The President's Secret Baby: A Second Chance Romance

by Gage Grayson

  This shit is getting me out of sorts. By the time one-thirty rolls around, which feels like some definitive halfway point, I have too much of this dumb, nervous energy to keep sitting. I get up for a coffee refill, which may not be the best idea in light of the line forming to get into the single restroom.

  Gladly channeling some energy by standing up and moving, I take the longest I may have ever taken to let the coffee fill my cup gradually from the dispenser, to choose a sweetener, to pick up the skim milk carton, look at it, to decide to go with half and half, no, whole milk, to stir it like I’m in the kitchen at fucking Del Posto or something, trying to painstakingly mingle a ragù to life without rushing it—all taking what probably amounts to not more than five or ten more minutes before I have no choice but to go back to my seat while it’s still open.

  One forty-five. I’m not used to worrying about the time, or much else for that matter. I’m back at my little table, trying to act relaxed and casual.

  Not that I give a shit what anyone here thinks. That’s mostly so I’m not an overbearingly anxious wreck when Maddie arrives.

  If she arrives? Not a thought worth fucking tormenting myself over right now.

  By two, the weirdly maddening lunch crowd starts thinning out. It’s also two, though. Time to send a quick text.

  Just one.

  Hey, which train are you on? I can send a car to pick you up.

  I regret hitting send almost immediately. If I’m worried about being overbearing, that may not be a good place to start.

  Then again, it’s not crazy to ask for some kind of update.

  Two-fifteen. I’m well into my next cup of coffee. My text was delivered but not answered.

  Maybe she’s on the subway. She must be.

  I watch the crowds outside. It’s going to be weird to see Maddie here, in the concrete wilderness, thousands of miles from the idyllic paradise I associate with her. It’ll surely be weird for her to see me here as well.

  I watch the waves of tourists ebb and flow outside. I wish she didn’t have to fight these fucking crowds.

  Two-thirty. It’s like I’m on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and I only have one lifeline left: a fucking phone call.

  I unplug my phone from the wall, look at my stupid text to Maddie one more time, and emphatically hit the button to dial her number.

  Her phone rings, meaning she’s not in the subway. It rings some more.

  And then I hear Maddie’s voice, not saying hello, but asking me to kindly leave a message.

  Fucking voicemail. I hang up. This is not as flamboyant a message as throwing lamps and shit out my window, but to me, the message is just as clear: time to give up.

  I unplug the charger from the wall and start getting ready to finally leave, when I hear the dulcet slide guitar tones of Santo and Johnny ring divinely through my phone’s speaker.

  The charger just drops from my hand to the floor, and I see a new text message on my phone screen with the name Madeline displayed above it boldly.

  Ethan

  So after all that, I probably shouldn’t fucking leave you hanging.

  It’s five years later, and I’m suddenly looking at Madeline, facing her at the end of the hallway.

  But you might be wondering what the hell that text message actually said, and if we ever got back together.

  The answer to the second question is no, we didn’t. In fact, this is the first I’m seeing her since that day in Hawaii, at the bar on the beach.

  The answer to the first question is that, from what I can remember, she said that she had a great time, then she doubled down a bit and used the word amazing to describe it, but she said as fun as it was, she didn’t want to continue, to expand past a vacation fling.

  She ended the message with the word Aloha.

  God, she looks fucking amazing right now. Even better than all my memories—and my dreams.

  Okay, I’ll admit that I remember the whole fucking message really fucking well, even though I made the decision to delete it immediately for the sake of moving on as quickly as possible.

  Did it work? What the hell do you think? Seriously, because over the course of the past half-decade, I’ve gone in and out of thinking about it and seeming to not think about it.

  But when I do think about it, it’s still more intense than I’d like. And right now, with Madeline occupying a prime space in my vision, center-fucking stage, I don’t have a choice but to really think about it—and then some.

  So after Maddie informs me of the investigation, what do I say?

  “Am I being arrested?”

  I know damn well I’m not. I think it’s a joke, even though I usually have a good handle on whether I’m joking or not. You know, like most healthy people.

  “No,” she answers, dead serious. And now she’s walking toward me. Good God.

  “That’s not even close to being in my purview,” Maddie’s voice continues, getting closer as her heels clack down the hallway. “But I suspect you know that.”

  Maddie stops ten feet away from me, her face betraying that she realizes my joke. I guess it was a joke.

  I feel myself catching on fucking fire as Maddie starts walking toward me again. My mouth is going fucking arid, and my heart is lifting off in tempo in a way it hasn’t in years. Five years, to be exact.

  I almost want to ask her to stop, that I wasn’t prepared for this, but I don’t fucking dare.

  This hallway doesn’t get too much natural light, but what little there is catches the full brilliance of that emerald hue that I’ve forced myself to forget about.

  “I figured as much,” I reply hoarsely.

  Every single person in the office besides me has taken it upon themselves to hide. I’m sure some people made a beeline for the elevator, but most everyone else is certainly huddled on the other side of their closed office doors, listening to every word of this exchange, trying to analyze every nuance in real time.

  I wonder what they thought of that last sentence and how I said it. That’s pretty fucking funny to think about, but what I’m enjoying thinking about even more right now is how Maddie made everyone run in fear with just her presence and a few simple words.

  That is really fucking sexy.

  God, she looks good.

  “I have a good deal more to explain about it, but to give you a couple important nuggets to start with, I’ve been chosen to head the investigation, and while I’m loath to take up much of your time, I’m going to need your help.”

  There’s a reason that Maddie needed to call me Mr. Barrett. There’s no way she would be heading this investigation if anybody at the SEC knew about our history, brief as it was.

  I suppose she didn’t feel it was even worth bringing up—that she feels so little about it that it wouldn’t be a conflict at all.

  There’s a lot more I’m thinking about, though. Like how five years can go by so fucking fast. Or how feelings that seem like they should’ve faded completely are now arising again in dizzyingly vivid and sharp definition.

  I look at Maddie, who’s now silent yet stoic, looking for any signs of what she’s going through. I see none—it could be everything, it could very easily be nothing.

  I can’t believe she’s here, though. Literally.

  I’ve heard that one way you can tell if you’re dreaming or not is to look at your hand. If you see the normal number of fingers, at their usual lengths, then you are in the waking world. I take a furtive glance at my outstretched left hand—it looks on the level.

  Which means she’s really fucking here, and she really looks this good.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Barrett?” Madeline’s eyes dart quickly down to my left hand, indicating that she noticed my look.

  “Oh yeah, I was just checking something. So is this gonna take long?” I’m trying not to give any outward indications about our past, or at least how I feel about it.

  “Long?” There’s a sparkle in Maddie’s eye. It sends a flicker of heat straight through my
chest, and I need to concentrate on not falling backward—as if I’m being pummeled by a swift wind.

  “I have a few minutes now. If you need longer, like a half hour, I may have some open time for an appoint—”

  Maddie lets out a judicious laugh, but it’s still enough that the old sensation of being entranced by a riveting siren song comes flooding back.

  “I apologize for laughing, Mr. Barrett.”

  “You can call me Ethan.”

  “Okay, Eth...an. This is not a matter we can settle over lunch. We’re just at the very beginning stages of this investigation. We are going to need your cooperation over the course of the next few weeks, maybe longer. You are going to have to work with me during that time.”

  “Wow. That’s going to be a big time commitment on my part. I guess I better start rearranging my schedule.”

  I get the beginnings of that helium-balloon feeling, like when Maddie first suggested she could visit New York all those years ago. Except this time, it’s weighted down by the fact this is all part of an insider fucking trading investigation.

  “I suggest you start now, Mr. Barrett. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

  Maddie’s austere expression betrays the faintest hint of a smirk.

  Brooklyn Big-O

  A Second Chance Romance

  By Gage Grayson

  Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

  Want Gage Grayson in your inbox? Get freebies, new release updates, bonus chapters, and more!

  Sign up for my newsletter!

  Ethan

  Walking west along Saint Mark’s Place, deep into the East Village, I think about how much things have changed—and how quickly.

  I remember walking down Saint Mark’s as a kid, sensing the unfamiliar atmosphere, watching and listening to fully grown adults reel down the sidewalk, having loud, senseless conversations.

  Other men and women would sit, hunched over, on stoops or on the ground, rocking back and forth. They were around my parents’ age, and it led me to think that life was mostly just about the luck of the draw, with the possibility of a new drawing coming up any time.

  Saint Mark’s is a little different now. In some ways, so am I. For one, I’m carrying a smartphone in my pocket, which vibrates loudly in the middle of the block.

  I know it’s a text from Ryan, probably a variation of the message he sends almost every time we meet at Lush Republic, but I still pull out my phone to look.

  Hurry the fuck up, it’s hopping and I need a wingman.

  It’s from Ryan, alright, but it looks like he managed to save up some money this week.

  I also just opened a tab so your presence and wallet will be even more appreciated.

  Ryan’s second text puts that notion to rest. Oh, well. My income allows me to free my friends of some of their financial constraints and enjoy our time out.

  Saint Mark’s Place has changed as much as any person I know. I look up from my phone and see that nearly everyone else on the block also has their phones out, and everyone looks well-dressed.

  This is now a street for those who got lucky in the draw.

  I’m almost at Avenue A, home to Lush Republic and about a billion other bars. Luck, and everything else, could change at any time, at any second.

  This neighborhood wasn’t always a destination for the fortunate ones, especially Alphabet City, the name for this little enclave of Avenues A through D.

  This morning, when I announced my plans to Rodrigo, owner of my favorite deli and breakfast spot, he seemed disconcerted that I was going to venture into Alphabet City.

  “Back in the seventies and eighties,” he had informed me, “we used to say that, if you went to Avenue A, you were adventurous. If you kept going east to Avenue B, then you were brave. If you went even further to Avenue C, you were crazy. Then, by the time you made it to Avenue D...”

  “You were dead,” I interrupted.

  He had nodded solemnly, not finding any of it funny.

  These days, Avenue A is far from even mildly risky. Lush Republic, formerly the Café Kiev, is adventurous for the neighborhood, though, with a menu of homemade Slavic specialties like perogies, blinis, and the best damn blintzes this side of the fucking Russian Tea Room.

  Besides that, the dimly lit, sparsely decorated neighborhood spot has cheap, strong drinks, a wide beer selection, and a bevy of downtown residents from every neighborhood south of 14th Street.

  Shit, even I walk up here, and I’m from the Financial District.

  I finally turn onto Avenue A, making the conscious decision—a decision I try to make as often as I can remember—to enjoy my luck while it lasts, because who knows what will fucking happen next.

  The bouncer is perched on his chair just inside the Lush Republic entrance as I swing the door open. He gives me a nod of recognition, but he still takes out his flashlight to check my ID.

  I’ve seen people up in arms about getting checked every damn time, but I understand. He cards everyone, no exceptions, because that’s his job.

  Ryan spots me from the other side of the young, attractive, vaguely hipster weeknight crowd. He’s sitting at the bar by himself, with his black fleece jacket and his self-styled Ivy League haircut

  Repocketing my ID, I walk straight through the crowd. Ryan waves me over as if I don’t fucking see him, as if I don’t know where to go.

  Still wearing my tailored work clothes, I plow through the crowd seamlessly, my fellow patrons moving to the side instinctively. Ryan looks relieved as I take the spot next to him at the bar; he gets self-conscious about being here alone.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to his cup.

  “This? Oh, just Jack and Coke. I asked for a Long Island Iced Tea, but the bartender told me they don’t do shit like that here.”

  I can tell from Ryan’s breath that the bartender may have given him an extra shot or two to make up for those limitations.

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to order that here, is it?”

  “No, but everyone who works here is different.”

  I recognize the bartender, a large man in his late thirties, simultaneously preparing half a dozen mixed drinks, pouring vodka and spritzing mixer into a line of cups on the bar.

  His iPod is connected to the sound system, and it’s playing something by the Monkees right now. One of their eighties reunion singles, I think.

  “Have you ever asked Charles before?” I think Ryan knows the bartender’s name, but I’m being charitable right now and not calling him out.

  “Probably.” Ryan pushes the straw aside and downs the rest of the drink. “Hey, Charles, could I get another when you get the chance?”

  Charles turns up his iPod, and I catch some of the lyrics to the current song.

  That was then. This is now…

  I swivel to face Ryan completely as he stays hunched over his empty cup.

  “Still have a tab open? Just make yourself right at home, why don’t you?”

  “You know I’m no good at this sober. Not all of us are fucking Ethan Barrett.”

  “I should hope not.” I turn back to the bar.

  “You know what I mean,” Ryan says quietly, trying to keep the conversation from reaching anyone else. “In the looks department or whatever.”

  “First of all, snap out of...this whole thing you’re doing right now. Seriously. Before it’s too late, or you just might end up by yourself here every night.”

  I look up to see Charles hovering over me across the bar, his imposing, bearded face looking just friendly enough.

  “What can I get ya?”

  I’m not sure if Charles remembers me. There are probably thousands of guys just like me in here every week, each one of them thinking they’r
e hot shit for eschewing the posh Wall Street bars for a neighborhood dive on Avenue A. Fair enough.

  “What he’s having,” I say, pointing to Ryan.

  “See, I have some good ideas,” Ryan says with a grin.

  I want to tell him to not flatter himself, but then I remember all the shit that has happened today, things that have me in such a maelstrom of confusion that I’m dipping in and out of denial.

  I’m in no better shape than Ryan—than anyone here—because I’m so far from figuring it out that I’m not even thinking about it.

  Charles places the fresh drinks in front of us. He doesn’t ask for money or whether I want to open a tab. He remembers me and has the situation sussed out just fine.

  More lyrics from the Monkees song bleed into my dour meditation over the plastic cup.

  I sigh, thoughts of today making my head spin. I try not to think about it too much. It’s a work situation now, and work will be the place to handle it.

  Tomorrow.

  Obviously, any personal aspect to it means nothing to her anymore. It’s time for me to let go.

  In unison, Ryan and I both swing around to face the crowd. I can’t decipher, from the haze of smiling, buzzed faces, what the situation is tonight—only that every woman here seems to be with a guy or a guy-heavy group of friends.

  Not the shit I feel like dealing with right now. I turn back to my drink.

  “Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?” Ryan starts, his voice grating on my nerves.

  “What?” I snap, a little too harshly.

  “That’s not an empty fucking room you just turned away from,” Ryan yells, but then he abruptly lowers his voice and brings his whiskey-smelling face close to mine, “and you don’t see someone like her every night, and she’s been scoping you out for like two minutes.”

  I know Ryan’s telling me about some chick somewhere behind me, the type of thing he always points out, but there’s something jarring about his description—that she’s unusual, a rarity in the world.