Knocked Up by the Master: A BDSM Secret Baby Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  So much for mourning my dad.

  Feeling anything but sadness and anger after his death feels like a betrayal, but as much as I try, I can’t keep the happiness from seeping through it all when I’m around Mila.

  “What’s he like?” I ask. “Your dad.”

  She works her lips to the side, watching the water while she thinks. “He’s like the kind of dad most kids probably think they want. Strong. Involved. Respected. You know? All his friends can never stop telling me how lucky I am to have a father like him.”

  “But they’re wrong,” I say, taking a guess.

  “Yeah.” She pulls her legs in tighter, resting her chin on top of her knees. “I shouldn’t even complain. I must sound so obnoxious right now,” she says, suddenly untucking herself and snapping out of the state she was in. “You just lost your father and I’m over here complaining about mine.”

  “No. It’s okay. I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. I guess you did. It just doesn’t sound that bad when I think about saying it out loud. I mean, he always wanted me to be something else. I guess that’s it. My whole life I knew I wasn’t living up to his expectations. I knew he had all these ideas and dreams and plans for the kind of woman I’d become, and maybe for a while I tried to believe I wanted it too. But I didn’t. I never did. So I guess it was just hard. It was hard to look at my dad, whom I respected and loved, and know I was going to disappoint him, and not because I was doing something bad or wrong, but just because I was going to do what felt like it was right for me.”

  She laughs at herself, shaking her head a little. “Like I said. It’s stupid. Silly, even. He’s a nice man. A good man.”

  “It’s not stupid,” I say. “If we’re being honest, I spent a lot of time idolizing my old man. Feels shitty to say anything but praises after he’s gone, but he wasn’t perfect. You said your old man wanted you to be something you didn’t want to be, I guess I can relate in a way. My brother was always into finances and business and never cared a lick for taking care of the farm. Maybe since my mom had me for the first five years my dad never cared about me as much as my little brother, but it was like he resented me for being the man he wanted him to be.”

  She looks at me strangely, almost like she’s seeing through all the walls I’ve spent years building up. She’s seeing beyond all the bullshit--she’s seeing me for the first time. The real me. The feeling gives me a cold shiver because feeling opened up to her like that makes it seem like I understand her, too. I understand how we’re so fucking different but still the same, and how I could spend a lifetime without ever meeting another woman like her.

  Her eyebrows draw down suddenly and she hops up. “Oh shit. Oh shit!” she yells, putting both hands to her head. “Tonight. I was supposed to work tonight. What time is it?”

  I stand up, nodding toward my truck at the top of the cliff. “Phone’s in the truck. But the sun sets around seven thirty this time of year.” I feel a faint twinge of guilt. Damn. I said I’d meet Cynthia at my place at seven. Knowing her, she probably showed up fifteen minutes early, too. I probably should at least show up.

  We make our way up the hill and the bubble we were in seems to have burst. The silence that comes now isn’t entirely comfortable. I help Mila into the passenger seat of my truck and hop in the driver’s side.

  “Where do you need me to take you for your job?” I ask.

  “The bed and breakfast--Frank and Martha’s,” she adds, as if I don’t know Frank and Martha run a bed and breakfast.

  “No problem,” I say. “I would apologize for making you late for whatever you have to do, but I would do it again if I had the chance.”

  She laughs a little, but there’s something off in the sound of it. I glance over at her and see her watching the trees outside the window roll by with a distant expression.

  Well damn. Did I strike a nerve when we were talking without realizing it?

  I pull up in front of Frank and Martha’s after a quiet drive and throw the truck into park. “I’ll have to kidnap you again sometime,” I say lightly.

  “Yeah,” she says, flashing a smile that fades too quickly to be real.

  “You alright?” I ask as she steps out of the truck and looks back at me through the open window.

  “Yep. Perfect. I really need to go though,” she says, turning without so much as a goodbye and jogging to the front door of Frank and Martha’s.

  I frown after her. Once I see she’s safely inside, I drive off toward my place.

  “What the hell did I do?” I ask out loud, but the only answer is the hum of the truck engine and the whine of worn out shocks as I tear through the darkened town toward my property.

  I’m not surprised to find Cynthia’s car isn’t in the driveway when I get home. It’s half past eight and even she isn’t crazy enough to wait around that long. But there is a car in my driveway. My brother Ronnie’s ridiculously clean, jacked up truck that has probably never been off a paved road since he bought it.

  I find him lounging on my front porch with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He takes me in as I climb the steps, ashing the cigarette on my porch and blowing out a cloud of smoke.

  “Late night?” he asks.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.

  “What? Am I not welcome anymore? Dad leaves this place to you and suddenly I can’t even come visit?”

  I open the front door and flick on the lights, wishing he would just get lost. The last thing I want to deal with right now is my whiney little brother. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “There’s a lot I want,” he says, and the pause that follows is enough to give me a chill. I glance over my shoulder at him to find his eyes are set on the starlit fields outside the kitchen window. “A whole hell of a lot, but I guess we don’t all get to have everything, do we?”

  “No,” I say, grabbing a beer from the fridge and offering him one.

  He snags it without a thanks and twists the cap off the bottle. “But we could have it all. You and I.”

  I take a long swig of the beer. “Right. If I sold this place off to some oil company?”

  “Why are you so against it? This is just fucking dirt and wood, Lucas. Yeah we grew up here, but who needs memories when you have more money than God and you can make new ones. Better ones.”

  “I’ve got all the money I need. Give me enough cash to keep beer in the fridge, pay the bills, and buy a pie down at Mavericks from time to time and I’m fucking golden.”

  He scoffs, pacing around the kitchen. “Sometimes I can’t believe we came from the same DNA pool.” He throws back a long swig of his beer and flicks his cigarette out the open door, where it lands and smolders on the porch. “Look, Lucas. I’m going to be straight with you. I want the ranch. You can either do the smart thing, or you can piss me off and see what happens.”

  “You’re pretty brave to come out here alone at night making threats,” I say, setting my beer down with a loud clank on the counter.

  “Who said I was alone?”

  My eyes catch a flicker of movement outside the window. Maybe it was just a shadow--it’s too dark to say--but something in my gut tells me he’s not bluffing.

  “You hired some thugs to kick the shit out of me?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. “Doesn’t matter what you do, Ronnie. The ranch stays off the market as long as it’s in my name. And it’s in my name unless I sign it away.”

  “No,” he says with a sick grin. “That’s not entirely true. The ranch stays off the market as long as you’re alive. But hey,” he says, setting his beer down and stepping toward the door. “Accidents happen, right? Just ask dad.”

  “You fucking--” I start toward him, but two men in black flank him at the door, and judging by the way they’re half-reaching for their hips, they’re both carrying guns.

  “Let’s head out,” he says. “I think he got the message for now.”

  Ronnie pauses before getting in his car. “Take some ti
me to think it over. All I want is half. Sell the ranch, give me half, and we’re golden. Or you can keep being a prick. Your choice.”

  “Fuck you,” I growl, stomping on his still-glowing cigarette.

  He mock salutes me and hops into his truck, followed by his black-clothed goons.

  48

  Mila

  I wait in Maverick’s, a local cafe, for Cynthia to arrive. I’m out of fingernails to chew by the time she comes through the door and strips off her oversized sunglasses. She spots me immediately and storms toward me, heels clicking on the tiles. She sets her bag down and slides into the booth across from me with a look of pure, icy anger on her face.

  “Miss Styles, I’m so--”

  “No,” she says firmly. “I’m going to make something very clear to you, little miss matchmaker,” she half-whispers. “You made a fool of me last night. I showed up to his place and stood outside while mosquitos and gnats had a field day with me. By the time I gave up and went home I was sweaty and disgusting. I must have called you at least fifteen times.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry. But it’s not exactly within my control to make him show up. If Lucas wasn’t there, we just have to keep trying. If I can--”

  She holds up her palm to silence me before speaking again. “I’m going to give you one more chance. I shouldn’t. I should blacklist your ass from here to the coast and you’d still deserve worse, but I’m going to give you one more chance to prove you’re not a complete waste of my time. So you had better come to me with the plan of all plans to make this right, or I’m going to drop you like a sack of shit.”

  I reel back a little, trying to catch my breath after the verbal storm I just had to sit through. “I understand your frustration, Miss Styles,” I say quietly. “I will make it up to you though. I promise. There’s actually a local fair today and they are having a little dance after sunset. I think it’d be the perfect way to make a connection with Lucas.

  She purses her lips thoughtfully. “The Harvest Festival? That could work. For your sake, I hope it does.”

  Amy wears an oversized hat and huge bug-eyed sunglasses while we walk down the main street of Ward’s Creek. The road is completely shut down for the festival, and the sidewalks are lined with colorful tents, vendors selling everything from pumpkins to corn dogs, and places for people to play cornhole and dozens of other games. I think back to the sign we saw on the way into town and guess every last one of the four hundred ninety-seven inhabitants of Ward’s Creek have shown up for the festival.

  “This is so cute,” Amy says. Her head is constantly on swivel to take everything in, including the little boy and girl I saw the other night, who run by chasing after the little pig just a few feet in front of us.

  “Pete! Come back here!” shouts the little girl.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It’s so quaint. It’s like we’re standing inside a scene from some fifties sitcom.”

  “Hey there!” says a cheery man in his fifties who wears a plaid suit and has his thinning hair slicked to the side. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you ladies, but I heard you were in town.”

  Amy and I shake his extended hand.

  “I’m the mayor of this fine little town, and if you two need anything at all while you’re here, you just don’t hesitate to ask now, you hear? Ask anyone for Mayor Garvey and I’ll make sure I’m over to help just as fast as I can.”

  I sneak an amused look to Amy, who returns my smirk.

  “That’s really nice of you. Thanks,” I say, waving as Mayor Garvey struts back into the crowd like a peacock, patting backs, shaking hands, and puffing his big chest out.

  I head over toward a plexiglass display where a burly man is using a chainsaw to carve what appears to be a beaver out of a log that’s mounted on some kind of spindle. The big man makes broad, precise slashes at the wood as well as small, surgeon-like cuts that start to bring definition to the beaver’s little tail and ears.

  Amy and I are caught in the crowd watching for several minutes, but my attention falters when I notice a man standing at the edge of the crowd. He wears a white button-down country-style shirt tucked into blue jeans. His belt buckle, boots, and cowboy hat mark him as a country man as well, but what strikes me most is how familiar his face looks. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but when I look at him I keep being reminded of Country.

  “Excuse me,” I say to a woman beside me. “Do you know who that man is?”

  Back home, it would be beyond ridiculous to ask a question like that, but here, I suspect everyone knows everyone.

  Sure enough, the woman nods. “That’s Ronnie Tate.”

  “Tate?” I ask. “Is he related to Lucas Tate?”

  “Yep,” she says, then she leans in a little closer and looks up conspiratorially at me. “But if I had my pick of the two, I’d take Lucas a thousand times before I even thought of looking at Ronnie.”

  I look back to Ronnie. “He’s a handsome guy,” I say.

  “Lucas could stain my britches anyday,” she says wistfully, and thankfully she doesn’t catch what must be a totally confused look on my face at the strange choice of words. “Ronnie though? I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. He’s bad news, sweetie. Best bet is to steer clear of him.”

  “Oh no, I wasn’t… Well--thank you,” I say, tugging on Amy’s sleeve and urging her away from the crowd.

  My head is spinning a little when we sit down in a shady spot out of view from the chainsaw show.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, the heat was just getting to me. Sorry.” The heat, and the unsettling sense that I’m not connecting the right dots, like I have all the pieces to a puzzle and just can’t figure out how to make them fit yet. I keep trying to figure out what seems so familiar about Ronnie’s face, but my mind is racing and I can’t seem to think straight.

  “Did you know that guy? I saw you asking a lady about him. Was that Mr. Cowboy?”

  “No. But his last name was Tate.”

  “Tate?” she asks, finally giving me her full attention and lifting her sunglasses to rest in her hair. “Like Lucas Tate? The guy you’re setting Cynthia up with? Was that him?”

  “No. His name was Ronnie.”

  She takes a second look at him. “Damn. If they’re related then there are some good genetics in the family. Lucas must be pretty hot.”

  I laugh a little, feeling the sense of unease I can’t place growing to a maddening level. Before I have a chance to think more on it, Country strolls up to me with a half-cocked grin, looking deliciously good in a dark blue shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the crease of his chest muscles and rolled up to display his hard forearms.

  The brim of his cowboy hat shades his eyes, but I can see enough to know he’s thinking about last night.

  “Mind if I steal her for a bit?” he asks Amy, who blinks a few times and nods, all while gawking at him like he’s a movie star.

  I let him lead me away to a place by a tailor’s shop where the crowd seems thinnest. I’m looking at him and feeling the sense of dawning realization grow more and more pressing.

  “I wanted to talk about last night,” he says. He plants his hand on the wall behind me and leans in toward me, boxing me in a possessive little space I find myself not wanting to leave. “You seemed spooked.”

  “It was nothing.” I scan his face and the connection finally clicks. It hits me like a punch to the gut and I nearly double over from the shock of realization. Ronnie Tate looked so familiar because he must be related to Country. Country, who I never bothered to press for his real name.

  “Your name,” I say suddenly, voice hoarse with expectation. “It’s Lucas, isn’t it?”

  He squints a little but shrugs, apparently not seeing the big deal.

  “Lucas Tate?”

  “Yeah. What’d you do, ask someone about me? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting infatuated, darlin’.”

  I swallow hard and lower my head. “Yeah. That’s ex
actly the problem. I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t explain--I’m sorry.” The words spill out of me in a jumble and before I know it, I’m already pushing my way through the crowd, leaving Lucas to watch after me and wonder what the hell is going through my head.

  Amy spots me coming back and hurries over toward me. “Hey, what did he want? Is he single? Can I have a--”

  “Lucas Tate. That was him,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, deflating a little. “Wait… Why are you--no… No. Please tell me that’s not the mystery cowboy you’ve been blowing off work for.”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling like I might pass out. “One and the same. I just--I need a little time. I’m just going to go back to Frank and Martha’s, get on my laptop, and wait to help Cynthia through our planned meeting.”

  “Isn’t that going to be weird for you since you kind of have a thing for this guy?”

  “I’ll get over it,” I say, even though it’s total bullshit. In truth, my heart feels like it’s being shredded right now, which should be ridiculous since I’ve only known Country--no Lucas--for a couple days, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “I really need to just get out of here and get some fresh air.”

  I push back into the crowd, making my way to the bed and breakfast, wanting to be anywhere by myself right now, anywhere away from all these reminders of him.

  I head inside, up the stairs, and to my room. I flip open my laptop and make a quick call through the computer to the earpiece Cynthia should be wearing.

  “Can you hear me?” I ask once she answers.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Okay, good. We’re going to make a move on him. Are you ready?”

  I close my eyes and let out a long, controlled breath. Part of me is screaming to stop, to call this whole thing off and say screw it to the money, but that’s just my heart talking--no not my heart, it’s not been long enough for that to be involved. I have a business to think about. I have Amy to think about. She’s counting on me to land this match and bring in the money.