament to that.
None of this rationalization makes me feel any less sick. I thought last week was challenging, this one is going to be worse.
On top of this is the humiliation of the team seeing me leave with him. He’s probably a freaking Casanova taking a different girl home every freaking week.