Say Yes (Something More)

by Tara West

  Robbie? Karri’s drug-pushing ex-boyfriend! What the hell is he doing here?

  I jump from Andrés’s lap and push my way through the crowd. Andrés is calling me, and I feel bad leaving him with a hard-on, but I don’t dare stop. As I finally make it outside, practically tumbling onto the sidewalk, the light turns green and the truck barrels through the intersection, leaving behind a cloud of fumes. Even through the darkness and smoke, I can clearly make out Karri’s pink hair in the passenger window.

  Holy fuck!

  * * *

  I’ve made up my mind I hate hospitals. After my dad’s heart attack and demise, and now this, I never want to see another polished tile or white, stucco wall again. Although we’ve been having an unusually warm fall, I shiver beneath my light jacket while I sit alone in the waiting room.

  Only a hospital would run an A/C full blast in November.

  After watching Karri throw her life down the toilet again, I went back and told Andrés I was no longer in the mood to eat. He offered to go after Karri, but I didn’t want him getting into it with her boyfriend. Besides, even if we got Andrés’s truck out of the parking garage, Karri would be long gone. So I trudged back to the hospital, not looking forward to telling Mrs. Peterson Karri ran off with a drug dealer.

  But Mrs. Peterson isn’t here. Nobody is here, and I’m wishing I would have stayed at the bar with Andrés.

  “Teen—Christina. Tyler is asking for you again.” Jackson’s large frame practically fills the entry as he props the heavy door open with his foot. Despite his size, I’ve never really thought of Jackson as a man, but more like a big baby. But this baby is a daddy now, which is still hard for me to process.

  “Where are your parents?” I ask. Even though I want so badly to see Tyler, I don’t want to get between the baby and Mr. James. I hate that the man scares me, but he does. He didn’t like me much when Jackson and I were engaged, and he most certainly doesn’t like me now.

  Jackson grins sheepishly. “They’re talking to the nutritionist.”

  “And Mrs. Peterson?” I ask.

  His boyish face hardens, and he shrugs. “How am I supposed to know?”

  I walk over to Jackson, knowing it’s now or never if I want to see Tyler. I hope Mrs. Peterson got a chance to speak with the nutritionist since she can’t afford a personal chef.

  “I need to start researching his diet,” I say as I walk through the door and underneath his arm. Being this close to Jackson, I’d forgotten how tall he is, although anyone is tall compared to me.

  I have to crane my neck to look up at him as we walk side-by-side down the narrow hallway and past the nurses’ station. That’s when I realize how mismatched the two of us are. No wonder he was so condescending to me. The guy towers over me like a giant.

  “I don’t need these.” Jackson hands me a stack of pamphlets on gluten intolerance. “Dad’s staff is already interviewing personal chefs.”

  I look down at the first flyer. It’s got a picture of a wheat stalk with a big X painted over it. Okay, so wheat is out of the question. That eliminates about everything I eat on a daily basis.

  I clutch the flyers while looking up at Jackson. “Tyler is very lucky.”

  We reach the door to the baby’s room, and Jackson grabs the handle before rolling his eyes. “Only the best for grandpa’s little tiger.”

  I hate the way Jackson says “little tiger” like the words are some venomous, foul stench. I have to turn away and take a breath of fresh air, because I realize his words are a foul stench. Jackson and I have been apart for so long, I’ve forgotten about his farty breath, but when it hits me like a vaporized Mack truck, I feel like I might lose my dinner.

  Ewwww, Jackson, go see a freaking dentist.

  I take another gulp of air and turn to him. “You sound jealous,” I say, digging a stick of gum out of my purse. This usually worked with Jackson when we were dating.

  Luckily, he takes the stick I offer him. Too bad it will only slightly mask the smell, not obliterate it. As he loudly smacks on the gum, I can still scent the methane undertone beneath the cool mint.

  “I’m not jealous.” He vehemently shakes his head.

  I know better. Jackson was always the jealous type. It’s a shame he has to be this way over his own child.

  “You shouldn’t be.” I point a finger at his chest. “He’s your son.”

  “I know that.” Jackson grimaces, acting like I’ve wounded him with a verbal spear. Is it that much of a burden being a father to this sweet little baby, especially when Jackson’s parents are the ones raising him?

  “I’m just glad he’s going to be okay,” I add, making sure I lay the guilt on thick.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Jackson says with indifference as he pushes open the door to Tyler’s room.

  I want so badly to reach up and smack him, as I’m reminded of one of the many reasons why I broke it off with this selfish ass. But I don’t get the chance to do or say anything because Tyler’s crying. I rush into the room to see a nurse trying to soothe him as he squirms in her arms.

  Instinctively, I reach for him.

  “Here’s mommy,” she says as she hands him to me.

  I have no idea why, but I don’t correct her as I smile down at the baby in my arms. He feels lighter than I remember. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and his paper-thin skin is as pale the white sheet draped over his body. His eyelids flutter as he swipes a hand across his twitchy nose. He cries out as he struggles with the cords attached to his arm. I hate those cords. I want to rip them to shreds and steal Tyler from this room, taking him far away from the blinking lights and needles.

  “Hey, baby,” I say as I look down at him. “It’s okay.”

  He heaves a little sigh and looks up at me. Then he flashes the most adorable, yet pitiful smile. “Teeny,” he squeals through a raspy voice.

  I will not cry. I. Will. Not. Cry.

  He sucks his thumb as he continues to stare up at me with droopy eyes. I notice his eye color has changed over the past few weeks. His blue irises now have a distinct shade of bright green circling the edges, just like Jackson’s. I’m painfully reminded that this baby is the result of two people whom I once loved stabbing me in the back. I shrug off that disheartening thought as Ty leans into me. His eyelids flutter and then close as he snuggles against me.

  “You should have been his mom,” Jackson whispers beside me.

  His admission makes my limbs turn to ice. How can he say that to me after what he’s done?

  “You shouldn’t have cheated on me,” I answer coolly.

  “I know.” Jackson’s voice is dark and brooding. It is as close to a “sorry” as I am ever going to get.

  “So, you still seeing that, uhhh, Latino dude?” Jackson cringes and takes a step back, as if he doesn’t want to know the answer.

  I turn my back on him and smile down at Tyler, who is now sleeping soundly in my arms. “His name is Andrés, and yes, I’m still seeing him.”

  “You two serious?” A familiar nasal whine slips into his voice, and he’s standing far too close. I flip my ponytail over my shoulder and scoot away, although the room is so small, I’m practically pressing against the window as I look down at the headlights whizzing by in the busy traffic below. Jackson is still too close for comfort, and I can almost imagine his hot, stinky breath singing the hairs off my neck.

  “Yes,” I say, keeping my tone harsh and foreboding. Just like Jackson’s breath. Gawd, the stench from his gum disease is filling up the small space around me. I feel like I’m choking on gas fumes as I restrict my breathing to shallow gasps. How in the heck did I date this guy for so long? No wonder I puked during sex. I’d thought it was a mental thing, but maybe my gag-ometer had been tired of working overtime.

  “Guess I missed that boat, huh?” Jackson laughs. It’s a nervous laugh, and beneath his shaky voice there is a growing desperation.

  I don’t risk turning around until he stops laughing. I know he’s just pushin
g more bad breath around our cramped space with each chuckle.

  “You didn’t miss it,” I say, features frozen as I continue to stare out the window. “You sank it.”

  There’s a long stretch of silence, and the only sound between us is the rattle through Jackson’s nose.

  Well, at least one of us gets to enjoy the luxury of breathing.

  “This guy better be good to you,” he finally says.

  Just then, Andrés emerges from the bar below. He scans the road before looking up at the hospital. I stifle a gasp. I know he can’t see through the reflective glass, but for a moment, I imagine he’s looking up at me. He stretches and then covers his mouth as he yawns. I know it’s late, and he needs his sleep. Damn. I feel bad for keeping him up so long, and yet he doesn’t complain about waiting outside the hospital for me while I take care of my former fiancé’s baby.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, and despite the stifling air around me, I can’t help but smile. “He is.”

  “Is that whom you were texting?”

  I think it’s funny the way Jackson emphasizes the word “whom” as if he’s been practicing all week to impress me with his grammar. Maybe he’s forgotten we had the same professor for English 101, and I ended up doing most of his homework.

  “It’s none of your business whom I text,” I snap. I turn and narrow my eyes. Bad breath or not, he is not going to get away with trying to control my life any longer.

  He flashes a boyish grin, the grin I once loved and now despise. When we first started dating, I thought he was the cutest, smartest boy I’d ever met. Now I know better.

  “So that ship’s really sunk, huh?” He bats his lashes. “There’s no chance I can send in some divers and resurrect it?”

  So like Jackson’s family. Hire someone else to fix their problems. Well, this is one problem he’s not going to fix. I look out the window again. Andrés is gone. He must have gone back inside the bar. I know he’s exhausted, and I’m feeling tired, too. Tyler is still sleeping in my arms, and I realize he’s probably down for the night. I kiss his little forehead and wish him sweet dreams. Then I hand him to his father.

  “Here. Hold him,” I say. “My arm’s going numb.”

  Jackson’s eyes go wide, and he takes a step back. “I don’t know—“

  But I’m not about to let Jackson evade his paternal responsibilities. I advance on him and place Ty in his arms. Jackson looks awkward holding him, and I hesitate to leave Tyler in his care. I mean, the poor kid is already sick. Do I need to torture him even more by making him inhale his dad’s breath?

  Luckily, Mrs. Peterson walks in. She’s got this frazzled look in her worn eyes. “I have no idea where Karri went.”

  I don’t know how to break it to her that her daughter ran off with a drug dealer, but I know I don’t want to do it here in front of Jackson. That’s all his family needs to wrest full custody from Karri. Not that I think Karri deserves custody of Ty, but the baby is Mrs. Peterson’s whole world. If I don’t tell Mrs. Peterson Karri left, she will probably be looking for her all night.

  I decide my only recourse is to lie. I hate lying to Mrs. Peterson, but I’ll come clean tomorrow when Jackson isn’t around. “Karri has a migraine. She’s waiting in the truck with Andrés. We’re taking her home.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Peterson looks perplexed. “She should have told me. I’ve got aspirin in my purse, although it’s not helping my migraine much.” She squints and rubs a point above her left eye.

  “She doesn’t want to see her son?” Jackson’s tone is a mixture of shock and disgust, which is ironic, considering he didn’t even want to hold his baby moments ago. He still looks awkward, sneering as he holds Tyler away from him, as if the baby is made of thorns.

  Mrs. Peterson hobbles over to Jackson, and he gladly relinquishes the baby to her. When she sits in a nearby rocking chair and cuddles him close to her heart, I know it’s finally safe to leave. I kiss him once more on his forehead before hurrying out the door. I think I hear Jackson calling my name as I race down the hall, but I don’t dare look back. Not now. Not ever.

  * * *

  Andrés

  Dallas is ahead by twelve points. I should be excited, but I’m too aggravated to care. My girlfriend is at the hospital across the street with her ex-fiancé and his kid.

  His sick kid, I tell myself. You’re being a jealous ass, Andrés.

  I know Christina loved this baby long before she knew Jackson was the father. I know I shouldn’t be jealous, especially after the way Christina has badmouthed Jackson to me.

  But I am jealous. Fucking jealous.

  It’s taking every last ounce of willpower to keep from showing Christina how much I don’t want to be here. How much I don’t want her to be here.

  I’m glad the kid is going to be okay. I don’t like to see babies suffer. I’m not that much of a pendejo.

  But after my girlfriend has spent all evening with the idiot she almost married, I think when I get her home I’ll need to remind her what it feels like to be loved by a real man. I think I’ll be reminding her all night long.

  Chapter Three

  Christina

  Andrés flashes me a teasing grin and waggles his eyebrows when we walk through the door. He strips off his sweatshirt, revealing beautifully toned abs, a thick chest, and bulging biceps. The boy is beautiful, my Spanish Adonis. Too bad I’m too tired to play tonight. I could use the release.

  Rather than follow Andrés into the bedroom, I sink my weary bones onto the couch and groan into my hands. He comes and sits beside me, gently caressing my thigh. His heady musk envelops me like a cloud. I love the way he smells, like starched denim and spice, with the slight undertone of heat from his virile, masculine body.

  I groan and lie back as he grabs both my ankles and pulls my legs up on the sofa. He rolls up my pants and rubs my calves.

  He usually massages me every day when I get home from work. As an air brush artist, I spend a lot of time squatting on the job. A lot of time. Since I started working for Andrés’s uncle’s paint and body shop, I’ve developed a strong set of arm and calf muscles.

  You’d think I’d be used to the strain by now, but I need a massage and a hot bath about every night. When I first started working at the shop, I thought I’d love working there forever. Now, I’m not so sure. The work is so much harder than I’d expected, and though I’m handling it now, I don’t think I can work such a labor-intensive job forever. It’s something Andrés and I have discussed more than once, so when the time comes for me to quit, I know he’ll understand.

  Andrés is great at knowing all my sore spots, and my sensitive spots, too. Even luckier, the bathroom in our apartment has a garden tub, big enough for two people.

  No matter how many times we make love in the tub, it never gets old. He finds new ways to excite me, to make my core swell and throb with need. As he works his way toward my aching feet, I’m thinking more and more I’d like to take a hot bath right now.

  When his skilled and teasing fingers find their way across my inner thighs and beneath the drawstring on my workout pants, I eagerly spread my legs. Okay, maybe I’m not too tired for sex.

  He wastes no time pulling off my pants and underwear. My eyelids flutter at the devilish gleam in his dark eyes as he licks his fingers. I gasp as he reaches for me, stroking my clit with his wet fingertips. I toss my head back and moan toward the ceiling.

  His touch is feather soft, so tantalizing, and so teasing. He traces the outer folds, circling and circling, until I’m swollen, wet, and aching with need.

  He leans over and ever so gently suckles my clit before stroking back and forth with his tongue.

  I reach for him, entwining my fingers in his thick hair, groaning and swearing as I try to push him against me. I need this release so badly, and I swear again as he refuses to apply more pressure.

  He pulls away and flashes a devastatingly sexy, slanted smile. “Do you want me to run your bath water, mija?”

 
; “No,” I growl, “I want you to fuck me.”

  Andrés has the nerve to laugh as he jumps off the sofa. I get a glimpse of the bulge beneath his tight denim before he pulls me toward him and plants a kiss on my mouth.

  “I don’t want to fuck you like this,” he growls against me. “I want to lather up that sweet body with soap, and then you’re going to ride me while I squeeze those pretty tits.”

  He stifles my gasp with another kiss, and then he’s stroking my clit again, before tunneling into me with his finger. My legs go weak and I fall limp against him.

  He pulls his finger out of me, sweeps me into an embrace and carries me to the bathroom.

  I came home sore and tired, but now all I am is horny. Oh, so very horny.

  * * *

  I’m starting to develop an obsession with sangria. Andrés makes the most delicious concoction with chocolate wine, fresh pineapple, strawberries, and punch.

  After days like these, when I’ve dealt with more than my limit of stress, Andrés helps me unwind with mind-blowing sex. Tonight is no exception. He’s standing beside the tub with a lighter in one hand, and a glass of sangria in the other. He’s not wearing a stitch of clothing, and I smile while admiring his lengthy erection. He sets a tall glass on the rim of the tub, then lights vanilla-scented candles and turns out the lights.

  He crawls into the tub with me and kneads my feet while I sip the sweet, chocolaty beverage. It doesn’t take long for him to knead my legs, caress my thighs, and tease my aching clit.

  I lie back and let out a soft gasp as Andrés suckles on one nipple while lathering up his hands. His soapy fingers feel like molten silk as he deftly glides across my aching clit, one agonizingly pleasurable stroke after the other. I spill some wine down my chest as I set the glass on the rim of the tub. I can’t help my clumsiness. Andrés has turned my limbs to mush as all of my energy is focused on one goal: orgasm.