Make Me a Mommy: A Mother's Day Secret Baby Romance

by Liz K. Lorde

  But now, it’s only in the technical sense—in the same way that my friends who used their mouths on their boyfriends and employed God’s Little Loophole were so-called virgins.

  Before our little romp in the bathtub, Jack was sweet to me. Maybe a little naively, I thought we shared something beautiful and magical together.

  Now, I know the truth. It’s exactly like my mother warned me, really.

  He gave me my first orgasm (and my second…and my third…) and little ol’ me? I gave him exactly what he wanted.

  Men can only love purity, and now that I’m not pure anymore, Jack can barely even look at me.

  Clothes. I need clothes.

  But there’s the first problem: right now, clothes are a luxury that I don’t exactly have.

  Last night, my body felt divine. Holy, even.

  It felt like something beautiful had blossomed between my legs and had stayed there. A little garden inside me, just begging to be sowed further.

  But now, it feels like that little garden has withered, died, and rotted completely. No wonder Jack doesn’t want to look at me. I don’t even want to look at myself.

  So. Clothes.

  I race upstairs, fighting back tears. But I was never much of a fighter, and the tears come anyway. My sinuses burn. One hot, salty pearl after another boils up over my thick lower eyelashes. They stream all the way down my cheeks.

  Stupid fucking crybaby. I have no reason to feel so sorry for myself.

  I was warned. Mommy told me what men were like, and I didn’t listen. I acted like a slut, and now I’m paying the price.

  Buck trots along beside me, whimpering and nosing at my knee. I know he can tell that I’m upset. But for once, this is a problem that petting a cute, shaggy dog isn’t going to fix.

  I tear through Jack’s wardrobe, finding the smallest things I can. They still dwarf me with ease, but they’ll have to do.

  A navy t-shirt with a pocket that brushes softly over my nipples when I put it on. It only serves to remind me of Jack’s gorgeous, terrible touch.

  Pants, camouflage. I have to roll up the cuffs until they hang around my ankles like fat sausages. I take the waist in with one of Jack’s massive leather belts and tuck the t-shirt beneath it once I’ve pulled it tight. It reminds me of Jack’s big, warm hands encircling my waist.

  A flannel. I tie it at the waist over the belt.

  It smells like Jack, which I both love and resent. But it’s not like it matters—Jack’s clothes are the only option I have.

  Socks made of thick gray wool. I put on a couple pairs, which helps stuff the pair of Jack’s boots I find at the bottom of his closet. It still doesn’t help much. Even when they’re laced completely, they’re way too big.

  Jack’s feet are just as big as every other part of him, and my own feet have always been fashionably dainty and small. I clomp around in the boots noisily as I search for a coat.

  I find one in the downstairs closet, along with a furry Jack-sized ear-flap hat. Jack’s gloves make my hands look like they belong to a tiny porcelain doll. A thick wool scarf wrapped all the way around my neck several times tops off the look.

  I get a glimpse of myself in the sooty mirror next to the door and find myself laughing through my tears. I look like a little girl playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothing. But my father only owns neutral-colored suits and high-end sportswear. Occasional, he’ll put on a hokey Hawaiian shirt for when he needs his constituents to laugh at him a little.

  Jack doesn’t dress like the men I’ve known in my life.

  Jack dresses for practicality. Warmth. Comfort.

  There’s nothing in his wardrobe that’s self-conscious or concerned with how others might view him.

  Jack may be wild, but his style is simple. Just like his overgrown beard.

  I clomp into the kitchen and locate supplies. A thermos full of water. If it can keep the heat in, surely it can keep the cold out.

  A loaf of bread—when I raise it to my nose, it has the sour, yeasty smell of sourdough, though I know that Jack didn’t get it in any artisan bakery. He probably made it himself.

  A bag of dark red jerky that I know must be deer. The buck he just hauled back will likely meet the same fate.

  I stuff all my provisions in the only bag that I can find: a rough potato sack that I have to shake the last few spuds out of. I didn’t even know they still sold things like this…but what do I know? I’m just a vapid, innocent idiot who’s never even been shopping at a supermarket for herself.

  No wonder I was taken advantage of so easily. Jack looks like he’s lived off the land self-sufficiently for the better part of his life. By comparison, I’ve barely lived.

  I might be ruined. I might be a slut for liking the things Jack did to me last night.

  But I’m done being too innocent to function.

  My new life? It starts now.

  I just have to face the blizzard first.

  I catch a final glimpse of Jack out the kitchen window before I leave. He’s out behind the cabin, shirtless as the snow flurries around him, chopping wood.

  Steam rises up off his hot, chiseled biceps as snowflakes fall and melt on his skin. Every time he brings the ax down to split another log, that sacred garden between my legs twitches again with life.

  I stamp it out before it can trick me into making such a stupid mistake again.

  Out the door, I grab one final thing on a whim: a Leica camera, the old kind, with a big, glistening flash bulb attached. I don’t know why I do it. I’ve only taken what I’ve needed from Jack’s cabin so far, and it’s never been like me to steal.

  Stealing is bad, after all. If Jack’s hot, slick tongue slipping between the lips of my pussy weighs heavy on my conscience, imagine how stealing must feel.

  Maybe I want to be able to capture the exciting moments of my new life, wherever it takes me.

  Maybe I just want something of Jack’s. Something solid and useless to remember him by.

  Or maybe, I’m just a dumb little rich girl turned kleptomaniac now that I don’t have anything to call my own anymore.

  It doesn’t matter. Not really.

  I’m leaving. Leaving Jack, leaving this cabin, and leaving my old life behind for good.

  As I begin to trudge out through the thigh-deep snow while the wind whistles around me, I can finally feel good about one thing.

  Jack is safe now.

  From Adam, from my family, and from whatever ill might befall me for learning what I’ve learned about them. For trying to run.

  No—for succeeding to run. Thanks to Jack, I’ll be harder to track than ever now.

  I owe him my life, and as a result, my thanks.

  I just wish the best thank you I could give him wasn’t leaving without a word.

  Buck stands at the door, whimpering softly. I can tell from his little doggy whine that wherever I’m going, he wants to come along.

  He probably knows what an idiot I am and wants to keep me safe.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I say softly, pushing him back with the toe of Jack’s oversized boot. “I have to do this on my own.”

  I can hear him scratching at the door after I close it. I hope he can forgive me.

  I hope Jack can, too.

  For the first time in my life, I’m finally faced with reality.

  You can’t always get what you want.

  Jack

  Chop-chop, don’t stop.

  It’s one of those simple sayings. One I picked up when I was a military man instead of a mountain man. The sayings from those days are simple, but they often involve complex concepts.

  Concepts that have to apply to a lot of different situations. Concepts that almost always mean life or death.

  This saying, though—chop chop, don’t stop—it’s a little less life or death and a lot less complicated.

  It’s a mantra I repeat to get myself in the task and stay there.

  Chop-chop, don’t stop.

  Because if I stop, I’m gon
na start thinking about her. Thinking about her and her lithe, naked body. Her gorgeous blue eyes looking up at me in fear when she realizes what I want to do to that body. Her lips parted in a scream so wide I can fit my cock in it.

  So. Chop-chop, don’t stop.

  I swing the tool down with all my might, the blade piercing through the thick block of lumber. The crack of the ax resounds across this patch of woods. Hearty winter birds flutter away from the noise.

  I repeat my mantra, out loud, with a twist:

  “Chop-chop, and don’t you even think about stopping.”

  I’ve already gotten a late start, and the mantra isn’t helping my output. Neither are these thoughts about Avery. The meager pile of firewood sitting in the snow looks pathetic.

  So I swing the ax harder, and the cuts I make keep getting deeper. I take all my sexual frustrations out on every fucking log I set up for myself. I split each of them cleanly in two.

  In the same fucking way I know my big, hard cock would split sweet little Avery in two. In the exact same fucking way.

  “Don’t stop.”

  This is my task, and I can’t stop.

  I can’t rely on anyone but myself out here, and fumbling can lead to a wasted day. I wouldn’t have lasted out here as long as I have without understanding a few things, and one of those things is that I cannot afford to waste a day.

  Can’t afford to waste a day being lazy.

  Can’t afford to waste a day anguishing over her.

  I grab another frigid, frosty log with both hands. I haul it off the ground and throw it at the chopping block with a mighty grunt.

  The impact sends another loud shot of sound through the trees. The birds brave enough to stick around this long take this as a sign to scatter, maybe realizing that migrating south for the winter isn’t such a bad fucking idea after all.

  The frustrating log doesn’t stay in place, because that would make things too simple. Instead, the stupid piece of timber slides off the block and falls silently to the snowy ground.

  Whether I can afford it or not, this might as well be a wasted day.

  Any day is fucking wasted if I’m not between Avery’s pale thighs, pumping her full of my hot seed and showing her exactly what a real man feels like.

  I’ve wasted every fucking day of my goddamn life.

  Unlike the urbanites and mansion dwellers who skim through this area in their limos and their SUVs, in my heart of hearts I know this area isn’t merely the woods.

  It’s the forest, the wilderness, and it’s detached from civilization’s comforts and protections. That’s why I’m truly on my own out here.

  That, and because when faced with another human being—especially one as innocent and pure as Avery—I obviously can’t contain the fucking monster in my chest.

  Or, for that matter, the one in my Levis.

  “Chop-chop, don’t stop.”

  That’s better.

  But there’s nothing left chop—I’ve chopped it all.

  I swing the ax around with one hand and slice the blade right into the chopping block. It rests there firmly, with the handle sticking out at a perfect angle.

  That’s somewhat satisfying, even though it’s yielding no more firewood.

  The snow surrounding the small pile of wood is melting. It’s already well into the afternoon, and the sun’s at its peak. But winter days are short here, and pretty soon that sun will be sinking over the horizon, out of sight for the evening.

  I look in the direction of my cabin. Built it myself. With just this axe and my own two fucking hands.

  As far from humanity as I could get.

  After seeing things that no human should see, I’ve tried to run far away from being human without looking back.

  It was working, for a while. Denial’s easy when you’re by yourself. Nothing to remind you except memories you could shrug off as false recollections.

  Coming face to face with certain things, certain people, there are parts of myself that are getting very hard to deny being there. Though I try, denial has a limited shelf life and in one way or another, reality creeps in.

  Either that, or it crashes in, tumbling down the mountainside clad in a wedding gown.

  I’m wasting time and energy. It’s like I’m trying to turn myself into the Tin Man, a wood chopping automaton with no heart. I wish I could get lost in monotony. To rid myself of emotions, escape from the shadows hounding me at round the clock.

  I throw the last few pieces of lumber on top of a cache that’s probably enough to last me through next season. If you take a look at it, you’d think I’m building a fortress—or maybe a wall—from this huge pile.

  I couldn’t care less, though, since I don’t feel a drop of satisfaction.

  How arrogant am I to think I could spend the rest of my life here on my own?

  I mean, I could have, but not anymore.

  Not since I met Avery.

  I know it’s more than just the isolation—this is the first time a woman, or anyone, has made me feel this way.

  People crave the presence of another person, no matter how much you like to keep to yourself. I could have been okay for another few years, or decades, out here in the wilderness. But I wouldn’t be in denial; I know that healing—becoming whole again—would be out of the fucking question.

  I won’t say I’m healing now, but Avery’s not just inspiring lust in me. She’s inspiring something in me that I wrote off long ago. Something real, something human.

  I’d be a fool to pretend it’s not there and just let it go.

  If I don’t acknowledge the first human connection I’ve felt in years, I’d probably never forgive myself. If I’m worried about wasted days, I could see myself not even bothering with the basics like food and warmth. I’d just sit in the cabin all day, a husk of what I could’ve been.

  Yeah, that’s pretty much what I am now. But maybe, I don’t have to be anymore.

  Maybe, all I need to do is stop hiding, which would mean telling Avery everything.

  Everything.

  I didn’t think anything could scare me at this point, but everything does. The word, that is, because everything includes the whole story.

  A story that still runs through my head most days, and most nights—whether I remember my dreams or not.

  It’s a story I cannot run away from, because I’m carrying it inside me and I keep it well-protected.

  And it threatens to consume and control me like the toxic, alien thing it is. This could be my chance to stop protecting it, to take away its power. If I’d take that chance. If I trust her enough.

  If I tell Avery anything, then I need to tell her everything.

  When you carry something heavy around for days, like a tactical backpack stuffed with gear, you eventually start getting used to it, even forgetting that it’s there. But then, inevitably, out of nowhere, you’ll suddenly start feeling every ounce of it weighing you down, and you realize you’ve been bearing that weight the entire time.

  That’s what I feel right now: every bit of what’s weighing me down. I need to unpack it.

  In my cabin, less than a click away, is the person I want to help me start unpacking.

  I leave the ax where it is in the chopping block, and the wasteful woodpile where it is in the snow. I start back to the cabin in a brisk jog.

  Chop-chop, don’t stop, Avery’s there now and you’ve got no more time to waste.

  I start running faster when the cabin comes into sight, my boots kicking up snow and slush from the ground.

  This feels like an emergency, something I can’t let wait another second or it’ll vanish. Avery’s there, right now, and I need to tell her everything.

  I’m not scared of that word anymore. It’s starting to feel like an itch you long to scratch. The faster I reach her, the sooner I’ll feel relief.

  What do I tell her first? That I fucking want her, of course. But how do I put that into words?

  Once I see her, it’ll be clear.
The words will come to me, all of them.

  I stop at the cabin door, some hesitation coming back.

  Honestly, I don’t know how Avery will react. It’s a lot for anybody, especially after what she’s been through.

  I harden my resolve and decide I’ll start by telling her how I feel, even if I’m not sure myself, then figure it out from there.

  I open the door gently and walk inside. I damn near trip over Buck as I do it—damn dog is curled up on the doormat, looking upset about something.

  It looks like the cabin is empty.

  “Avery,” I call out, although I know it’s in vain.

  I look quickly around the cabin, but Avery is gone for sure.

  I look at my dog, and my dog looks back up at me with the exact same expression.

  Well, fuck.

  Avery

  It was a dumb idea, and I feel even dumber now for following through with it. I’ve seen Jack outside in this blizzard, and he looked like he was doing okay. I’ve seen him outside in this weather without even putting a coat on!

  Some part of me must have imagined that I could face this cold just as easily. That maybe I’d get out into it and the storm would calm down, leaving me trudging along with ease until I was out of the proverbial woods if not the actual woods.

  It turns out that the blizzard’s just getting started, and I’ve never been so deep in any type of woods in my life.

  The flurries aren’t constant, but when they come it’s like a blinding, impenetrable white wall. The flakes are big and fluffy, falling slowly but accumulating quickly. The snow’s almost up past my legs, and every step is a giant trudge.

  The melted bits from the storm’s little intermission earlier evolved into a layer of dirty slush, which has since frozen into an unpleasant mire of dirt and ice—all mixed in with the embankments of snow surrounding me.

  The current flurry, as intense as it is, is starting to exhaust itself. I feel like I’m trapped in a giant snow globe. Even when things seem like they’re calming down, the next volley of snowflakes could blanket the world at any time.

  As the flurry dies down to a few, sparse flakes, I take in my surroundings. There’s nothing but a sea of snow and snow-covered trees in every direction.