Cowboy Baby Daddy (A Secret Baby Romance Compilation)

by Claire Adams

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I exhale.

  I would love to go in there and throw him out right now, but I’m really not willing to see whatever it is that he’s doing to that poor woman. Either he’s killing her or they’re having sex. Either way, I don’t want to be a witness.

  Sure, I could knock and call through the door, but it’s so much easier to just bury my head between two pillows and wish for death. His or mine: it doesn’t really matter.

  Even through the pillows, though, I can hear the woman’s screaming moans, or whatever you’d call that noise.

  To me, it sounds like a cat being nailed to a board. It’d almost be sad if it weren’t so infuriating.

  “Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!” the woman is screaming, and I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

  The man’s only been in my apartment a couple of hours, and he’s already driving me out of it. If I had any residual guilt about going back on my offer for him to move in, it’s being drowned out by the woman’s howling.

  She’s got to be faking it. I wonder if he knows.

  He probably doesn’t care.

  I’ve had sex before, and at no point did I feel the need to start making noises like a tortured rabbit.

  Real or not, I’m done. I start to think that I might not hear them if I get in the shower—a necessity at the moment, I assure you—but the squealing is way too loud for me to hang onto that illusion for long.

  Luckily, I find my phone and call Mike.

  “Hello?”

  “Mike, I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Remember that idiot I told you about—the one who went through my newspaper?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I called him last night and told him that the room is his. Now, he’s in the other room, doing unspeakable things to a poor woman, and I can’t even—”

  “Is he hurting her, or are they having sex?” Mike asks.

  “Probably the latter, but I have no way of knowing. You’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “Just go for a walk or something. When you come back, tell him that you made a mistake and that he’s got to go. Wait, you didn’t sign a contract with him or anything, did you?”

  “No.”

  “There you go. I’m at work right now, but just go get food or something. It’ll be uncomfortable, but you’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure you can’t do it?” I ask.

  I’ve never liked confrontation.

  Mike sighs on the other end of the phone.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he says, “if you can hold out until I’m off, I’ll come over and provide moral support.”

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “All right,” I sigh, and hang up.

  I had been so focused on the phone call that I hadn’t noticed the disembodied grunting in Dane’s room had ceased.

  I go back to my room and close the door. I don’t want to see him or the woman that’s in there.

  Sadly, the two were apparently taking a breather, as that thump, thump, thumping of the headboard is back and louder than before.

  I get dressed in record time, grab my wallet, and am out the door. It’s not until the latch clicks behind me that I realize I forgot my keys.

  This is quite possibly the worst day of my life.

  * * *

  I’m not going to lie. I’m a little drunk.

  Dane was right about that whole hair-of-the-dog thing. This is fantastic.

  That is, I feel fantastic right up until I feel my phone vibrating in my bra and realize that I now have to go home and deal with everything.

  I order another drink for the road.

  Walking used to be the easiest thing in the world. It’s been years since I’ve even given the task much thought, but trying to keep a straight line down the sidewalk takes every bit of concentration I have.

  Mike’s on his way. At the rate I’m going, I should get there about 10 minutes before he does.

  I just hope he relents and does some of the talking. Sauced or not, I’m not looking forward to kicking the guy out.

  When I get to my building, I don’t bother waiting out front for Mike like I told him I would; I just go straight up there.

  Maybe if I do this quick, Mike can arrive just in time to throw Dane out on his ear.

  That’s the dream.

  I spend a few solid minutes going through my pockets before I remember having left the keys inside.

  I knock on the door and wait.

  While I’m waiting, something triggers a memory within me. Something about my father, but I can’t put a finger on it.

  I knock again, but there’s no answer.

  He must be out.

  I don’t have Dane’s number in my phone since my call history automatically deletes itself, so all I can do is wait for Mike to get here and then track down the super.

  As I’m walking away from my door, I realize what’s triggering the memory: someone's cooking confit de canard. My dad used to make it in his restaurant.

  This is just perfect. I’m drunk, irritated, and now starving.

  As I walk down the stairs, I pull out my phone.

  “Hey,” Mike answers. “Where are you?”

  “He’s not there,” I tell him. “Are you out front?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Are you drunk?”

  “I wouldn’t say that I’m drunk,” I tell him.

  “You know, if we don’t get that guy out of there, I’m going to have to start taking you to meetings.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, stumbling down the final two steps to the ground floor.

  “You okay?” Mike asks.

  “I’m fine,” I answer. “Why?”

  The knock on the glass door of the building answers the question for me.

  “Are you going to let me in or what?”

  I hang up and open the door.

  “Are you all right?” he asks. “It looked like you rolled your ankle or something.”

  “I’m fine, but we need to find the super. I forgot my keys.”

  The quest takes a while as we chase Mr. Traven from floor to floor, the people in each apartment we stop at saying that he just left. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that he’s avoiding me for some reason.

  We finally catch up to him on the fourth floor, and little droplets of spit fly out as he chastises me for making such a ridiculous mistake.

  Grudgingly, he walks with Mike and I back into that hallway, still filled with the fragrance of confit de canard.

  “I’ll let you in,” Mr. Traven says at the door, “but you’re going to have to figure something else out next time. I’ve got two broken radiators, a refrigerator that stopped working around 3 o’clock yesterday afternoon, and six or seven toilets to unclog. I really don’t have time to save you every time you—”

  “I really appreciate it, Mr. Traven,” I interrupt. “You’re an absolute lifesaver.”

  The gambit works, and he opens the door without showering me or my companion with any more spittle.

  As soon as the door is open, I’m struck by the smell wafting from inside.

  “Smells like your roommate is quite the chef,” Mike says, stopping to sniff the air. “What is that, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  My mind is elsewhere.

  Sitting on the kitchen table is a plate of confit de canard with a note off to one side.

  I walk toward it and breathe deep the succulent aroma while Mike makes his way to my side and picks up the note.

  “I wanted to serve this hot, but didn’t know when you were going to get back,” Mike reads. “Thank you for renting me the room. I look forward to living here—Dane.” He looks up at me. “Well, that was nice of him.”

  In my mind, I’m back in my father’s restaurant, taking no small amount of joy in the fact that I’m the only one in the whole place who doesn’t have to dress up to get a seat. Without knowing it, Dane has given me the perfect gift.

  “This sucks,” I say, finally
opening my eyes again.

  “What sucks?” Mike asks.

  “I can’t kick him out now,” I whine.

  Mike shrugs, but doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t know what to say either, so I settle on the obvious question: “Are you hungry?”

  Chapter Four

  Tension

  Dane

  As fun as last night was in the beginning, the feud between Breann (apparently, she’s the one I was calling Buzzed Girl) and Yoga Chick only intensified after our exploits. Once the enmity stopped translating itself into physical contact for me, I lost my tolerance for it.

  Getting out was no small feat, though, as both Breann and Yoga Chick were constantly looking to me to resolve individual, and increasingly odd, disputes.

  “I think the ficus looks better by the sofa, but Breann thinks it looks better by the window. She’s crazy, right?”

  I wouldn’t have gotten out of there at all if I hadn’t directed them toward the bathroom, saying some bullshit about how I thought the bra hanging over the shower rod was sexy. It was about the stupidest idea I’ve ever had, but it worked well enough. They both went in there to argue over whose it originally was.

  Today’s been great, though.

  Not only did I move into my new place, but I nailed my friend’s secretary while my roommate was passed out with a hangover.

  This is why I love my job.

  Okay, so I lied to Roommate Chick about what I do. Yeah, I play guitar and I sing, but I’ve never played a show.

  “What the fuck happened to this foie gras?” I ask my sous chef.

  Yeah, I lied about my job, but I’m sick of people asking me to get them reservations or teach them my favorite recipes. It’s a nightmare.

  Telling a woman that you’re an executive chef at one of the better French restaurants in the city is great if you’re looking for a quick lay, but living with someone who knows you’re a chef—it’s just not worth the hassle.

  That is one of the better things about this job, though; it has been years since I’ve had to use a pickup line to get a date. Women love chefs. Tell them about something sizzling in a pan and you can almost feel the change in humidity.

  It worked wonders on Secretary Chick.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t feel like taking it off the stove before you burnt it to shit?” I interrupt.

  Yeah, Ramsay’s got nothing on me. Well, nothing but the TV shows, cookbooks, multiple restaurants of his own, fame, and fortune.

  Still, I’m pretty sure I get more play than he does.

  I’m calling that a victory.

  “What are you waiting for?” I ask. “Do it again!”

  “You’d think with tattoos like that, the health department would be more worried about hepatitis,” someone behind me says.

  I turn around.

  “Jim, you old fuck, get the hell out of the kitchen before my restaurant loses a star,” I jab back.

  “You are an ungrateful little shit, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “What’s up?”

  “I need to borrow you for a minute. Is there someone that can take over for you?”

  “Nobody worth a damn, but hey, it’s your restaurant. Why should I care that your customers are about to eat burnt shit?”

  Jim and I have a strange relationship. As the owner of l’Iris, he’s my boss. On the other hand, he’s about the only person I’ve ever met with a filthier mouth than mine. That’s just his way of connecting with me, though, and I can appreciate the effort.

  I think it’s hilarious.

  “All right, sit down, fuck face,” he tells me. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  “Did Wilks jerk off in someone’s French onion soup again?”

  “No,” Jim says. “Wait, what?”

  “I’m just fucking with you,” I tell him. “Calm down.”

  “It’s our covers,” he says. “Business is down—”

  “It was Cannon,” I interrupt.

  “What?”

  “The French onion soup thing—I’m sorry, you were trying to tell me something.”

  “Dane, I’ve got to level with you. We’re pretty fucked right now, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep you on. Short of adding pussy to the menu, I’ve been trying everything to keep people coming in, but with this fucking economy—”

  “You’re closing down?” I ask.

  I had no idea he actually wanted to talk to me about something. Usually when he calls me into his office, we end up taking a couple of shots and bragging about our exploits. Although, come to think of it, his tales bear a striking resemblance to some of the stories in the Penthouse Forum.

  I wonder if there’s a connection.

  “I’m trying not to,” he says, and sighs. “Look, I’ll keep you on as long as I can, but you’re going to want to start looking for more work. I just can’t swing an executive chef right now. I’m thinking of having your sous chef run the day-to-day—”

  “Cannon?” I blurt. “I wasn’t joking about that French onion thing. The guy actually sent that out. I didn’t even find out about it until—”

  “Yeah,” Jim says, “that was actually a special request from a VIP—it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to tell you—”

  “Don’t tell me it was that chick who wrote those perverted fantasy-romance novels for teenagers,” I interrupt again, trying to lighten the mood.

  It doesn’t work.

  “Dane, I can give you a recommendation, but I just can’t afford to pay you anymore.”

  “I just moved into a new fucking place, Jim,” I snap. “How am I supposed to pay for shit if I don’t have a job?”

  “You’re a great chef,” Jim says, “but I’m out of options.”

  “What if I stay on at a lower salary?” I ask. “Come on, man, I just need enough to pay rent and all that. People are going to start coming back as soon as—”

  “What?” Jim asks. “People are going to start coming back as soon as the economy recovers? The people who have the most money aren’t fucking spending it, Dane. That’s why the economy’s in the goddamned tank. That’s why l’Iris is circling the drain.” He puts his hands together and leans forward. “Look, I’ve put in too much time, money, and energy to let this place go under without a fight, but I’m getting my ass handed to me, here. Trust me, letting you go isn’t an easy—”

  “So that’s it, then?” I ask. “You’re firing me? I put this place on the fucking map, Jim. I’ve got just as much blood and sweat in this hole as you do and you’re just going to throw me overboard?”

  Jim takes a moment.

  “You’re not the only one I have to let go, Dane, but you’re the one with the biggest salary. When things get back on track—”

  “What?” I ask. “You’ll condescend to offer me the same job that I’ve been doing six years in this clusterfuck of a city? You can shove that up your fucking dick hole.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, will you grow up?” Jim yells. “Six years I’ve been listening to you screaming that bullshit in the kitchen like you’re Gordon Fucking Ramsay and I’m sick of it. If you were him, this place wouldn’t be falling apart, I’d have money in the till, and we wouldn’t have to keep moving the tables farther from the kitchen.”

  “You know I—”

  “Will you just listen to me?” he interrupts. “In spite of all your bullshit, I like you, Dane. You’re a foul-mouthed asshole, but you are a good chef. This isn’t personal, got it? I would have offered you sous chef just to keep you on if I didn’t think—”

  “That it would be a slap in the face and the kitchen staff would never respect me again?” I ask.

  “This is your problem, Dane; you’re too fucking arrogant. If I thought you could work under anyone other than me, I wouldn’t have to let you go, but you can’t,” Jim says, leaning back in his chair. “I looked at the books, and I can keep you on for another month or so, but that’s it. You’ve got to find some
thing else.”

  “This is such—”

  “I don’t have a choice, Dane,” Jim says. “I’ll give you a good recommendation. I’ll help you get set up somewhere else, but I can’t keep you here.”

  “Yeah, don’t do me any favors,” I say, getting up from my chair. “I’ll stay on for a while, but don’t expect Cannon to amount to shit. He needs someone to breathe down his neck and berate him or he falls apart like a little bitch that couldn’t make himself a bowl of cereal.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Jim says. “Hey, I’m sorry it has to be this—”

  “Oh, fuck yourself, Jim,” I tell him, and am back in the kitchen a minute later.

  On the upside, that’s nowhere near the first time I’ve told my boss to fuck himself. On the downside, I think that’s the first time he really knew that I meant it.

  I’ll be lucky if he keeps me on until the end of my shift.

  Somehow, he resists the temptation to fire me straight away, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell Roommate Chick. Although I’m fairly certain that learning her name would be a positive step before I tell her I just lost my job. First, though, I’ll have to tell her what it is that I actually do. That’ll be a great conversation.

  When I get home, Roommate Chick is sitting on the couch, reading.

  She’s obviously busy, so I decide not to disturb her.

  “Hey,” she says, not looking up from her book.

  Shit.

  “Hey,” I answer. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” she says, turning the page. “Where’d you get the confit de canard?”

  “I didn’t get it,” I tell her.

  “Whatever. I’ve been looking for a place that serves a decent version of it. Where’d you pick it up?”

  Right now, I’m fighting two urges: my chef’s pride wants me to tell her that I made it. On the other hand, if I tell her, she’s going to want me to cook for her all the time. Worse than that, the conversation will inevitably lead to the one topic I’m trying to avoid.

  “I picked it up at some French place a few blocks from here.”

  It’s not a complete falsehood. L’Iris is only a few blocks from the apartment, and I do work there, for now, anyway.

  “Does this place have a name?”