Dirty Bastard

by Jessica Clare

  The phone rings again and this time I grab it. “Is there a return address?” I ask immediately, before Boone can speak.

  “You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  “You wanna tell me if there’s a return address?” I retort back.

  “No. There isn’t. It’s from a florist. It’s not even a woman’s handwriting on the card. What’s this all about?” Boone sounds tense, irritated.

  “Sounds like I got Lexi pregnant is what it sounds like.” I can’t stop the slow smile that crosses my face. Holy shit. I’m going to be a father. A father to Lexi’s child. This is the best thing that could have ever happened to me.

  “Goddamn it, Knox. Do I need to get the lawyers on this? Is she shaking you down?”

  “No. No lawyers. I’ll get it settled on my own terms.” And the first thing I’m going to do is track Lexi down. Nat will have her address. “I’ll handle things.”

  “Great.” My brother doesn’t sound enthusiastic at all. “You know Clay and Natalie are having a baby, too? He just told me yesterday.”

  And Ivy’s due to have hers any minute. It’s a population boom—

  The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. Ivy and Boone are married. Clay and Natalie just ran to the JP a short time ago and had a shotgun wedding. I’m not married to Lexi. My child’s going to be a bastard. Just like me. He’s going to grow up with the stigma of knowing his parents weren’t married. That they were just fooling around and he was an accident. It’s going to fuck with his mind like it fucked with mine. I always knew growing up that my dad didn’t want me. He loved me, of course. He loved all his boys. But he also loved sticking his dick into any woman that headed his way. Boone’s the son from his first wife, Clay from his second. I’m the third kid, but he wasn’t married to my mom. Gage was a few months after me—another bastard. Seth a few years later. Bastard.

  Maybe it’s never bothered them, because by the time you get to bastard number two or three, you’re used to it. You’re just another Price kid.

  But to me, it’s always mattered. I’ve always been the illegitimate Price boy. Just like Seth was the youngest Price boy, and Gage was the Mexican one. I don’t want my kid going through the same stigma I did. And I sure don’t want Lexi touching anyone else. Or letting someone else raise my kid. He’s gonna be mine, like she’s gonna be mine. That possessive streak sweeps over me again.

  That’s my family. And for a Price, family’s everything.

  “Don’t tell Clay or Nat that Lexi’s pregnant,” I say to Boone. “I’ll tell them once I get stuff sorted with Lexi, but let me work things through with her first. Let’s let them have their moment.”

  “All right. But . . . you’ll keep me posted?” Boone sounds reluctant but he knows he can’t win this one. When a Price has his mind on something, ain’t no stoppin’ him.

  “Yup.”

  “Don’t abandon Gage,” he tells me before I can hang up. “That little shit needs someone to keep him on track.”

  I hate that he’s right. Everything in me is screaming to go after Lexi right now, but I can’t. Not with my drunk brother determined to kill himself with the bottle.

  * * *

  * * *

  I can’t get to Lexi right away, but that doesn’t stop me from Googling the hell out of her. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before—wounded pride, I guess. I start by searching Luka, Texas—her hometown—and yoga studios. After that, it’s ridiculously easy to find her online. Luka Yoga is her studio. The website is pretty basic, and when I click on “Instructors” it shows a black-and-white picture of her in a yoga pose from behind. But I recognize those lovely shoulders and the smooth sweep of dark hair down her back. Her profile reads:

  Lexi Brandon, RYT 200. Specializing in therapeutic yoga for beginners and advanced alike. Yoga helps me stay fit and alert, and there’s nothing I like more than starting the day with a sun salutation and a good crow pose to end the day. Allow me to help you achieve your goals. One-on-one classes available!

  It sounds nice and all . . . but it also don’t sound much like the Lexi I know. I figure she didn’t write that herself or it’d be more like she specialized in whatever yoga would make people cry the most. That seems more like her. Now that I have her name, though, I continue searching online to see what I can find. There ain’t much, though. She doesn’t have a Facebook page, and she ain’t on Twitter, or Instagram, or any of that shit. I can’t find anything, and I can’t decide if that’s smart or frustrating. Probably both.

  That’s all right. Just means I have more to ask her about when I see her again. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, thinking of those dark eyes and that sly smile that’s so full of fun. Her gorgeous little tits and those long, supple legs. The taste of her on my tongue.

  Fuck. Now I need to go whack off or I’m going to be sitting here all night with a raging boner. Gage better enjoy his sleep while he can, because I’m waking his ass up at the crack of dawn so I can shove him back to Clay and Boone and free myself up to pursue my woman.

  My Lexi.

  The mother of my child.

  Shit, now I’m really damn hard.

  Chapter 8

  Lexi

  “All right, now I need you to slowly relax your muscles,” I tell Mrs. Bateman. “We’re going to do the cow pose, bitilasana. We did this one last time, do you remember?” I keep my voice smooth and level and as sweet as I can make it, because I’m officially in saccharine mode during classes.

  “No,” Mrs. Bateman tells me. “Is that the one where I’m a mountain?” She claps her hands and slaps them to her sides like she’s on drill team or something.

  My mouth twitches and it takes everything I have not to laugh, because she wouldn’t appreciate that. Mrs. Bateman is ninety if she’s a day, not very flexible, and cranky as fuck. Her doctor suggested yoga for her, though, and so she shows up at every class and argues with me.

  She’s my favorite.

  “No, the one where you’re a mountain is called mountain pose,” I say. “Cow pose is where we get on all fours and work the muscles of our core and back. We’re going to alternate it with cat pose so we can open our chest and strengthen our spines. How does that sound?” I get down on my hands and knees on the mat.

  “I think my doctor said no to this pose,” she tells me, surly. “None of this cat or cow shit.”

  “Really? We did it last week.” I keep my voice mild. “Let me show you.”

  I get down on my hands and knees and demonstrate the pose to her, instructing as I move my body. It’s one of the simplest to do, just hands and knees on the floor and flexing the back, but she looks at me as if I’m asking her to do a handstand of some kind.

  “I’m pretty sure my doctor said no,” she repeats again. “Let’s do the resting pose. I like that one.”

  Of course she does. You don’t do anything but rest. I bite back my amusement and keep my serene yogi smile on my face. “Of course.”

  I sit down on the mat and she follows me, as if she doesn’t know how to lie down on her own. We both get into the corpse pose, savasana, lying flat on our backs on our respective mats with our hands at our sides. “All right,” I tell her. “Close your eyes. Take one deep, cleansing breath and then we’re going to breathe naturally and just relax. Let all your stresses go away. Clear your mind.”

  Mrs. Bateman doesn’t respond. I’m pretty sure I’m going to hear her snoring in a minute. She always falls asleep in savasana. I love this cranky old coot. She gives no fucks. I want to be her when I get old.

  Sure enough, she starts to lightly snore. I hold back my smile and focus on clearing my own mind, but it’s not that easy. I keep thinking about babies and what the hell I’m going to do about mine. How am I going to run a business when I’ve got a baby underfoot? I could send him or her off to day care, but that’ll pretty much drain any money I make runn
ing my studio. More than that, how much will diapers and formula cost? Health care? Will I breastfeed? My breasts are already so sore I feel like amputating them. I was expecting to get sick to my stomach or have weird food cravings that would alert me to pregnancy, but so far all I have are really, really sensitive nipples. This is not how I pictured it going.

  Then again, none of this is how I pictured it going.

  My mind is so lost in a whirling dervish of stressed thoughts that I’m not enjoying the savasana. I can’t relax. I can’t clear my damn head. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to clear it again. There’s too much baby in there, and I wonder if Knox got my note. Does he even remember who I am or was I just another hookup to him? For some reason, I feel like I should matter to him. I hope I do. It’s silly, because I’m the one that ghosted him, but I don’t want him to resent me. I want him to think of our night together fondly. I know I’m still thinking about it, after all.

  The door chimes, signaling that someone’s entering, and I open my eyes and glance over from my spot on the mat.

  Holy shit.

  I jerk upright, forgetting all about corpse pose. I jump to my feet and rush forward, padding across the floor of my studio toward Knox Price, who’s just shown up looking like a gorgeous daydream. Did I forget how incredible he looks in person? Because my brain is frying at the sight of him. That big, scruffy beard. The slightly too-long hair that curls over his brow and begs to be pushed off his forehead. The dark eyes and broad shoulders and tanned skin. Oh my god. I’m practically getting wet just looking at him.

  I’m going to blame it on pregnancy hormones, because I’m freaking out even as I’m aroused at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down to not disturb Mrs. Bateman. Savasana works best when you have several long minutes to clear your mind, and she needs more time. Plus, she still has another twenty minutes of class booked with me.

  He devours me with a look, saying nothing. My entire body tingles in awareness, and I feel his gaze skating down my body, outlined by the formfitting sports bra and leggings I’m wearing. My hair’s pulled up in a tight bun, and I kind of wish it was down so I could look like the girl he remembered from that night. Why that matters, I don’t know. I’m going to blame that on pregnancy hormones, too.

  “We need to talk,” he tells me in a low voice, glancing over at Mrs. Bateman over on the mat. “Cancel your appointments.”

  I start to bristle at that, because who comes in and demands that I clear my schedule like that? Clearly someone with no money problems, that’s who. “You’ve never run a small business, have you? If I cancel on my clients, they get offended. Not just for today, but for future bookings, and I don’t think—”

  “Just cancel them,” Knox says, tone gentle. He leans in even more, as if he wants to touch me but can’t. “You know as well as I do that we have things to discuss.”

  My pulse is fluttering, and I’m acutely aware of how close he’s standing and the soap he uses. The way that the T-shirt he’s wearing is so worn the screen-printed logo on the breast is cracked and there’s a tiny hole at the collar and he doesn’t care. That there are little curls of his hair sticking out from under his trucker cap, just begging for my fingers to reach up and tuck them back under. Why do I find this man so ultimately touchable? What is wrong with me?

  Hormones, I remind myself again. It all goes back to hormones. “I can’t just cancel on my clients—”

  “I’m done,” Mrs. Bateman calls out from behind me. “I’m finished corpsing and I need to go. I’m getting my hair done for bingo tonight.”

  Now she’s working against me, too. I turn to Mrs. Bateman and give her my sweetest smile. “All right, then. Did you want to discuss payment for this week?”

  She moves to the cubby where she has her things and pulls out her wallet. “I’m only going to pay you for two-thirds of a session today, since your boyfriend is here and that corpse pose shit doesn’t count as yoga. If I wanted to lie down all afternoon I’d do that at home. Next time try teaching me some damn yoga like I pay you to.”

  Such a salty woman. I adore her. “Pay me what you think is appropriate,” I tell her, just because I’m fond of the old bitch. “And let’s schedule your next few sessions.”

  Mrs. Bateman gives me a crisp five-dollar bill and allows me to schedule her for twice more in the upcoming week. “Let’s not cut those short because you need to spend time with your boyfriend.” She gives me a prim look.

  “Why do you think he’s my boyfriend?” I ask, curious. I glance over at Knox, who’s still by the doorway, gazing at my yoga pose posters and a flow chart of aligning chakras and some other karmic bullshit I hung on the walls so they’d look appropriately yoga-ey.

  “Honey,” she says with a shake of her head. “I am old but I am not senile. I have eyes. He looks at you like he wants to tap that.”

  And now I’m really fighting back a laugh, because hearing something like that out of wizened Mrs. Bateman is probably the greatest thing ever. “Gotcha.”

  “I’ll see you Wednesday,” she tells me, and gets her things, sliding on her shoes and then heading out the front door. She giggles as Knox holds the door open for her and waves.

  He waits until she’s in her car and then strides forward, toward where I’m hiding behind the checkout counter of my studio. “Did she just pay you five dollars? How much do you charge for a class?”

  “Twenty for a one-on-one session, but Mrs. Bateman likes to haggle. She’s fun.” I slide the five into my nearly empty till. “I can only imagine the hell she’ll give them at the nursing home when she deigns to go.”

  Knox just shakes his head. “How are you supposed to run a business if your customers ain’t payin’ you properly?”

  I can’t decide if that’s sweet of him to be concerned, or intrusive. “I’m just waiting for a life-threatening injury so I can spend my days lounging on worker’s comp and living the good life,” I tell him drily. “Maybe if I get lucky, I’ll rupture something vital and then the big bucks roll in. Ka-ching.”

  He snorts. “I’m just sayin’, she’s using you.”

  “Yeah, but I love her sour ass, so it’s all good. I consider it an entertainment discount. My favorite part’s when she cusses at me for making her stretch.” I mock-shiver. “I learn new words every time.”

  “Can you break for lunch?” he asks.

  “It’s four.”

  “Yeah, but don’t pregnant ladies wanna eat all the time?”

  I just eye him. He’s not wrong, though. I’m starving. “There’s a diner next door. But you have to promise not to talk very loud. This is a small town and I’d prefer not to be the town pariah because I’m unmarried and pregnant. I like to be the town pariah because I’m weird, and that would ruin my cred.”

  “Whatever you want. I have my truck. We can go someplace else if you’d like. Just tell me where.”

  I glance down at my planner. “I can’t go anywhere for long. I have a five thirty.” I’m totally fucking lying, because my five thirty permanently canceled on me a month ago and I just haven’t updated my books. Truth is, I’m a little wary of going somewhere else with him. If we’re local and someplace small, he can’t yell at me. At least, that’s my theory.

  “Next door it is, then. But you’re lettin’ me buy.”

  I shrug. “That’s fine.” I grab my cell phone and slide on a pair of flip-flops, then lead the way out. My heart is hammering as he exits my studio and I flip the BACK SOON sign on the door. I’m not expecting drop-ins, but going out in public with Knox like this makes me worry that Keith is going to see me with him and flip his lid. Maybe we should leave town after all.

  Then again, it might be worse if Keith sees me in Knox’s truck than if he sees me sitting publicly in the diner with him. Jesus, I can’t win for losing. I debate this for a moment and then decide it’s safest in town.
It’ll show I have nothing to hide, whereas if I drive off with a stranger and it gets back to him, he’s sure to go nuts about it.

  We head down the little strip mall into the Luka Diner, and I keep my steps brisk so he can’t put a hand on my shoulder or my back or anything like that. Much as I’d love that small touch, it’s not a good idea. The moment we enter the diner, Laura looks up from her spot behind the counter. We’re the only customers in the tiny diner. Of course we are. It’s early for the dinner rush. The place is a bit dated and cheap, as far as eateries go. There’s still wood paneling from the seventies on the walls, and popcorn ceilings. The chairs are orange molded plastic, and the tables are tiny laminate squares that manage to always be a little bit dirty from the last customers that sat there. But the place has great coffee and it’s close by, so it gets a lot of traffic from the locals.

  “Hey, Laura,” I call out, doing my best to be cheerful and act like nothing about this is weird.

  She just looks at me as if I’ve grown another head. Okay, maybe that’s a little overly chirpy for me, since I normally get coffee from the diner in the morning with a few monosyllabic grunts. Well, whatever. I pick a table close to the door and sit down, grabbing a sticky menu before Knox can do something gallant like pull my chair out.

  He sits across from me as Laura hustles over. “New boyfriend, honey?” She drawls her words and gives me a curious look.

  “Please,” I say drily. “You know I’m a lesbian and holding my heart out for you.”

  Her expression puckers and her mouth presses in a thin line. I figured that’d shut her up. They’re not fond of alternative lifestyles in this backward little town.

  Knox just gives me an amused look. “Coffee, please,” he says to Laura.

  “Me too,” I say immediately, and then pause. I shouldn’t drink caffeine. But if I don’t, she might wonder what’s up. I guess I’ll order it and just hold my mug. “And a water, too. Super, super thirsty.”