Second Chance Baby Daddy: A Billionaire + Virgin Romance

by Vivien Vale

  “Only half, I hope,” Fred responds.

  I chuckle halfheartedly because that’s a fucking weird thing to say.

  My phone starts buzzing again, and, this time, it’s a number I recognize.

  “What’s up, Jen?” I answer the phone loudly so weirdo Fred doesn’t say anything else to me while I walk to the elevator.

  “Don’t ‘what’s up’ me. You know we’re all hitting the club tonight,” Jen says with a scoff.

  “Oh, god. Do I have time to sleep for a couple of hours first?”

  “Fuck, no! We’re meeting at Jing on Ninth Avenue for dinner at eight. Get yourself looking good. Shit’s gonna get turnt.”

  “You know it. Hey, I’m about to get on the elevator, so the call may dr—”

  I hung up immediately and sigh. I just didn’t have the energy to keep up the conversation. I drag myself up to my room.

  ***

  "You should know how lucky you are to even be here."

  He says this with a smile. I don't even know this guy's name. I'm sure he told me, but I don't care.

  I wish I didn't have to hear him speak. If the music blaring through the club speakers was just a few decibels louder, I could be blissfully ignorant of his sniveling little voice and misguided attempts to impress me.

  "You're right," I yell. "I have no idea. I'm sure I never will."

  My voice is a touch louder than it needs to be, which makes him wince.

  Good.

  I'm trying to send a clear message: I'm unimpressed, and no, I don't feel fucking lucky to be here.

  That stupid smile is still plastered on his face, though. I don't think he gets it.

  Of course, he has a point. This is one of the toughest clubs to get into below 14th Street. At another time in my life, I would've been happy to be in a spot like this, and I would’ve fit right in.

  Once, I may have even been impressed with this troll-like man in the wrinkled button-down, popping a breath strip while wearing a stupid smile.

  I scan the immediate area to see if any of my friends are still around.

  They're not. They're all off dancing. It's just this nameless guy and me.

  The bottle of Swedish vodka in the center of the table is rattling in rhythm to the dubstep, as are the ring of highball glasses surrounding it.

  "Holy moly!" the nameless schmuck enthuses. "This DJ set is getting seriously hot to trot."

  I give him the biggest and cheesiest grin I can muster as he starts bopping his head like he's one of the Night at the Roxbury guys.

  Holy fucking hell! Is he for real?

  I see the self-consciousness in his eyes, as well as a dash of pain that he's unsuccessfully trying to hide. Maybe there's someone here, or someone in the city who would be impressed by...whatever he's trying to do.

  But I need to leave. I'm starting to feel bad for him. Fucking sad, too.

  I nod, grin, grab my handbag, and slide out of my seat. I don't look back; I walk quickly towards the stairs to the main level, then to the exit.

  There’s a crowd of cigarette smokers outside, which is to be expected. People are drunk, laughing, screaming, and having a great time, but when I see a vacant cab driving down the block, I run over toward it, waving my arms.

  It’s time to go home.

  I fight the urge to fall asleep on the ride up to Columbus Circle. This isn’t the image of Emma Clayton that most people have.

  Even before my rise through the New York real estate world, I had an established reputation. I had a knack for showing up at all the hottest spots when they were at their hottest. I also had a knack for looking especially hot.

  Well, I still have that knack.

  What’s more, for me, the hottest spot in the city right now is this cab dropping me off in front of my building.

  In just a few short minutes, the hottest spot in the city is going to be my bed because that’s where I’m going to be enjoying some well-earned sleep.

  The prospect of a good night’s sleep, with nothing I need to wake up for tomorrow, energizes me enough for the trip upstairs and to my bedroom.

  In fact, by the time I’m there, looking at my bed, ready for sleep, I’m not feeling tired at all anymore.

  I finish putting on my pajamas. By that, I mean I take off my bra and panties, because sleeping au naturel is the way to go. I slip into my super comfortable Egyptian cotton sheets, expecting to feel that familiar fatigue sneaking up on me again.

  Comfortably snuggled in my bed, I switch off my bedside lamp. The traffic noise is usually low this high up in the building, but tonight it sounds louder somehow.

  I hear some sirens in the distance.

  As I lie there, thoughts creep in, memories of a past I’d rather leave forgotten.

  I shove them away. Why should I have to worry about the past coming back to haunt me?

  The people who worry about that kind of shit are people who make big mistakes—moral mistakes.

  And what I did five years ago was right. Even in this city, there’s no reason a top real estate firm needs to engage in anything underhanded.

  When I noticed something like that, I had every reason to bring it to the attention of…

  Dylan.

  His smooth, classically beautiful face, his perfectly trimmed and styled hair, the way those Armani suits hugged his incredible body…

  And there it is. The reason that, no matter how tired I am, I often have trouble falling asleep.

  That’s also the reason I’m still not sharing my king-sized bed with anyone.

  I can admit it now.

  And seriously, those haircuts must’ve set him back a grand or more. And those suits…

  He didn’t know what was going on. He would never have taken part in such an illegal, greedy nonsense…

  Until I informed him of the illegal, greedy nonsense.

  And he disappeared.

  I still feel like I did the right thing—but I wish I had done things differently.

  Maybe if I had, Dylan would still be here.

  It’s all in the past now.

  Those are the words running through my head as I finally succumb to something resembling sleep.

  And there I stay…for a while.

  But then, Until I’m awakened by my own coughing. I better not be coming down with something. Now is not a good time for that.

  Fuck, it’s still the middle of the night. I cough again, harder this time, and it feels like I’m choking now.

  My eyes are open, but all I see is darkness. I don’t even see the dull light of the city shining through my bedroom window.

  I’m coughing like mad, trying to breathe, and feeling really, really hot.

  I finally see something—hazy and thick…

  Is that smoke? Oh my god!

  There’s a fire in my apartment, and I’m still in bed, barely able to breathe.

  This cannot be happening. I need to get out of here right fucking now, but I can hardly move.

  I can hardly breathe.

  The worst part is I can tell it’s not a dream. This is real. Holy shit, this is real.

  Oh, god.

  I try pushing myself towards the edge of the bed. I know if I can get to the floor, I may be able to breathe more easily.

  It’s as if my body forgot how to function. I’m cemented on the bed, and I can see the smoke growing thicker.

  I’m about to try and move again, but I hear a voice. Someone’s yelling—and it’s in my fucking room. I can’t make out the words, but it sounds close, and it’s getting closer.

  I just want this all to go away, whatever this is. I feel like I can’t move any part of my body. Then, I’m finally able to open my mouth.

  I see a distinct shape moving towards me through the thick cloud of smoke.

  I try to yell, to scream, but no sound comes out. I feel smoke pouring into my lungs as the world goes slowly and completely black.

  Chapter 3

  Dylan

  In a way, it’s the moment
I’ve been waiting for.

  But my first thought isn’t This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  Instead, my first thought is Holy fucking shit, Emma’s apartment is on fire!

  I know so much about Emma’s routine these days, it’s become like my routine. And when shit goes down—even though the reason I’m watching her routine is so I’ll know if shit goes down—but still, if shit goes down with her, it’s like shit’s going down with me.

  It feels just as fucking scary, too. Well, scary, and fucking infuriating.

  Infuriating because we had a deal. It’s the entire fucking reason I’m out in fucking Vermont.

  It’s the entire fucking reason that I look like almost the polar opposite—at least fashion- and facial hair-wise—of what I used to take pride in looking like.

  It’s the entire fucking reason I’ve hidden in that fortress, I’ve hidden my face behind my hair, and I’ve hidden my usual sense of fashion behind so much plaid and denim.

  These motherfuckers went back on their word, making the entire past five fucking years a complete fucking waste.

  But, I don’t have too much time to dwell on that now.

  Those fuckers must’ve started the fire somewhere in the kitchen, sometime when I was flying over Massachusetts.

  One thing that I’m grateful for is that I’ve kept my helicopter ready to go at literally a moment’s notice.

  That’s sixty seconds from the time my ass is in the seat to the time I’m in the air. Yes, I’ve run drills.

  Another thing I’m grateful for is the fact that I don’t keep the chopper stocked with regular aviation fuel, which goes bad and would require me to change it regularly.

  I’ve taken the time to ferment and produce my own biofuel on-site, because that’s just how I fucking roll. The biofuel pulled its weight tonight, carrying me three hundred miles in less than two hours—and the entire journey barely took a quarter tank.

  I didn’t notice any flames or smoke from outside the building or when I was landing on the secret helipad on the roof.

  And yet the smoke is thick and dense as I trudge down the hallway to Emma’s bedroom. I hear the flames crackling through wooden doors and furniture, and the heat is starting to get unbearable.

  I’m almost at Emma’s bedroom door. I know that she’s still in there—I just hope that she’s okay.

  I walk through the open bedroom door. The smoke’s not as bad in the bedroom as it is in the hallway.

  Not yet, at least.

  I hear a loud crashing sound behind me, possibly part of a door or a piece of furniture collapsing.

  Fuck. Getting her out of here safely is going to be a fucking challenge.

  The smoke in the bedroom is growing thicker, but I can see the outline of Emma in the bed underneath layers of bedding.

  In stressful moments, your senses are heightened, and you can sometimes notice things you would ordinarily miss.

  In this room, darkening with acrid smoke, I notice Emma’s outline under the sheets, moving slightly, going up and down. She’s still breathing. I run over to the bed.

  The fire’s appetite is growing, and I need to move fast. I don’t know if these motherfuckers disabled the smoke detectors in the apartment, but I finally hear an alarm going off in the distance, in the hall, along with the vague white noise of an engaged sprinkler.

  Outside of Emma’s apartment, the safeguards are kicking in, but it’s up to me to save Emma.

  “Emma! Get up! You’re fucking apartment’s on fire!”

  Emma stays still, other than her subtle breathing. She’s not going to be moving on her own. She must have inhaled so much smoke by now that she’s nearing unconsciousness.

  I try yelling once more and go into a coughing fit from the smoke.

  I move in closer. The stakes are as fucking high as they possibly could be, yet right now, I feel trepidation about getting too close.

  But I need to. She’s barely moving, and it seems like her breathing is getting slower and shallower. I rip off the sheets, and there she is.

  I expect to see some sort of sleepwear. But fucking hell. She’s not wearing pajamas, a nightgown, or even underwear.

  It’s just her bare-ass naked body resting on the bed. It’s more beautiful than I ever could have imagined, and, if you haven’t guessed, I have definitely fucking imagined.

  It’s like she’s not even of this earth. A perfect angel, caught up in our imperfect world.

  But right now, the hellfire those motherfuckers brought to Emma’s apartment is going to take her and me both if I don’t start moving again.

  I rip off my bearskin and wrap Emma in it, giving her some protection. I pick her up and carry her away from the bed, feeling her breathe slowly, feeling what may or may not be her softly beating heart. These bastards are so willing to destroy a beautiful life for no good goddamn reason whatsoever.

  I carry Emma in my arms as I head into the inferno raging outside her bedroom.

  From what I can see stepping out into the hallway, it looks like there might be a clear path to the apartment door.

  I walk quickly down the hallway. With a loud crackling sound, part of a bookcase collapses at the end of the hall, blocking our path.

  I don’t fucking stop. I keep pressing forward, determined to get her out of here alive. When we reach the bookcase, I kick the burning hulk of wood with every bit of strength I have.

  My foot sends the entire thing toppling over to the other side of the room, towards a growing throng of hungry flames.

  The front door is closed. Feeling the tremendous heat behind my back, I smash open the door with another forceful kick.

  The blaze is still confined to Emma’s apartment, but smoke is starting to pour into the hallway. In between the earsplitting buzzing pulses of the building fire alarm, I hear a distant, growing commotion as other tenants begin to realize that this shit is for real.

  I adjust the bearskin around Emma, making sure it’s secure, and I run down the hallway towards the stairwell.

  Bolting up the stairs, I go as fast as my feet will carry me as Emma continues to breathe softly.

  Fortunately, we’re close to the top of the building. After just a few flights of stairs, I carry Emma right past the sign that says No Access and to the door that I ran through on my way in just minutes ago.

  I kick the steel door to the roof, and it flies open for us. We’re immediately enveloped by the chilly night air. My helicopter, which I’m now suddenly very fond of, is waiting for us.

  I hear the distinct sirens of fire engines in the distance, nearly a thousand feet below us on the street.

  Fuck, I was just on time. If I’d been any later, possibly even just a couple minutes later, these bastards would have taken a life.

  They would have destroyed something much more beautiful than they could ever comprehend.

  Emma.

  My Emma.

  That thought’s enough to give me a few seconds of pause, but I need to keep fucking moving.

  There’s room enough for just one passenger in the helicopter. Specifically, there’s room enough for Emma.

  I’ve prepared for something like this⸺I just hoped it would never actually come to pass.

  I load Emma carefully into the helicopter, securing the bearskin once more before boarding, and take my spot next to her.

  Emma looks to be breathing more deeply now, more comfortably. She shifts gently in her seat, moving slightly onto her side.

  “Emma?”

  She’s still out cold, and I’m not sure why I’d want to wake her, anyway.

  I strap Emma in tightly, then strap myself in. I open the throttle, starting the minute-long process. In sixty seconds, we’re lifting off the roof.

  We head east at first, just to get the fuck away from this entire shitshow. I push the cyclic forward until we’re over the East River, then I push left until we’re traveling due north.

  I give more power to the engine as we glide above the Major
Deegan Expressway. The dense lights of the city soon fade into the relative darkness of the Hudson River Valley.

  It’s still hours from daylight, and it’s just going to keep getting darker below us as we travel north towards my fortress in the wilderness.

  I glance at Emma briefly. She’s breathing more easily now, and she’s sleeping soundly.

  I don’t know when she’ll wake up.

  I don’t know how she’ll react when she wakes up.

  I’m not even sure what I’ll say or do when she wakes up.

  With all of my meticulous planning, preparation, and vigilance, having to actually bring Emma to my fortress in the wilderness is not something I’ve planned for.

  But it’s sure as fuck happening, whether I’m ready for it or not.

  Chapter 4

  Emma

  The first thing to assault my senses is smoke. The place reeks of it.

  For some reason, my eyes refuse to cooperate. It takes tremendous effort to open them.

  Sitting up is near impossible. My muscles scream in agony. To top things off, a giant weight has me pinned to the couch.

  My hands wrestle to get what feels like a furry blanket off my body. In the process, I notice ash and soot on my bare skin.

  Exhausted from the effort, I look around. I see flames from a gray stone fireplace dance and lick at the air, making cracking and popping sounds as the wood morphs under the pressure of the heat.

  I try and run my hand through my hair, but it’s a complete mess, full of tangles. My fingers get stuck in the knots.

  My thoughts are working overtime. What the hell happened? The last thing I remember is a Hulk lookalike leaning over the top of me.

  At the time, I couldn’t make out if he was superhero, mythical beast, or evil psychopath.

  Back in the realm of consciousness, I still can’t remember who or what rescued me. All I know is, whoever it was scooped me up as if I were a football they could easily tuck under their arm and clutch for the win.

  Hulk Lookalike had bent over me when I was in my apartment, I’m certain of it. I scan the area with blurry eyes. I try in vain to make sense of where I am.

  The room is dark, quiet, and the smell of smoke overpowers everything else. Toto, I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.