by Kim Holden
I catch her in the living room and wrap my arms around her from behind. She leans back into me and welcomes the contact. "Thank you." I don't know what else to say. I don't need validation. But her reaction, humor included, put a smile on my face that I'm sure won't go away for days. Sometimes confidence is boosted when you didn't even know you needed it. Consider me boosted. And coming from her, it means even more.
"You're welcome. Now walk with me to my purse so I can get my phone."
"What do you need your phone for?"
"I need to buy Rook's album on iTunes. We're going to listen to it while we eat and I kick your arse at pool."
I leave Gem to fiddle with her phone while I make dinner. Beer and nachos are on the menu tonight. I'm not talented in the kitchen but I can whip up world class nachos: seasoned chicken I grilled earlier, mega quantities of freshly grated Monterey Jack cheese, homemade salsa, jalapenos, cilantro, and sour cream. I hold the guac since it repulses her.
Gem walks in as I'm putting the final touches on the cheesy masterpiece. "I'm starving and that looks like all my dreams and wishes served up on a platter."
I hand her a bottle of water, at her request because she's a responsible mother-to-be, and she clinks the neck together with my beer bottle. Plastic on glass makes for an unimpressive sound. She says, "Cheers," at the same time I say, "Salud," and all is right in the world. I know outside this house there are billions of people doing a billion different things, but I feel a little sorry for them at the moment. Because they're not in my shoes, in Gem's company. She makes everything better. She's like fireworks, and not the boring beginning and middle part, but the fucking finale that lights up the sky in a riot of color and sound.
"Can we eat while we play pool? I've already racked."
I grab the platter of goodness and follow her to the dining area where the pool table resides. "Whoever loses has to take off an article of clothing."
She glances down at her tank top, nipples perky as all hell, and leggings. "Can I put on a jumper before we start? And two more pairs of socks? And maybe a hat?"
"Nope. I recall some trash talking earlier, something about kicking my ass. What are you worried about, hustler?"
"I may have misrepresented my aptitude for the game," she says sheepishly.
She wildly misrepresented. Gemma is, without a doubt, the worst pool player I've ever seen. She makes me look like Tom Cruise in "The Color of Money."
Her leggings are history. And because I like to keep things even, I throw the second game, and we both start the third game in underwear and shirts.
I know it's contradictory, but every time she walks past me in her tank top and cheeky bright pink bottoms, or bends over and flashes her ass or cleavage depending on where I'm standing—and believe me, I strategically place myself to take in all the angles—she looks like the most innocent form of sin imaginable. A good girl with a bit of a naughty side.
The nachos lay in ruins on the side table—we demolished them in no time. Our album has played through once on her phone. Empty beer and water bottles are lined up keeping each other company.
I'm buzzed. Which makes the ass and cleavage show so damn hard to resist.
Gem's eyes are warm and her smile dreamy and inviting, despite the lack of alcohol.
"I forfeit. You win." Reaching behind my head, I strip my t-shirt up and over my head.
In reality, we're both winners, because her tank top joins mine on the floor.
I've backed her up against the pool table, thigh to thigh, pinning her in place. My lips greedily on her neck. My hands tangled in her hair.
She's equally eager. Her hands are gliding over my ribs down...down...
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Gemma freezes, panicked like she's been caught in the act.
"Ignore it," I whisper against the hollow of her throat. "They'll go away."
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Then comes shouting from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there, dude! The lights are on!" He knows I'm anal about things like that and would never leave the lights on if I wasn't home. "Put your clothes on and come answer the door! Girl Scout wants to meet Gemma!"
"Can they see us? He doesn't know why I'm here, right?" Gemma says with one hand attempting to cover her ample bosom and one splayed over her undies.
I sigh. Because Gus and his timing couldn't be worse. And then I laugh. Because Gem's modesty is grappling alongside fright and it's cute as hell. "There aren't any windows. They can't see us. And no, he doesn't know, he's making assumptions."
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
"I'm coming!" I yell.
"I don't need a mating play by play, dude! You copulate, we'll wait!" Gus replies loudly.
My eyes shift to Gemma, and she's trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle as she shimmies into her clothes. I can't help but laugh too. "I guess I asked for that one."
"You kinda did," she agrees.
"Gem's coming, too!" I yell and am rewarded with a halfhearted slap on the shoulder to shut me up.
Gus is laughing heartily, I can hear it in his voice. "Like I said, not necessary to share the details! But I'm proud of you for being a generous lover, dude! That's important!"
Fully clothed, I walk to the door. Scout and Gemma are both shaking their heads and blushing when I open it.
I tip my chin at Gus. "Hola, cock blocker."
Gus opens his mouth to continue the closed door banter, but Scout shuts him down. She looks mortified. "Franco, I'm so sorry. I thought Gus called to let you know we were stopping by. We can go if this isn't a good time."
"No, come on in. We were just playing pool," I lie. Because Scout is nice and I want Gemma to meet her.
Gus opens the screen door for Scout to enter and he follows her in with a whisper directed at me. "Dude, I was kidding. I didn't think love would already be in session this early. I feel like a dick, I can make up an excuse, and we can totally leave."
"It's okay. Stay. Dick," I tease. I wonder how he knew what we were in the middle of, and like he can read my mind he nods subtly to Gem...whose tank top is on backward, and whose face and hair looks guilty as hell.
Gus doesn't miss a beat in trying to smooth this over. "Scout, before I introduce you to your future bestie, I need to show you how pretty we made the Grotto."
"Gus?" Scout protests to his suggestion and gives an apologetic shrug to Gemma. "We really aren't this rude, I promise. I'm so sorry. I'm Scout, Gemma. It's nice to meet you."
Gemma shakes her hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Scout."
Gus's big arm gathers his girlfriend in and sweeps her off to the drum room. "Come on, you have to see this. We're geniuses. And hi, Gemma." I know what he's doing. He's trying to give Gemma a minute to right herself.
"Hiya, Gus."
"We'll be right back. I'm sorry," Scout apologizes again.
When they're out of sight, I whisper, "Your shirt's on backward. And your hair looks like you've just handily, and quite aerobically, dominated me."
Her hands fly to her hair.
I wink. "Why don't you run to the bathroom while they're busy in the other room? I'll get us all something to drink."
She nods, her face flooded red by embarrassment, and hurries off to the bathroom.
When everyone assembles in the living room again, it's quiet.
But not for long. Because Gemma and Scout hit it off like destiny has always intended them to be best friends. Chicks can be brutal. I have three sisters, I'm well-versed in cattiness. But these two aren't and it makes me like them even more. The laughter is instantaneous and nonstop. The insta-friendship is like Gus and me, only less crude. And way prettier.
Gus checks his cell after an hour and announces, "We'd better get going, Scout. I promised I'd help Ma with some stuff tonight."
I know he feels bad about interrupting us earlier, so I don't know if he really does n
eed to help Audrey or if it's a polite excuse to give Gem and me some alone time. He's a good guy, either way.
Scout and Gemma exchange phone numbers, friend each other on Facebook, and hug and I know I'm witnessing some powerful, female, mystical bonding for life voodoo. It's awesome.
Gus hugs me, mimicking the girls. It's exaggerated and long. He even strokes my bald head.
"Thanks for coming over," I tell him. I mean it. My blue balls don't, but I do.
"Sorry again, dude."
"No worries. The force is strong with these two." I point to our girls standing at the door talking.
He looks at them and smiles his Scout-is-everything smile, because serious contentment is what he thrives on these days. And she provides it. "It's cool, right?"
I agree. "It is."
More hugs all around and they're on their way.
Gemma is still beaming when the front door clicks shut. "She's so nice, Franco. Really and truly nice." She says it like she's beyond excited about the revelation. And knowing her and Scout like I do, I know they'll stay in touch. They're perfectly paired.
"She is. I'm glad they came over, and you two got to meet."
"Me too."
"You want anything else to eat or something to drink?"
She shakes her head sweetly. "No, thanks."
"You tired? Jet lag is a bastard."
She nods once, but the gleam in her eye negates it. "A bit. But we can sleep in tomorrow, right?"
I take her by the hand and lead her toward my bedroom. "I am your baby making man servant for the next few days. You tell me when and where to be and if clothes are required, that's all I need."
She stops at the bathroom. "I just need to use the loo, I'll be in in a sec."
"Take your time."
While she's in the bathroom, I undress. And then I light the candles Gus insisted I buy and turn off the light. Propping pillows up against the headboard, I climb in and rest back against them, covering myself to the waist with the sheet because the dude downstairs is ready to report for duty, and even though the candlelight is setting the mood and casting a glamour shots type glow, when he's this excited he looks overly aggressive.
It's quiet, too quiet, and that's when I remember the playlist I created. I'm not a sappy dude, but I like to think I'm compassionate. Even if this isn't the happily ever after scenario she always dreamed of, I want her to have good memories about the conception. And I know fucking isn't a philosophical act, but I just want her kid to be created in a moment of good. Happy, calm, loving sperm make happy, calm, loving baby—that's my plan. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I open my music app and hit play on the playlist titled My sperm are better than yours, in keeping with the positive self-talk translates in positive action, and hit play.
I'm well into song two when Gemma walks in. And my breath is taken away. Her hair is up, and she's wearing a pale pink silky nighty that barely brushes the tops of her thighs. The pale hue of the fabric against her pale skin paired with the candlelight is stunning.
"You look gorgeous, mamacita."
In true Gemma form, she pauses to curtsy and say, "Thank you," on her way to the bed. When she's sitting in bed under the covers next to me, her eyes roam the room. "You did all this for me?"
"I'm shit at romance, Gem. And I know this isn't your fairy tale ending with a wedding featuring a rugby player with beastly good looks and a personality like Edward Cullen—"
She interrupts, "You're not shit at romance. Cullen's got nothing on you except sparkles."
"Blame Gus for the candles."
"And the music? I quite like this song. They're British." She turns her head to face me for the first time and winks.
That wink. Everything stops. Goddamn, she's beautiful. And funny. And smart.
And she wants to have my child. Even if, according to the contract we signed, the child never knows who their father is, I'll know that I got to be a part of making Gemma's dream come true. That's an honor.
"I figured I'd better keep it strictly British or it would squelch the vibe for you. And God forbid conception takes place to the wrong song and jinxes your kid, and they grow up loving only American bands. That would be tragic."
I smile at her, and she rubs her lips together nervously. No witty comeback. The importance of tonight just hit her, and her eyes drop to her lap to meet it, wrestle with it. I lay my hand, palm up, on the bed between us. It's an invitation for contact and comfort.
Her hand is trembling slightly when she laces her fingers with mine. I don't know if it's adrenaline or second thoughts.
"Gem, you don't have to do this. With me," I add in a whisper. "If you're having second thoughts and want to go the medical route, I completely understand." I'm watching her profile for further signs of distress. She's staring straight ahead, her lips rubbing together furiously to stifle emotion. She's a fairly private person, I know this is hard for her, but when the first tear falls from the corner of her eye, I can't hold back. "Hey, honey, look at me."
Reluctantly, she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. Every emotion I've ever seen a human being project is flashing across her face like a movie screen. Releasing her hand, I wrap my arm around her and pull her into me. She rests her cheek against my chest under my chin and holds me in an embrace, arms tight around my waist like everything inside her is at odds.
Holding her, I stroke her hair.
I'm not going to force conversation.
I'm not going to pretend I know what's happening in her head.
I'm not going to judge.
I'm just going to hold her because sometimes touch is the only way to tell someone that you care unconditionally. It doesn't require complicated, deep explanation—it only requires effort. Effort is who I am, I can give her effort all night long.
"I'm sorry, Franco." It's muffled, the words spoken into my skin.
Kissing the back of her head, I whisper, "No need to apologize." I want to say more, but I shut it off there because she's the one who needs to talk this through if she wants to. And if she doesn't, we go to sleep.
She sniffles and raises her head to look me in the eye. Her mascara-ringed eyes are shiny with more unshed tears. "Jesus, I'm a mess. I never cry, and I've now managed it three times with you. I'm sorry. You must think I'm a lunatic."
"Nope, and no apologies for tears, remember?"
She nods and exhales deeply. It's a cleansing, tension releasing breath. "I'm scared." Her voice rings clear and resolute despite the vulnerable message.
"What are you scared of?" I prompt.
Her big blue eyes fix on mine, and I know she's about to be real with me. Soul bearing real. "Do you think sometimes dreams are better left as dreams because they still hold possibility and wonder and there's no room for failure?"
I don't hesitate, not even for a split second, because I believe it so fiercely. "No. I believe that dreams fuel life. And it's when you're chasing them that you're most alive. There's no reward in settling for the safety of status quo."
She swipes under her eyes. It smears mascara across her cheekbones instead of clearing it away. I don't tell her because I don't want her to get rid of it. Life can get messy when you're fighting like hell. I think it's a sign of the courage she's digging deep for. "What if I'm a horrid mum?"
"Impossible. Your heart's too big," I answer because it's true, all the best moms I know have huge hearts. "What else are you scared of?"
"I'll be a single parent, what if I die? My child will be left alone."
"What if you don't and you live a long happy life with them?" I counter.
"What if I can't afford to give them the life they deserve?"
"Then you'll give them what you can, and that will be enough because they'll be loved like mad and that's what really matters."
Another deep breath and I'm sensing that she just needs to give all of her fears, irrational or real, a voice. "Fear is a shitbag."
I have to laugh because the tone of voice she used tells me
she's gathering her courage and is about ready to kick fear square in the balls full force. "Agreed. It is."
Pulling back the sheets resolutely, she climbs out of bed and heads for the door.
"Where're you going?" I call after her.
"We're starting over. I'm going to wipe this mess off my face and come back, and we're going to pretend that I didn't just break down like a blithering pussy."
"Leave the mascara, it's kinda sexy," I yell because she's already in the bathroom judging by the light in the hallway.
"I look like a fucking raccoon; that is not sexy. Unless the threat of rabies turns you on," she yells back.
The water turns on and off, and I hear the towel ring mounted on the wall squeak as she dries her face and hands. Then the light flips off, and suddenly we're back to where we were when this all began. Her footsteps padding on the hardwood stop short of the doorway. "Franco, can you restart the music from the beginning? This sex soundtrack of yours is outstanding, and I couldn't fully appreciate it while I was whining."
I smile to myself, open the playlist, hit play on song one, turn it up, and reply, "It's called My sperm are better than yours," as I climb out of bed and walk to meet her in the hall.
"I knew I picked the right man for the job," she says with a grin when we come face to face. The fear is gone.
I look her up and down. The faint glow of the candles from my room highlights her. "You really do look gorgeous in that nighty, Gem, but I'd love to touch and taste what's underneath."
"In the hall?"
"For starters, yeah." Grasping the hem, I raise it up and off, dropping it on the floor next to her.
When I step into her, she stands her ground and accepts the contact. Hands on her hips, I take another step forward. She's forced to take a step back. We continue until her back is against the wall. I'm fully loaded, the length of me pressed against her belly.
Lowering my mouth to her shoulder, I press my lips and let them linger. Followed by a sweep of my tongue so soft there's only a hint of contact. When her head drops to the side to allow full access, I know she approves, and I continue toward her ear, while my hands begin to explore. Fingers wrapped, palms flush, pads of my thumbs anxiously brushing back and forth looking to connect with anything that will make her gasp. Cupping the underside of her breasts, I restrain myself and give them a gentle squeeze before my thumbs get greedy again and sweep up and over repeatedly.