Baby Batter: A Baby For The Billionaire Single Dad Romance

by Alexis Angel

  The barbecue did nothing to change how I feel. During this trip to the cabin, thinking about her only brings up positive feelings—feelings like optimism, and excitement, and…

  Happiness.

  There’s no other way to describe it. I just don’t know if I’m thinking clearly. Feeling this away about anyone is new to me.

  I’m fucking clueless about all of it.

  I take my wine can to the faded brown leather armchair. The chair and the whole living area usually sees no use from me.

  I sink into the worn leather seat and sip from the can. I stay there, sipping until it’s inky-black nighttime outside and what’s left of the wine is room temperature. I stand up to turn on more lights and get another drink.

  On my way to the fridge, I see the same stray cat through the window. Fuck, I’m not figuring out anything tonight. I need a couple more days.

  I take out a pint glass and grab one of the stouts from the fridge.

  If Emily wants to find me, she knows where I am. Clarissa has instructions to fill Emily in on my little retreat if she asks. I don’t expect to see her here, but I do want to wipe the barbecue slate clean and, if Emily’s still into it, give the whole thing another chance.

  I methodically pour the double-chocolate stout and give the window cat a slight nod. I still need to sleep on the Emily situation to be sure that I’m sure about it, and to think about the other issues…like my father.

  I don’t have the internet here, but I do have downloads of the latest financial statements from my businesses. I’m thrilled to walk over to the rolltop desk and turn on the Oxford desk lamp, which bathes the cabin in a light that’s soothing and classy as fuck.

  I always bring the latest statements with me, just in case. This might be the first time I’m really looking at them here, though. I fire up my laptop and open the folder, checking out the first file and looking immediately at the revenues.

  I look at revenues, costs, and profits, looking over each line item again and again. I take big quaffs of beer, drinking it much faster than the wine. I keep checking everything, making sure I’m reading it right.

  I open up some past statements, look them over, and look over some even older statements I still have. I’m glad I have all this, because I’m seeing patterns now that weren’t that obvious before. Good patterns.

  Things are climbing steadily, as they should be, and even more steeply than I realized. There’s no reason to worry about my place in the family business, at least not financially. I just need to keep doing what I’m doing and putting more away in high-yield accounts for safety.

  I turn off the lamp. I need a couple more days to be certain, but the numbers don’t lie.

  Staying with Emily looks like the right decision.

  Emily

  I open my eyes. The sun’s not usually this bright in here…

  Wait, am I waking up from a nap? I’m on the couch, and I’m under a blanket—something’s not normal.

  I spot my phone a few inches away. It’s unplugged for some reason. I reach over to grab it…and oh, hell fucking no.

  “Arghgth!”

  I don’t know what language I’m yelling, but a sudden bolt of pain across my forehead is making me speak in tongues. I stop moving, and that helps a tiny amount. At least it’s enough to keep me from yelling again.

  I take a couple minutes to stare at the ceiling. The pain subsides from indescribable torture to a brutal headache. I can move my neck now, enough to look at the empty room without making it worse.

  The sunlight is intense. It must be early afternoon at the latest. Mysteriously, there are medicine bottles on the coffee table.

  Do I have a fever or something?

  I look back up at the ceiling. I don’t think I have the flu, just an earthshaking headache that’s also making me nauseous.

  My mouth is like a fucking desert. And when I move my tongue around, I taste…what is that?

  Whiskey.

  It’s all starting to come together, piece by fragmented piece. But who was I out with? Why was I drinking whiskey?

  I need to brush my teeth. I also smell like whiskey, and…is that barbecue sauce? Oh, shit. Right, that’s where I was.

  Why the hell don’t I remember anything? My phone may hold some answers.

  I lay a small couch cushion on my forehead. It doesn’t cure my headache, but it helps. I feel like I can check my phone without throwing up.

  I grab it and switch the screen on. Success!

  But just looking at my phone’s screen for a split second causes a spike in headache pain. Fuck.

  I shut my eyes, and a memory from last night comes roaring back…I was drinking whiskey, and I did a shot with…who the fuck was it?

  I keep my eyes closed for a few minutes to dial back the intensity of my headache. I remember getting ready for the barbecue, taking a taxi, fucking in the bathroom—mmm, that was nice…

  …and then I hung out and did a shot with Kirk’s ex-girlfriend.

  That’s the last thing I remember. What I don’t remember is why she was there, or why I was with her and not Kirk.

  What’s her name again?

  I open my eyes, still gripping my phone. I try to check the time, but when I turn on the screen, all I see is a text notification.

  Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  Jogger, you’re the last damn name I want to see right now. And that message? Really? WTF, dude, I barely know you. All we did was talk for like ninety seconds.

  “No more giving guys my number while I’m out for a run.” At least, that’s what I try to say quietly to myself. It ends up sounding something like “noogjmklsdfkoutjskad run.”

  But fuck. Fucking Jogger. This is not my first message from him since that run I barely remember, but I can shut down this bullshit real fast by blocking his number and deleting him from my contacts.

  I close my eyes again. This headache’s relentless, but I really want to remember more about WineBar’s barbecue. I start drifting back toward sleep.

  Miranda! That’s it.

  The memory of Kirk’s ex’s name jolts me back awake. I was drinking with her, which is already weird enough. I’m also still holding my phone a foot above my face. I’m glad I didn’t fall asleep like that.

  It’s totally the worst when you fall asleep and drop your phone on your face. Am I right?

  I turn the screen on again. My list of contacts is on the screen from earlier. Miranda’s name is right there, underneath where Jogger used to be.

  I sit up; my headache’s almost completely gone.

  Do you know that feeling, early on during a hangover, when you still feel sort of drunk and a little more courageous than usual? I don’t know if everyone experiences that, but at this moment, I have no qualms about hitting the fuck out of the button to dial Miranda’s number.

  Miranda’s phone starts ringing…I hope I’m able to talk now.

  “Hey, Emily!” Miranda picks up after two rings, answering like I’m her best friend. Forget losing a night, I feel like I have amnesia with months or years just fucking gone.

  “Uh, hey. So…some barbecue last night, huh?”

  “Oh, for realsies!”

  Is she for realsies going to talk like that? I think my headache’s coming back.

  “You can say that again,” I mumble. I reach for the aspirin bottle on the coffee table, hoping Miranda spills some details without me having to press.

  “How much do you even remember, Emily?”

  Fuck, I must’ve been noticeably drunk. Miranda’s also kind of laughing as she speaks, which means something embarrassing happened. Now I need to rely on her to brief me on the godawful truth that my brain can’t recall.

  “The last thing I remember was taking that shot with you, Miranda. If you could fill me in, that would be lovely.”

  “Okay, where do I begin? Well, first of all, I had to bring you back to your place.”

  “You took me home?”

  “I had to
. Kirk wasn’t going to at that point.”

  I realize that my hand is frozen in midair, reaching for the aspirin. The aspirin that Miranda apparently left there. I let my hand drop down to the couch.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Oh, Emily. You really don’t remember, do you?

  “I already said I don’t. Please, just tell me what happened.”

  “So, okay, we were drinking, you remember that. Then, hmm, do you want the highlights?”

  “I…guess?”

  But I’m starting to think, No, maybe I really fucking don’t.

  “So, there was the keg stand—that looked fun—and you kissed Kirk’s cousin before coming onto Kirk hardcore in front of everyone. You also showed him your tits, also in front of everyone. Then I think you disappeared for a while, but you came back to put your panties on the grill. Do you remember why you did that? I’m curious.”

  “No.” I feel numb. Like my entire body feels displaced at the moment. I can’t process.

  But as much as I want to deny this is real and then wake up and realize this is all just a nightmare, I know that it’s very fucking real—my new, horrible reality.

  “Were WineB…Kirk’s parents there? Did they see any of it?”

  “Oh, yeah, a lot of his family saw the whole thing. In fact, you asked Kirk’s dad about his dick size!”

  What?

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I want to hurl my phone across the room and watch it break into a hundred pieces against the wall. Instead, I just hang the fuck up on Miranda and squeeze the phone uselessly in my hand.

  I sit frozen on my couch, motionless and stunned. I stay there, frozen in place, for what could be a few minutes or maybe longer.

  Months? Years? Fucking decades? I’m not keeping track of time anymore; I’m just thinking about the damage, the devastation, my own embarrassment, and Kirk’s embarrassment in front of his family.

  Eventually, I look at my phone again. Nothing new from Kirk, or anyone.

  Suddenly, I feel caged in. I can’t stay like this any longer. I send a text to Kirk, just asking how he’s doing today.

  I wait a few minutes and send another, asking if everything’s okay.

  I start pacing. Holy shit. I can’t stay like this, wondering and waiting.

  I need to talk to Kirk. I call his number, and I immediately get a voicemail message.

  No ringing, no resolution.

  Nothing.

  I don’t know what Kirk’s thinking, or how ruined everything is, but I’m really fucking scared that I’ve fucked up royally. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  Kirk

  It’s a peaceful, quiet night on Van Ness. Apart from our taxi, almost no other cars are heading south.

  Emily is out cold in the middle seat, squeezed between my sister and me. I don’t know why they couldn’t send us an SUV, or at least a bigger sedan.

  “It’s warm out tonight.”

  Clarissa’s pretending that she doesn’t notice Emily’s head resting serenely on her shoulder. On my side, Em’s arm is draped limply across my chest and stomach. Emily stirs and mumbles something, but her head stays where it is.

  “I know.”

  “Sorry, I’m just trying to talk about something, anything. I don’t know.”

  “No, I mean I know it’s been a complete fucking fiasco. You don’t have to pretend that everything’s normal.”

  Clarissa shrugs politely. This causes Emily to reflexively move her head over to my shoulder. It still feels nice, even with tonight’s insanity. I’m also relieved for Clarissa.

  “She’s, um, I guess, she got a little drunk.” My sister’s reaching for a way to be tactful.

  “A little?”

  “Maybe more than a little. Is this, I don’t know, normal for her? Is she okay?”

  No, this isn’t normal for Emily.But, is it?

  I don’t want to jump to conclusions. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen Emily drink. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “She’s just nervous, I think. She overdid it.”

  I can tell Clarissa’s thinking about our poor dad being front and center for some of the worst of tonight’s drama. There’s a trace of nervous laughter on her lips.

  This isn’t the typical shit our family deals with.

  “Dad…” Clarissa can’t finish her thought.

  Thinking about the situation, she finally surrenders to laughter. I let myself laugh too. I mean, I fucking have to after that shit show.

  I doubt my father’s laughing right now. The scene of him pulling me into the hallway, giving me his unsmiling lecture about Emily, about his severe disapproval of her, about potentially cutting me out of the family business if I continue things with her—I keep replaying it in my head.

  There is one part I’m proud of: telling my father that this was my decision and he has no say in my personal life.

  “It’s Miranda.” There, that’s enough of an explanation.

  Clarissa’s still smiling as we turn onto Emily’s block. I can see she’s exhausted.

  “What does Miranda have to do with anything?”

  “It’s a combination of things, but if it weren’t for Miranda, we wouldn’t be dealing with all this shit right now. We wouldn’t be getting ready to carry a passed-out Emily into her apartment. It’s Miranda’s influence, and I don’t even think she’s in control of it.”

  Clarissa thinks about it and nods. My sister knows Miranda well enough for this to make sense.

  The driver pulls the little compact taxi to the curb in front of Emily’s building. I immediately hand him enough cash to cover the fare, along with a nearly hundred-percent tip.

  I almost never do shit like this, but right now, it seems like I could use some good karma.

  I rub Em’s upper arm and tap her on her shoulder.

  “Em, wake up. You’re home. You just need to get upstairs.”

  Em stirs again and mumbles something in her sleep. I better let her rest this one off.

  “Go,” I instruct Clarissa, motioning for her to get out the other side. She doesn’t question it, and I quickly get Em out of the taxi, carrying her toward the building.

  Clarissa walks in front of us to keep the path clear, open doors, and operate the elevator. I carry Emily like she’s my bride, allowing myself one more little laugh when I carry her over the threshold of her apartment.

  This night’s just one crazy scenario after another.

  I lay Emily down carefully on her couch, making damn sure that she’s on her side and not her back. I go to take off Emily’s shoes, but I remember that they’re still in my backyard.

  “She’ll just sleep on the couch, I guess?” Clarissa doesn’t know what to say. She wants to be helpful, but she also wants for this night to be over so she can go home.

  “Probably. I’ve got it taken care of. If you want to take an Uber or Lyft or whatever home, you can use my credit card.”

  “Oh, no, that’s too expensive. I’ll just wait for you.”

  I brush a few stray hairs off Emily’s forehead. She’s stirring again, but she seems more comfortable now.

  “Okay. I just need to get Em a glass of water for when she wakes up, and some sodium bicarb and aspirin tablets if she has them…and maybe something for her to throw up into, then we can go.”

  “I’ll go check the medicine cabinet.” Even though she’s never been to this apartment, Clarissa quickly deduces where the bathroom is and wastes no time getting there.

  I give Emily one more look. She has a rough day in front of her tomorrow, but she already appears to be recovering.

  Looking at Em’s sleeping face, all I feel is warmth and tenderness.

  I’m still a little frazzled, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’tdisappointed about the way tonight ended up, but it’s something we can work through, something which could ultimately bring us closer together.

  I turn around whe
n I hear Clarissa enter the living room. She’s carrying a glass of water and two small pill bottles.

  “No effervescent tabs, but I did get some aspirin and some ibuprofen.”

  I’m about to help her bring everything to the coffee table when I notice Emily’s phone buzz. She must have left it here; it’s still plugged in and everything.

  I grab it as quickly as I can to move it out of the way, trying not to look at the new text message on the screen…but I can’t avoid seeing it.

  I see the contact name Jogger. Obviously, some dickhead who met her while jogging.

  But that’s not the worst part. Oh no, it gets worse. The message itself is so fucking short that I can’t look away from the phone fast enough to ignore it:

  Are you up? Wanna fuck?

  I don’t have a good track record when it comes to accidentally seeing messages on Emily’s phone. For Clarissa’s sake, I act like I didn’t just see that ridiculous text that has me ready to blow a fucking gasket, and I put the phone down on an arm of the couch, trying to play it cool.

  But who the fuck is this asshole? Obviously, he’s fucking Emily—which makes me want to bash my fist through a wall—but what kind of shit is that message anyway?

  “Okay, ready?” Clarissa put the water and bottles down on the table already while I’m still looking at Emily’s phone and fuming.

  Should I be fuming? I should definitely be fucking fuming…right?

  “Okay, let’s get going.”

  I take a second to check on Emily one more time. She’s still sleeping on her side and still looks like she’s on the mend—but now I’m feeling nauseous.

  I try to appear calm and collected. Clarissa’s had enough stress tonight. We leave the apartment and wander our way out of the building, tired and silent.

  That text is the frosting on tonight’s shitty cake of absurdity, but if I’m letting everything else go, I can let that go too.

  Except that I can’t.

  What if I’ve got this all wrong? Have I made this into more than it really is?

  I mean, technically, I guess Emily’s still single. I know she’s not that into getting serious, even if it seems that way sometimes. But still, I thought—well, it doesn’t fucking matter what I thought, apparently.