Alpha's Baby: A Secret Baby Romance

by Lauren Landish

  “I'm just looking for a good time,” Kitty says. “If you're feeling generous though, I bet some of these other girls would love to join us. What sort of party is it, anyway?”

  “Black tie. You're dressed perfectly for it,” I say as I look over the other choices. “Okay, you... you... and you.”

  The five of us get into the limo, and Mike pulls away. I pull out some cash and lay it on the seat beside me. All the girls except for Kitty are all over it immediately. Whatever... at least I know Kitty meant it when she said she was just looking for a good time.

  She's practically eye fucking me as she leans back on the side seat. She turns a little, and it really showcases both her long legs and her tits. Damn do they look delicious. “So, Jack... did you say a black tie party? And is there going to be any fun at this party?” I know what she's getting at, and I grin. So maybe she doesn't want money, but she's definitely looking to score.

  “We can have some fun beforehand, a little... preview if you like,” I say, gesturing to the black glass. “A little K-X mix if you're into that.”

  “I think I'll wait a little bit. I know K can hit quick,” she says as she slides over next to me. Her hand's resting on my thigh, and she's pushing that hard body of hers against my arm. My cock's already fully hard for her. I can see the other girls getting mad as they scowl, but there's plenty of me to go around. Before I can say something though, Kitty touches my face, and I swear it sends a jolt of electricity straight to my cock as I stare into her eyes. “Hey, lover... I'm over here,” she says.

  “Well, if he's gonna fuck her, at least we can have some party favors,” one of the other girls says scornfully. She reaches for the black mirror, but Kitty takes her finger off my face, and suddenly I'm free of her spell. My full attention is on the other three girls, and I'm pissed off.

  “Stop. Mike! Pull over!”

  Mike stops the car, and like I said, I'm pissed, staring at these wastes of my fucking time. “Take the money and get out,” I growl, throwing the cash at them. “Easy dough, right?”

  The girls grumble, but they've partied with me before, and they know I’m not playing around. They take the money and get out, and I notice we're near the Superdome. Mike knows that after I stop by the Watering Hole, I always need a little time to decide what comes next.

  The last one slams the door in a huff, but I don't give a fuck. Kitty's already straddling my lap. Her dress rides up as she begins massaging my shoulders and chest while she kisses my neck. I don't know what's so different about her, but my body's on fire. I've never been this hot before so quickly. She's got me trembling, ready to pop already, and as she grinds on my lap, I can't help the whimpers coming out of my mouth.

  “Shh baby, we're going to have a lot of fun,” she reassures me as she shoots me that fallen angel's smile again. She reaches the waistband of my pants and cocks her head when she sees I'm wearing suspenders. Well no shit, I'm wearing a tux, and you don't wear a belt with a tux. “I like it. Very fucking sexy,” she says as she gives me a seductive smile.

  “You're fucking sexy,” I reply, reaching down to stroke her hair. I'm only dimly aware of Mike saying something up front, but whatever it is, it doesn't matter. All that matters is this sex goddess in front of me and the way her fingers are unzipping my pants.

  “Mmm, you're so big,” she whispers. I'm trembling again as she wraps her fingers around my cock and pulls it out. I'm rock hard, and Kitty licks her lips as she leans in closer... closer...

  Suddenly, she pulls back as she jabs me in the chest below my right pec, and I find myself paralyzed. I can only watch as she opens the door to a crowd of paparazzi. My cock's still hanging out for the whole world to see, and countless flashes are going off. I can hear gasps of surprise, but also mocking laughter as Kitty sits back. She gives me an evil grin as she pulls what I'm just now realizing is a wig off her head. “Well, well, Jackson... nice to see you again,” she says, but the tone of her voice indicates otherwise.

  I blink as my body slowly regains the ability to move, and the face in front of me drops into focus. The blue eyes that I haven't seen in ten years, the angular jawline, and hair so dark it's almost black, but it's shorter than it was before... I can't believe it, but it's true.

  “Katrina?” I whisper, which is the most I seem to be able to do.

  “It's Kat,” she says as she pulls some sunglasses out of her tiny purse. She puts them on before getting out of the limo, leaving the blonde wig behind. “And you just got scratched. That's for my parents. Have fun, Jackson.”

  Chapter 2

  Jackson

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Pops asks as he slams the tablet he's holding down onto the desk. He probably just broke the fucking thing, but I don't think anyone really cares right now.

  “Why do you care? It's not like I had your nose candy out,” I shoot back. He's really pissing me off. Seriously, I just went through the worst night of my life. It was only because of Mike's fast reflexes that I wasn't arrested. Mike got me out of there after Katrina...no, after Kat got out of the limo. Once he realized something was up, he hauled ass for the Pontchartrain Expressway. By the time the photos went to print and anyone looking at the drugs in the photo instead of my cock could even ask questions, the limo had been taken care of. At this point, I doubt even the FBI could find a damn thing.

  “Coke, K-X, whatever it was...it doesn't matter, Jackson! The pictures are all over the Internet, and you even made the goddamn Picayune, for fuck's sake!” He makes a sound of disgust.

  Yeah, I know all of that. In fact, I've already gotten five texts from as far away as London about the pics. At least the ones in the print newspapers were censored with a black box over my dick. The pics available online show everything, and of course everyone's focusing on the ones taken from angles that make me look damn near dinky-dicked.

  “No shit, Pops. By the way, Ellie in London says hi.” What Ellie actually said was I thought the cucumber in the pants thing was just in Spinal Tap, but I knew what she was getting at. Pops, however, doesn't think any of this is funny.

  “You want to make jokes at a time like this, you little shit?” he asks as he rounds the desk to get in my face. I'm ready and on my feet in an instant. He might have a temper, and he's got a violent streak that makes me look like fucking Gandhi in comparison, but I'm no slouch either. I've got an inch on him, a lot less body fat, and twenty-eight years less mileage on my body. Pops knows this, and while his hands are clenched into fists so tight that I can see his knuckles turning white, he manages to hold himself back. I take a step back before either of us do something stupid.

  I sit back down. “Okay Pops, you're right. Just... fuck, that was Katrina. Or Kat, as she's calling herself now. What the fuck did she mean when she said that was for her parents? What the hell do we have to do with Katrina Grammercy's parents?”

  Pops shakes his head, and I know he's not going to answer me. I learned a long time ago that some things were off-limits. The problem is, I need to know. When it comes to his dealings with crooked cops, or the groups that run the Ninth Ward, or any of his other criminal enterprises, he's right. I shouldn't be asking questions, and I shouldn't concern myself with any of it. But this is Katrina... she was my best friend when we were kids. And less than twelve hours ago, she gave me half a handjob right before setting me up for global humiliation. No, this time, I need to know.

  “Pops...Dad, I need to know this time.”

  Pops shakes his head again and acts like he barely heard me. “Mike's already been informed, but you're not allowed to use the limo anymore. I can't have him associated with your bullshit any longer. These are matters best left to others, Jackson. I'll let you handle them someday when you're ready, if you ever are. In the meantime, I need you to go tell your mother that I need to discuss something with her after I speak with Nathan. Tell her to come see me here in my office.”

  Nathan. I can't help but shiver at the mere mention of that cold bastard's name. Officially,
he's our head of family security. Unofficially, Nathan Black is my dad's enforcer, or worse. I don't know for sure, but I don't think I want to know for sure. Nathan has this perpetual look of surprise on his face due to a long scar that winds up and across his left eye, pulling it up slightly. On anyone else, it'd be amusing, but there's nothing amusing about him.

  “Fine,” I say and step out into the hallway. Nathan's already waiting. In the dark linen suit he's wearing, he looks like an undertaker coming to collect his next body. He greets me with a slight nod as I come out of Pops' office, but his expression is as unreadable as ever.

  “Mr. Jackson,” Nathan says in that quiet, icy voice of his. Jesus, if the Grim Reaper needs a voice, I know who he can call.

  “Nathan. Pops wants to speak with you,” I respond.

  Nathan's fifty years old, but he could pass for forty, or maybe even younger. Up close it's easy to see the fine network of crow's feet around his eyes, but it's also easy to see how his eyes are completely flat, devoid of any emotion. They're a green shade the color of swamps, and they remind me of gators. Maybe it's because Nathan's clearly a predator, just like them. “Very good. Later, perhaps we can speak on how to avoid further... incidents?” he says.

  “Perhaps,” I reply, trying not to stammer. Nathan scares the shit outta me, plain and simple. I've got at least thirty pounds of lean muscle on the man, but I have a feeling that if he wanted to, he could drop me without even blinking. “I need to get going.”

  Nathan nods and goes into Pops' office, closing the door behind him. I know I should run along, even if the request to fetch Mom is bullshit. I shouldn't be hanging around. But... it's Katrina, and the look in Pops' eyes...

  I know this is stupid, but I can't help myself. It's been years since I've done this, but I should be able to eavesdrop through the lock on the door. The mansion is an old antebellum plantation house, and it took a small fucking fortune to repair the place after Hurricane Katrina. No relation to Kat, I think to myself. Still, the interior doors are mostly original, and this one happens to date from the original Civil War days. I press my ear against the office door.

  “Mr. DeLaCoeur, how can I assist you today?” That's Nathan, professional as always.

  “That bitch...the one who set up Jackson. I want her taken care of.”

  “Sir, no offense, but haven't we done enough to this girl? You know, ten years ago?”

  “I don't give a fuck!” Pops hollers, slamming his hands on what sounds like his desk. “That bitch dropped a lot of trouble in our laps, Nathan. I want her found and eliminated, got me?”

  There's a long silence on the other side of the door, and I can imagine Nathan coldly processing my father's words. Before he can answer, I hear someone coming down the hallway and I beat a hasty retreat, going to look for Mom. As I do, my head whirls. Sure, I've always known that Pops is involved in some bad business, even if I don't like to think about it. Seriously, who the hell has the police chief at his house one night, and then well-known gangsters there the next, unless he's also involved in some shit?

  But I never knew for sure how much shit he's been involved with. Of course, I've lied to myself over the years. Denial is a powerful drug. And I guess maybe my coping mechanisms weren't the best, what with the parties and the sluts, and the drugs and the alcohol... but at least I've managed to keep my own hands clean.

  Now I know for sure about my father, and I can't get it out of my head. What the fuck do I do? On one hand, Kat made me look like some high school dweeb who was whacking off in the back of a rented limo or paying some hooker to lose his virginity. But she was angry, and it wasn't the sort of anger I've seen before. It wasn't hot anger—it was the cold, obsessive type. Whatever she thinks my family did...she's been angry for a very long time. And it's the sort of anger that makes me think there's a genuine reason for her to be pissed off.

  And then there's the way she made me feel. What the hell was that? A few touches, a few kisses, and I was ready to pop. Where the hell did she learn that? Was it because my body knew it was Katrina even if my brain didn't recognize her at first? Or does she know something that most women don't? I mean, I'd just busted a nut less than two hours before, and she had me trembling on the edge in minutes. I didn't even touch her skin other than feeling those lips on my neck...

  I look down, realizing that I'm sporting wood again, and adjust myself. Not what I need. What I need to be doing is looking for Mom. I find her in her bedroom, looking at herself in the mirror. She and Pops have separate rooms now. Great, just great. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the craziest one of all?

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Jackson, do you think I'm starting to sag around my neckline?” Mom asks as a way of greeting. Well, no Mom, I think you've got more plastic in you than your average Barbie doll, and that you can't even squint because you've more or less killed off your eye muscles with Botox. In fact, you barely look like a woman anymore.

  Instead of saying that though, I ignore her question. She doesn't want my answer anyway. “Pops was saying he'd like to talk with you in a few. He's talking with Nathan now.”

  “Yay,” Mom says sarcastically, her nose twitching. I'm surprised it can still do that. The amount of putty and plastic in there is probably what you'd see with repairing a minor fender bender on a car. “What's he want now, to discuss your little faux pas last night?”

  So she's been sober enough to pick up the news. “Fuck all if I know. He just said to get you,” I say with a shrug.

  Mom's eyes glance over to me, and I can see that she doesn't have them in. Or more precisely, she doesn't have in her colored contacts that she normally wears, the ones that give her the DeLaCoeur blue. Instead, I can see her normal muddy hazel eyes, and to be honest, it's refreshing. Hey Mom, nice to fucking see you for once. How long has it been? “You don't take that tone with me, Jackson Garfield DeLaCoeur. I am your mother,” she says coldly.

  “As much as you wish you weren't,” I snap back, pushed to the limit. Seriously, when you grow up listening to your mother bitch at least once a week how giving birth to you ruined her figure, you kinda feel unwanted, you know? “I mean, I'm sorry I made your tits sag, but they're holding up... reasonably well. At least they stick out past your stomach.”

  Okay, so I'm being a dick with the backhanded compliment, but she deserves it. Mom didn't even say anything to me on my last birthday. Probably because my birthday always reminds her that no matter how much Hennessy she sucks down, or no matter how much work she has done...fifty's just around the corner.

  At the mention of her stomach, Mom touches her abdomen, checking that she's still flat there. I give her a little smirk. “I'll go see what Andrea's up to. You should go check on Pops soon, he might be wondering where you are.” I leave without waiting for her to reply.

  Instead of finding Andrea though, I head back to my room, my head still trying to make sense of the look in Pops' eyes, and what he said to Nathan. What the hell am I supposed to do?

  Chapter 3

  Kat

  Success! Oh, it was fucking sweet, too! The look on his face, the flash of the bulbs... and best of all, not a single soul knew who I was.

  Don't get cocky, Katrina. Your work is just beginning.

  I nod at the words from long ago and take off my dress. I strip everything off before sticking it all into a plastic bag for later disposal. It's going to suck throwing a thousand-dollar outfit into an incinerator, especially since that's more than I make in a month sometimes, but it's necessary. Peter DeLaCoeur's going to send his men after me, I know it. I can ghost, but only if I leave as few clues behind as I can.

  I go back over to my dresser and open it up, grabbing my favorite black gi pants, and the sports bra I prefer for exercise. I get dressed quickly, then turn and walk across the big, empty space of this old warehouse until I reach the post in the middle of the floor. In exchange for teaching kids' martial arts classes twice a week, the owner of the boxing gym downstairs lets me crash here. R
ight now I'm buzzing on adrenaline, and I need to refocus.

  The post is steel, but I've wrapped it in old, bald tires that provide just enough padding for me to use it as my own personal training dummy. My sparring gloves are an old castoff pair I rescued from the garbage downstairs, but they serve their purpose well enough, which is to prevent scrapes on my hands. I take them off their hook, and pull them on, sneering at the tires. Except they aren't tires any longer. They're Peter DeLaCoeur's fat, piggish face.

  My first punch lands hard, but it jars my body. The first punch always has that effect. I can punch far above my weight, but my first punch always knocks me a little off balance. Still, it doesn't take long for my body to adjust. It's trained to compensate for the shocks, turning them into energy I roll with and use to power the next strike. Kicks come next, then knees, and elbows...this is just a light workout for me. I can't practice my deadlier techniques on this simple training dummy, but it's a good way to relieve some of my stress.

  With a scream, I throw an overhand elbow that would dislocate a man's jaw before falling to the floor, covered in sweat and gasping for breath. That's good enough for tonight. I'll get a real workout in tomorrow.

  I peel off the gloves, hanging them up on their hook again and go over to the mat on the far side of the room. I've removed the lights, and darkness reigns. By pure muscle memory, I find the lighter and light a single tea candle, setting it in front of me and assuming the seiza kneeling position that I learned long ago. I send my mind into the flickering light of the candle, and what comes up are my memories.

  “You are filled with anger,” Virginia says, two days after I've come to her home. It's the third foster home I've been placed with, the other two having sent me back after what the social workers called 'inappropriate behavior'.

  “No shit, lady,” I snap back at her, twisting my hair around my finger. “You'd be too if you got treated like last week's Big Mac.”