Cowboy Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  “I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” I tell her. “Despite its ramifications to your bean-flicking, I don’t think that Leila would—”

  “Leila?” she asks. “Your roommate’s name is Leila?”

  It’s about here that I realize Wrigley and I really don’t talk much about anything that doesn’t have an orgasm at the end of it.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Why?”

  “That night on the roof,” she says. “Are you a complete idiot?”

  “What are you talking about? What about the night on the roof?”

  The question’s no more out of my mouth than its answer is in my brain.

  “You called out her name when you came,” she says. “You’ve got a thing for your roommate.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “It’s cool,” she says. “I told you I don’t want any of that relationship torture, but it’s kind of bullshit that you’re just going to keep her to yourself like that. I bet she’d be my bitch. She’s the quiet type. Actually, I bet she’d end up wanting to make me her bitch. I saw the way she looked at me when I popped out of the room flashing my honeypot.”

  “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound when you say shit like that?”

  If my tone weren’t so hostile, I might be able to pass the question off as a joke.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” she fires back. “I’m just talking a little bit of slap and tickle. I’m not saying I want to steal her from you. I’ve never been with a woman. I’m curious.”

  “You know, I find it really hard to believe there’s anything you haven’t done in that arena.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks. “You’re just jealous. You’re a jealous little boy who doesn’t want to share his plaything.”

  “She’s not a plaything,” I snap. “You know what? Why don’t I just take you home? Tonight’s turning to shit in a real hurry.”

  “You’re telling me,” she says. “Why don’t you call me when your fucking balls drop?”

  “Oh, fuck off,” I tell her. “Every time I don’t want to go along with your psycho bullshit, you talk like it’s because I’m not a real man. News flash: it’s because you’re out of your goddamned mind.”

  “News flash? What is this, the 70s?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Just drop me off here,” she says. “By the way, it’s bullshit that I can’t smoke in here.”

  “It’s a rental car!” I shout.

  “Why would you rent a car anyway? It’s such a waste of money in the city.”

  Ah, the age-old male dilemma: do I blow the whole thing up by telling her I was trying to take her out on something that resembled an actual date, or do I lie and figure out a way to make up with her so we can keep having sex?

  “I wanted tonight to be special,” I tell her.

  What the hell am I doing? I decided on the lie.

  “Special? Giving you a knob bob in the parking lot of a baseball stadium is your idea of a special night?”

  “I wanted to take you to the game,” I tell her. “I was trying to take you out on a date.”

  “Pull the fucking car over,” she says.

  This isn’t the easiest task where we are in the Bronx this time of night.

  “I told you I didn’t want any of that,” she says. “You crossed the line, Dane. Let me out!”

  “What? You’re going to catch a cab back to Manhattan right now?” I ask, finally managing to double-park.

  “Don’t call me,” she says. “Don’t come by. Stay out of my life, you fucking freak.”

  With that, she throws her door open and gets out of the car.

  She’s hailing a cab by lifting her shirt. It works well enough, but the woman is fucking insane.

  When she gets in the cab, she doesn’t get in the back, but the front seat. At least I know she’s getting home safe as I pull back into my lane and drive off. I just wished I’d spared myself the glance in the mirror, seeing her head dipping below the dashboard.

  A few weeks ago, I would have told you that Wrigley was the perfect woman for me: no worries about monogamy, a little crazy, insatiable. Now, though. I don’t know.

  There’s got to be something more to it than that.

  I can’t believe that I’ve actually grown bored of a woman with a sex drive higher than mine.

  I know I’m paying by the mile, but I drive around the city for a while. Most of the time, it’s stoplight after stoplight, waiting for that shade of green that means I can drive free for the next couple hundred feet before I have to stop again.

  Every once in a while, though, I hit a few green lights in a row, and I start to let things go. I start to forget all the nonsense.

  It never lasts.

  I couldn’t tell you what brought me here now, but as I’m pulling into the parking lot of l’Iris for the very first time in a car driven under my own power, I know where I’m going. For the first time in a long time, I know where I’m going.

  I’m through the back door and standing outside Jim’s office before anyone sees me.

  That’s going to work to my benefit.

  I knock.

  “Come in.”

  I open the door.

  “Dane,” Jim says. “You’re not on tonight, are you? I thought Cannon was running the kitchen.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’s running it through a wood chipper,” I tell him, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Okay,” he says and leans back in his chair. “Why are you here then?”

  “Jim, I get that you’ve got to cut some spending, but you’ve kept me on this long. I know you don’t want to let me go.”

  “Yeah, I told you that—”

  “Just let me finish,” I say.

  This is probably the most respectful I’ve ever been to my boss.

  “Okay.”

  “Jim, I don’t mean to sound like a clingy girlfriend or something, but I need to know where this is going. If you’re going to fire me, fire me now. I’m not just going to sit around and wait for it to happen. If you’re not going to fire me, well, I have a few ideas.”

  He puts his hands together, interlocking his fingers.

  “I’m listening,” he says.

  “First,” I tell him, “we dump Cannon. I’m sorry Jim, but he’s just nowhere near good enough. Even when I am there pissing down his neck, he’s only ever half on, and you know that’s not anywhere near cutting it.”

  “Dane, I don’t think firing Cannon is going to—”

  “Next,” I interrupt, “we promote Wilks to executive chef and demote me—with pay decrease—to sous chef. He’s going to need me for guidance over the first couple of weeks, but he’s really one of the most talented guys I’ve ever worked with in this business. When he came in here, he didn’t know the difference between crème brûlée and a ramekin full of baked spunk, but within a week, he was up to speed. He doesn’t know everything we do just yet, but I know he can learn, and he’s got some fresh ideas that I think will really bring the customers in and get them talking.”

  “I get that you’re trying to save your own job, but putting one of your underlings up as executive chef isn’t going to get me to let him go instead of—”

  “You won’t want to let him go,” I tell Jim. “You hire him on as executive chef and cut the pay of the position by 20 percent. It’s still going to be about double what he’s making, so I really don’t see him complaining.”

  “I can’t have a sous chef making more than my executive,” Jim says, “that’s a steaming vat of resentment I’d prefer to keep out of my restaurant.”

  “I know, Jim,” I tell him. “That’s why you keep me below what you give to Wilks. With Cannon gone and your head and sous chefs cut back on pay, you’re going to be saving a lot of money, and I’m not out enough cash to screw things for me, either.”

  “What’s the catch?” Jim asks, leaning forward. “You’ve never once said anything
positive about Wilks. Why is he suddenly the golden boy? I don’t see what you get out of this.”

  “I never told you about Wilks because, well, honestly, I didn’t want you to figure out that he’s better than I am and do exactly what I’m telling you to do now.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Jim asks again.

  “I want to keep my job,” I tell him. “I was getting a blowjob from this freak I’ve been nailing a few weeks in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

  “Just listen,” I tell him. “I started to realize that I’ve spent all my life trying to get that quick release, that instant gratification, and it wasn’t until tonight that I realized that’s not really what I want. It’s never really been what I want, but that’s because I’m a coward. It’s just easier to take advantage of people than to put the best person forward and try to make things work with them.”

  Jim laughs. “That must have been one terrible blowjob.”

  “Actually, it was fantastic. She does this thing with her tongue—pierced, by the way—where she’ll—”

  “I got it, I got it,” Jim interrupts. “You’d actually be willing to do all this just to keep your job?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “but it’s not just about that. With me as executive, you’ll have the regulars and you’ll get solid reviews, but with Wilks, you’ll get something more. You’ll get an innovator, and I’m willing to bet you $10,000 that if you give him enough room to do what he wants to do, this place is going to be packed every night from here until you retire a wealthy, wealthy man.”

  “You’ll be down something like $60,000 a year,” Jim says. “Are you sure you’re okay with that? I mean, why not just go somewhere else and do the executive thing there?”

  “Because I’d rather stick with something that I love,” I tell him.

  “I can’t just fire Cannon, though,” Jim says. “He’s been here as long as you have.”

  “Yeah, but he’s worthless. I’m actually good at what I do and you were ready to let me go.”

  Jim chuckles. “Is he really that bad?”

  “He’s terrible,” I answer. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I have to have him redo a dish before it’s anywhere near good enough to send out.”

  “And why is it that you didn’t tell me about that before tonight?”

  “I figured that if you were going to try and replace me with someone, it’d be the sous chef. As long as that’s Cannon, I never really felt like I had anything to worry about. He’s never been a threat.”

  “So, I’m just supposed to believe that all this is genuine and you’ve suddenly turned benevolent because a blowjob in a parking lot made you realize that there was more to life than screwing people over?”

  I laugh. “Well, when you put it that way, anything’s going to come across suspect.”

  “And you’re not yanking my chain about taking a massive pay cut?”

  “If it’ll help get things turned around, then that’s what we need to do. When Wilks starts bringing in the hordes, you can always give me a raise.”

  Jim scoffs.

  “That must have been one life-changing blowjob,” he says. “All right, we’ll do it. I’ll let Cannon know at the end of his shift, and we’ll get Wilks started tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I tell him, and walk to the door. “You might want to make sure you tell Cannon outside the restaurant. He’s one of those predators that plays victim until someone really calls him on his shit. That’s when he explodes like a toddler’s diaper and all the shit starts oozing out.”

  “Thanks for the visual, Dane,” Jim says, smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  For the first time since I can remember, I leave the restaurant in a good mood. I don’t mean to screw over Cannon, but the guy is pretty fucking useless on pretty much every level imaginable.

  Oh well.

  Now, I get to go home and do something I’ve been trying to convince myself I didn’t want to do.

  Tonight, I’m going to tell Leila that I want to be with her.

  I get to tell Leila that I’m single again—though, I’ll probably leave off the “again”—and that I want to see if there’s anything between her and I other than this growing hot pull in my chest.

  The funny thing is that I still don’t really know her all that well, but what I do know is enough for the certainty that I want to know more.

  I can’t wait.

  First thing’s first, though: I’ve got to drop off the car.

  That process takes over an hour, as the moron at the front desk can’t find the paperwork. Finally, he checks the open file that’s been right in front of him at least as long as I’ve been standing here, and we get it all taken care of.

  The guy lets me call a cab, and I’m on my way home now, nervous, but feeling for the first time in a long time that I might just be onto something amazing.

  I climb the stairs and imagine the worst possible scenarios.

  Most people would tell me to be optimistic right now, but every time I’ve gone into something with high hopes, those hopes are dashed in the most horrendous way possible, so right now, I’m imagining her screaming at me, calling me an asshole and a womanizer, telling me that I’m never going to be anything more to her than a rent check.

  I can’t help the fact that I’m still smiling.

  When I get to the door, I take a breath, and take one final moment to imagine her hitting me over the head with a frying pan and kicking me in the ribs while I’m lying on the floor.

  If my inverse-square law of hope has any validity, that thought should seal the deal.

  I unlock the door and open it to find Leila and some guy sitting on the couch, making out.

  I should probably clear my throat or say something, as neither one seems to have noticed my arrival, but I can’t do anything.

  It’s been about an hour and a half since I decided I want to throw caution into the death machine and make the move to be with Leila, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her with someone.

  Inverse-square law, my ass.

  I try to slowly back out of the door and leave the two in peace, so hopefully, they never know I was even here, but of course, that’s when my phone rings.

  Leila and the guy who was trying to swallow her face jerk and look over at me while I fumble for my phone.

  “Dane!” Leila spits. “When did you get in?”

  “Just a second ago,” I tell her, still trying to pull the stupid fucking phone from my pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” I tell them both, finally, and walk back out the door, closing it behind me.

  Once outside, I finally get the phone wrested from my pocket and look at the number.

  It’s Wrigley.

  This should be interesting.

  “Yeah?”

  “Dane,” she says, “I need to fuck someone and it needs to be now. You’re not mad at—”

  “I’m on my way,” I tell her.

  I was off to such a fresh start.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Favor

  Leila

  “Mike,” I tell him, “we can’t do this. You’re my best friend in the world, and I don’t want things to get weird.”

  “Who says they have to get weird?” he asks. “I’m not talking about changing anything about our relationship. I just want to know if I’m really that bad of a kisser.”

  “It’s weird just talking about it,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re a fine kisser. Can we leave it at that?”

  “I guess,” he says, and turns back toward the television.

  I know what he’s asking, and I know he’s really not trying to pull one over on me, but still: Mike is way too good a friend to even take a false step down that road. If things went pear-shaped between us, I don’t know what I’d do.

  For a very long time, Mike is all that I’ve had.

  Then Dane came along, but I can’t even think about that right now.r />
  He’s off somewhere with that skank with the ridiculous name.

  That’s all right. He doesn’t owe me anything; we’re roommates. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

  “You know I’d do it for you,” he says.

  “That’s because you’re a freak, Mike,” I laugh, and jab him with my elbow. “Just watch the movie and keep it in your pants, will you?”

  “I never said I was going to take anything out of my pants, although I see where your mind is.”

  He can be such a child sometimes.

  “All right,” I tell him. “If I kiss you once and give you notes, will you drop it and never ask me to do anything like that again? I mean it. This is awkward enough as it is. We’re not going to start some weird sex clinic—”

  “Easy there, girl,” he says, somehow thinking that talking to me like I’m a horse is going to help his cause. “I’m just talking about a kiss—one kiss. Give me some notes on how I can do better, and we won’t even talk about it again.”

  “No tongue,” I tell him.

  “Oh, bull,” he says. “How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it all right if you don’t let me slip you a little tongue?”

  “Eww…” my body involuntarily shivers, and my eyes start to water like I’m stuck in a sewage pipe.

  “Gee, thanks,” he says.

  “You’re like my brother, Mike. This is too weird. No kiss, the whole thing’s off.”

  “Aw, come on,” he whines.

  He’s not only whining, but he’s actually pouting: the bottom lip is out and everything. It might be cute if it weren’t so stupid.

  “No!” I tell him.

  “But Mom,” he whines again.

  “Yeah, like that makes it better.”

  “Fine,” he says, straightening up and speaking normally again. “How about one kiss, 30 seconds—”

  “Thirty seconds? Are you insane?”

  “What the hell am I going to learn from a peck?”

  “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal anyway,” I tell him. “So you’re a bad kisser. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “How do you know I’m a bad kisser?” he asks.

  “Because of the way you’re acting,” I tell him. “No self-respecting anything would put on such a bitch fest.”