Finish What You Started

by Alexandra Evans

  The woman’s name was coming back to him. A one-night stand. She worked in the front office, and he’d just been told Grant was dead. He went on a bender and she’d been at the bar…one thing led to another. Sarah? Tiffany? Jennifer? No… “Ashley, wait.”

  “No, I can’t. I thought I could do this alone, with or without you, but I can’t.” She sniffled and tears rolled down her face as the little girl opened and closed her hand in a wave. Ashley looked at the baby, love mixed with pain in her gaze. “I tried, I really did. When I couldn’t get hold of you… I didn’t want to go to the press, I didn’t want a lawyer or child support, I just wanted you to know you had a daughter.”

  “Ashley, I’m sorry.” The little girl started to whimper, so he bounced her up and down in his arms as he’d seen his sister do with her kids. The soothing motion seemed to work for a moment, but then she reached out her arms toward her mother. Ashley backed away. J.T. tried again. “Why didn’t you come find me? If I’d known… I mean, if she’s mine…”

  “Of course she’s yours,” Ashley said. “If you don’t believe me, have a DNA test done.” She began to climb into the car. “I need a break. I love her, so much, but she was never in the plan. I just couldn’t… I’ve taken care of her for two years. She needs to know her daddy. And I want to finally have my shot. No way I can start an acting career with a baby hanging on my hip. Your turn now, J.T.”

  With that, she slid into the driver’s seat, turned over the ignition, did a 360 in his front yard and headed back out to the highway. “Wait!” he hollered as he chased her down the drive, toddler in tow, but she was gone.

  “Mom-ma!” the little girl wailed. “Mommyyyyyyy!” She burst into tears and began to scream. J.T. had no freaking clue what to do or how to comfort a child—the bouncy move wasn’t working anymore—so he lumbered back up the steps, child in tow, nearly tripping on the suitcase and diaper bag sitting on the front porch. His mother would know what to do. She’d raised two boys and a girl.

  “Well, fuck,” he muttered, before he found his phone on the kitchen counter.

  “Fuuuuck,” the toddler mimicked when he set her on the floor, and she took off running away from him toward Jethro, his old, lazy basset hound. J.T. cringed at the word she’d just learned. Did kids learn words that fast? He made a mental note to watch his language until he figured out what to do with the kid.

  She couldn’t be his. It took people years to have a kid, not just one time, one drunken night.

  His mother answered, “Hi, son. Are you coming to dinner tonight?”

  “Mom, I’ve got a bit of a situation here.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then chased the baby—he had no idea what her name was—before she actually sat on top of the dog. He didn’t think Jethro would do anything about it—he was that lazy—but he couldn’t be sure. Scooping her up, he set her on the sofa. Then watched her crawl right off again and lay in the floor. “I need your help.”

  He could swear he heard Helene Johansen’s trouble radar click on, and she said, “What’s wrong? Dad and I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks. I’ll explain it when you get here.” Although he figured the problem would be pretty self-explanatory as soon as his mom arrived and saw his…

  Daughter? Surely not. But…he supposed there was a possibility. Three years ago, when he’d first decided he was going to retire from the NFL, he’d gone pretty wild for a couple weeks, binge drinking, sleeping around. Although he’d thought he was very careful, there was always a possibility, no matter how careful you were. He did remember sleeping with Ashley. Maybe. Hell, one night there were three of them in his hotel room. That was…Jacksonville. Yeah, that was it. Jacksonville. That was right about the time he’d figured out getting drunk and screwing anything in Daisy Dukes was going to end up costing him big time. Looked like he was about to figure out just how much.

  Shoving a pair of jeans and her diamond bracelet into the bag, Taylor Bellamy looked around the apartment for anything else she might need for her escape. The .25 her fiancé had given her for her birthday lay nestled between some T-shirts and underwear. She’d leave all her fancy clothes, the ones he’d bought her, in the closet. Let him give them to someone else. She didn’t want the memories.

  Checking the envelope of money she’d withdrawn from her personal account, she hefted the floral Michael Kors tote over her shoulder and headed for the elevator. The penthouse in Heritage Park Tower, Uptown Dallas; nothing less would do for Carson Beckett. Everything perfect. All the time.

  As one last act of defiance, she turned the toilet paper rolls in every bathroom to roll under instead of over. That would drive him insane, she thought with a nervous chuckle. Then she turned to look around the sterile place she’d called home for the last six months. White walls, white cabinets, white countertops… Only a few splashes of color from artwork he’d purchased from a gallery downtown, and pillows tossed on the white leather sofa.

  Taylor nervously shook the key fob to her Jaguar F-TYPE, wishing the elevator would move faster down the thirty-six floors to the parking garage. With any luck, the doors wouldn’t open on the ground floor before she could finish her descent and avoid the doorman. Harold told Carson every move she made, and if he saw the stuffed bag on her shoulder…

  Luckily the door stayed closed until she exited at the 2nd level parking garage. She made it to her car unnoticed and soon merged on I-35 and out of Dallas within fifteen minutes. Away from her parents, away from her duties, away from Carson. For good this time.