by Lane Hart
“Limelight is just a nightclub, not a strip club, right?” I ask in confusion.
Nixon chuckles. “Yeah, that’s why it was so hilarious! She was our waitress, serving us those lime green Jell-O shooters, but I’m betting she ended up giving you more than a lap dance.”
“Fuck,” I groan softly while eying the bed with the sleeping baby.
“Guess now you’re wishing you would’ve gotten a blowjob instead,” Nixon remarks.
“Do you remember her name or anything else about her?” I ask. “I’ve got to find her to figure out whether or not this kid is mine.”
“Nah, man. No clue. It was loud as shit in there, and I was drunk off my ass.”
“Yeah, okay. Well, thanks for the info. I’ll call Cameron and see if he remembers anything else and let you get back to your pussy,” I tell him.
“Thanks, she’s getting all impatient wanting more than my fingers inside her,” he replies.
“I didn’t need to know that, dude,” I say before hanging up.
Finding Cameron’s number in my phone, I call him up next.
“What the hell, Quinn? I was sleeping. Why aren’t you?” the other starting wide receiver for the Wildcats asks when he answers.
“Sorry to wake you, but it’s sort of important,” I start and then tell him the quick version about the kid getting left with me. “Nix said he thought I may have hooked up with a waitress, one with tattoos. Do you remember her?” I ask.
“I remember that God-awful playoff game,” he grumbles. “And yeah, I think I remember a waitress sitting on your lap. She had these blue streaks in her raven hair, Japanese tattoos of, like, koi fish and water or some shit on her arms. Wasn’t that at Limelight when we started throwing back all those Jell-O shots?”
“Yeah, that’s what Nixon said too,” I reply, excited to maybe have a lead. “Do you remember her name by chance?”
“Nope, but by the end of that night I didn’t remember my own name,” he answers.
“Well, thanks for the info. Get some z's, and I’ll see you on the field in the morning.”
“All right. Sorry about the kid, Quinton. Later,” Cameron says before hanging up.
So it looks like I can add a visit to Limelight to my list of things to do after tomorrow’s game. With nothing else to be done tonight, I change into a pair of sleep pants and turn off the light before crawling under the covers to try to get a few hours of sleep.
When the baby wakes up crying just two hours later, I start to get the feeling that it’s gonna be a lonnnng night.
Chapter Two
Callie Clarke
I startle awake to the sounds of a crying baby, which is rather concerning since I’m absolutely certain that I didn’t have any kids in the house hours ago when I fell asleep.
Sitting up in the middle of the bed, I push my sweaty blonde locks out of my eyes as I try to catch my breath and get my bearings. That’s when I realize that it was all just a dream. My house is empty. No babies crying. No husband. Just me and my tiger-striped cat Felix, who is not in his usual spot, curled up asleep at the foot of the bed.
Now that I’m feeling wide awake thanks to the urgency in the dream, I decide to get up and grab a glass of water to soothe my dry mouth before trying to lay down and get comfortable again.
Even with only the faintest bit of light shining in the windows from the street lamps, I’m easily able to find my way around the bed in the familiar room. Only when I’m less than a foot away from my reading chair, do I see the shape of a man sitting in it.
A scream is reflexively pulled from my throat without a thought before common sense returns. The next second I’m running around the side of the bed where there’s a landline phone.
“Callie, it’s just me,” the man quickly says, and I recognize the voice of my husband, or soon to be ex-husband, after I've picked up the receiver. Not reassured in the least by that information, I keep hold of the phone, my finger poised over the backlit number nine, ready to punch in the three digits that will bring police assistance.
“What the hell are you doing here, lurking around in the shadows while I sleep?” I yell at John, squinting when he suddenly flips on the blinding overhead lights.
“I just miss you,” he says sadly. And when I’m able to blink my eyes fully open, I see that his words match the fallen expression on his slender face. Tonight he’s dressed in dark sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, so it’s hard to tell if he’s healthy and clean or using the excess material to hide his emaciated body that’s been sacrificed thanks to his very nasty drug habit.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” I yell at him, pointing the way to the front door in case he forgot between now and when he snuck in.
“It used to be my house too,” he says.
“That was before I found out you were giving my sister drugs in exchange for sex!” I shout, tears prickling my eyes and burning my throat at the reminder of waking up in the middle of the night to find him in the guest bed with my sister. The sounds of their naked bodies slapping against each other, the grunts and groans of their betrayal was the biggest wake-up call of my life.
“One time!” John exclaims in response as if a single occurrence rather than multiple ones makes it any better. “That only happened one time, and I told you I was sorry. I just needed…”
“Save the bullshit!” I warn him, already knowing what he’s gonna say from hearing it so many times before --- that him having an affair with my sister was all my fault because I was pressuring him to get me pregnant. And that after failing to get the job done in seven years, sex with me was nothing but a chore; that I blamed him for our infertility and didn’t act like I loved him or wanted him anymore, blah, blah, blah. “And if you think I’ll ever believe it was only one single time you fucked her and got her pregnant after years of not having any luck with me, then you’re a bigger fucking idiot than I already thought you were!”
“I swear I didn’t knock her up,” he says. “She seduced me that night! You know damn well that the whore will fuck anyone to score a hit!”
Without even thinking about it, I toss the phone down and storm over to slap the shit out of his face.
“Bianca is no saint, I know that,” I snarl at him, my palm still stinging by my side. “But she’s a desperate addict that needed help, and all you and those other bastards do is just take advantage of her!”
Rubbing his dirty blond scruff where I hit him, John says, “In our eight years of marriage I had one moment of weakness that you’re gonna punish me for forever, but yet you’ll forgive Bianca?”
“No, I haven’t forgiven her. But she’s my sister, and she needs help! You are a rat bastard that I never want to see again!” I tell him without an ounce of sympathy. “Now get the fuck out of my house before I call the police. And you better believe that Monday morning I’ll have a restraining order against your ass.”
“Come on, Callie,” John whines, giving me big, brown puppy dog eyes. “We can start over if you’ll just give me a second chance.”
“Never. Gonna. Happen,” I tell him slowly so that it will maybe finally penetrate his thick skull. “Hell could someday freeze over,” I say while giving his shoulder a shove that propels him down the hallway. “Pigs could eventually evolve and start to fly.” Another shove to his chest in the living room causes him to stumble backward closer to the door. “But one thing I know without a shred of doubt in my mind is that we are done!”
Unlocking and unchaining the front door, I open it and push him, forcing him out before slamming it shut again. Slumping with my back against the door, I close my eyes and take a deep calming breath, trying to lower my heart rate to an acceptable level. Monday I’ll get the locks changed, and then I’ll go to the police department to fill out the paperwork for a restraining order because I am so sick of this bullshit happening. John suddenly pops up out of the blue every few weeks, but this was his first late night visit. I wasted too many years of my life being tied to that asshole. N
ever again.
I finally pour that glass of water I wanted before settling back into bed. As expected, after the weird baby dream and the ordeal with an uninvited guest, it takes lots of tossing and turning before I’m able to drift back to sleep.
The next time I wake up, it’s to the sound of the doorbell ringing.
“Ugh! Are you fucking kidding me?” I roll over and groan to the ceiling. I consider pulling the pillow over my head and ignoring him, but then I realize John has a key, so why would he bother with the hassle of the doorbell?
Lumbering out of bed, my feet shuffle toward the door where I unlock and open it. A gasp escapes my parted lips at the sight of two uniformed police officers with matching grim expressions on their faces.
“What’s happened?” I ask them, wrapping my arms around myself to brace for the news.
“Sorry to wake you, ma’am,” the older, robust one starts. “Do you by chance know Bianca Williams? This address was listed on her driver’s license.”
“Yes, she’s my sister. Why? What has she done now? Is she okay?” I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Miss Williams was taken to the hospital earlier tonight for a suspected drug overdose.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, resting the side of my head against the door frame. “Is she gonna be okay? Oh, no! What about the baby?”
When the two officers look at each other silently without answering me, I know it’s bad. “We can give you a ride to the hospital if you would like.”
“S-sure,” I say, blinking back tears. “Just, um, give me a second to change,” I tell them before shutting the door for a moment of privacy.
And then I give myself thirty short seconds to cry before I have to wipe away the tears and pull myself together to deal with Bianca’s newest catastrophe.
Chapter Three
Quinton
“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. Come on in,” I tell my parents, greeting them each with a hug when I open my front door bright and early Sunday morning.
In fact, the sun is so bright it’s making my migraine worse. The one caused by getting up every two hours or so last night because of the hungry, crying baby. Out of the four times I got up, Roxy left me all alone except for the first one. Still groggy from sleep, she found me in the kitchen and made sure I remembered how to fix the bottle before turning tail and crawling back into bed with Kohen.
And yeah, while I wish Roxy would have taken over and just let me sleep, I know the baby is my responsibility and not hers. Kohen and her left half an hour ago to go home and get ready to head to the stadium.
“You look like shit, son. Party too hard last night?” My dad asks with his salt and pepper eyebrows raised in disapproval.
“Ah, yeah. It was a two-person party in here all right,” I mutter sarcastically as I lead them into the living room.
“TMI!” my mom groans from behind me.
“It’s not what you think,” I assure her, waving my hand toward the baby, who is awake inside the bed thing I moved from the bedroom to the living room this morning. He’s lying flat on his back, just like Roxy told me to do when I put him down.
“Why is there a baby bed in your house?” Mom asks, tiptoeing closer in her jeans and Wildcats sweatshirt until she can peek over the edge of the bed. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaims before she reaches in and picks him up, a hand carefully cradling the back of his head. Guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised that my mom knows what she’s doing since my parents obviously raised me.
“Quinton, why is there a baby in your house?” my father asks, repeating my mother’s question as he inches closer to my mom.
“Last night someone dropped him off and ran, leaving me a note that says he’s mine. Until I get a DNA test, though…”
“You don’t know if he is or not,” my dad finishes. “This could be one helluva scheme for your money.”
“I don’t really think so,” I tell him honestly while scratching my head. “I mean, she didn’t even leave me her name. If she wanted money, why not wait at the door while holding him and demand child support instead of just…leaving him?”
“How could a mother do that?” my mom asks as she stares down at the baby in her arms, rocking side to side. “And what were you thinking, son?” she looks up and scowls at me with narrowed blue eyes, the same as the ones I see every day in the mirror.
“We don’t know for sure he’s mine,” I remind her. “But there was this one night back in January…”
“Quinton! I am so disappointed in you,” my mom says with a shake of her head, making me feel even shittier.
“Yeah, I know. Look, I really need to get a shower and head to the stadium to start warming up. Can you take him to the game and watch him until this afternoon?”
“Yes, of course,” my mom answers.
“There’s his bag with his bottle and diapers or whatever,” I tell her, pointing to the black bag on the floor beside the bed and car seat. “And Roxy said the bottom of that car seat thing has to be latched down in the backseat.”
“Have you been taking care of him all night?” my dad, who has been rather quiet, asks.
“Yeah. Roxy, our new kicker, showed me how to do everything and stayed over last night in case I needed her help. But Brady kept me up all damn night…”
“Brady? His name’s Brady?” my mom asks with a smile. “Oh, I love it!”
“It’s temporary,” I tell her. “For all I know, he already has a name and a father out there somewhere.”
“Or,” my mom starts. “He could be yours. Ours.”
“Well, he’s yours for today,” I tell her. “Have fun.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be a perfect little angel,” she replies.
I take her word for it and start down the hallway to grab a quick shower and get my tired ass over to the stadium.
“He looks like you,” she calls out, stopping me in my tracks. “Smaller, but the squinty eyes and pointy chin are yours and your father’s.”
“He looks like a baby,” I turn around and argue. “And wasn’t I, like, ten pounds and gigantic when I was born?”
“Yes, but you were also two weeks late. I bet you would’ve been this size if you had come on time. But you were stubborn even then,” she replies.
“Didn’t Quinton wake us up every hour to eat the first three weeks?” my dad interjects.
“Yes, I believe so. My milk didn’t come in fast enough, so we had to use bottles,” she answers.
“TMI,” I mutter, slapping both of my palms over my ears.
Without a doubt, Sunday afternoon I played one of the worst games of my life against the Atlanta Lions.
My reflexes were so slow that I got sacked five fucking times. I only completed twelve out of twenty-seven passes with zero touchdowns through the air. It was a brutal game.
Thankfully, our defense was on fire, scoring on two takeaways from Atlanta, and then Roxy came through for us with three field goals, including a game-winning one. My team picked up the slack and seriously saved my ass today.
I feel like a zombie by the time my parents hand Brady back to me outside the stadium. They said they were sorry, but they can’t stay longer. Both have work and appointments they can’t miss back home up in Roanoke, yadda, yadda, yadda.
To make the day worse, as I’m driving us home in my Land Cruiser with Brady fastened in his car seat in the back, the foulest odor known to man begins to fill the car. I’m gagging before I get all the windows rolled down. And then I’m forced to pull over in a shopping center when I start dry heaving from my close proximity to what is obviously toxic waste.
Jesus, if they could bottle up this smell, it could be used as a deadly weapon.
Last night Roxy handled the one shitty diaper Brady had while we were putting together his bed, but I can’t call her tonight since she and Kohen are having dinner with her dad and her friend Paxton, who are here from out of town to celebrate her first re
al game. I’m fifteen minutes away from my house, and there’s no way I can drive any further without throwing up.
Not knowing what else to do, I glance around the shopping center, looking for a place to get down to business. That’s when I spot the purple sign with the word “Babies” in it.
Fuck yes.
With my head sticking out the driver side window like a dog, I steer the car toward the beacon of light that will hopefully be an answer to my prayers.
I pull the front collar of my t-shirt up over my nose and mouth before I throw Brady’s bag over my shoulder and then extract the stink-miester’s seat from the back to carry him inside.
“Hi, welcome to Babies & Company. Is there anything I can help you with today?” a young, bubbly sales associate in a purple shirt asks as soon as I walk through the door. She’s cute with long brown hair and a curvy body, eyeing me up and down like she wants to climb me. And any other day I would be throwing out cheesy lines, but I’m not up for playing games today. I’m not sure if it’s the god-awful smell or the fact that I didn’t sleep any last night because of the possible result of a one-night stand, but right now I don’t think I’d even get a half-stiffy if this woman was talking to me with her mouth full of my cock.
“Hey, how’s it going? Do you have, like, one of those table things to change him on?” I ask, hefting up the car seat.
“Well, sure, right this way,” she says, beckoning me with a hand before she turns around and heads toward the back of the store. “You look familiar,” she tells me over her shoulder. “Where have I seen you before?”
“Ah, maybe on the football field?” I offer, trying to keep up with her speed walking when all I want to do is pass out in my bed.
“Right! You play for the Wildcats, don’t you!” she exclaims in recognition. While some women are familiar with the various positions, usually I’m just “that football player” to most.