by Hunter Rose
It galls me to admit, but I think he looks even sexier today than he did back then. And as I think about him, I remember being with him on that rooftop in Syria – which is a memory I frequently access when I masturbate. Yeah, I know it borders on the hypocritical, given my current feelings for the man but what can I say? It was a very hot night and I can’t shake it off that easily. Despite the fact that I feel nothing but anger and resentment for the man, the night we shared together is pretty potent fantasy fuel.
As I remember the feel of his mouth on me and his tongue inside of me, I feel the heat growing between my thighs. It’s not long before my pussy is wet and soaking through my panties. I lean back in my seat and slip my hand into my yoga pants. As the memory of having Roman’s cock inside of me scrolls through my mind, I slide my fingers between the velvety folds of my lips, pushing them deeper into my tight pussy, and moan quietly.
Pressing my head back against the back of the chair, I gasp as the feeling of Roman’s tongue deep in my pussy fills me with a frantic energy. I drive my fingers into my slippery core with force, banging myself harder, biting my bottom lip to stifle my moans.
I slide a third finger into my folds, trying to simulate the feel of Roman’s cock. It’s not nearly the same, but it still feels good. I feel myself hurtling toward the brink of pleasure as I plunge my digits deeper into my wetness even harder. The scraps of memory from our night together float through my mind, triggering physical sensations that send pulses of pleasure along my every nerve ending.
As I pump my fingers into me, while thumbing my clit at the same time, my memories flit between Roman’s cock pounding away inside of me and having his tongue working my pussy. I throw my head back and let out a strangled gasp. The tension in my body reaches a crescendo, and then comes crashing down over me. I tremble, my body spasming as I come.
My breath shallow and ragged, I ride out the waves of my orgasm, grab my glass of wine, and drain the last half of it, a satisfied smile on my face. I sit back and look up at the sky, disappointed at the scarcity of starlight above. It makes me recall the mass of stars in the darkness I saw when Roman and I lay on our backs on the hospital roof that night so long ago.
About five minutes later, I hear the front door open. Getting out of my chair, I take a quick glance down to make sure I don’t look like I was just masturbating out on the balcony. I smooth down my hair and walk inside, surprised to see Megan coming through the door.
“Surprised to see you here,” I say.
She gives me a tentative smile. “Yeah. I’m not staying long,” she states. “I just needed to pop in to grab a couple of things. I also needed to talk to you.”
The way she says it tightens a knot in my stomach. Hearing somebody say, ‘I need to talk to you’, rarely ends very well. I’ve uttered those exact words to a number of guys I’ve dated in my life. But since we’re not dating, hearing those words come out Megan’s mouth sounds much more ominous.
“Uh, sure,” I say. “What’s up?”
Megan walks into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine from my open bottle, then refills my glass. Ominous words, liquid courage, and she won’t meet my eyes. Yeah, this is looking worse and worse by the minute.
I lean against the counter and take a sip of my wine as I wait for Megan to get whatever she has to say out. She leans against the other side of the counter and takes a long swallow of wine. Aside from her avoiding my eyes, I can see her wineglass shaking in her hand, and I feel like there’s a heavy weight settling down onto my chest as I wait for her to spit it out.
“So, you know that things with TJ are getting serious,” she starts.
I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the lump that suddenly rises in my throat. I have a feeling I know exactly where this is going, and it scares me. If what I’m thinking does come to pass, Kinsey and I are absolutely screwed. All I can do is sit here and say a silent prayer that this is not going where I fear it’s going.
“Yeah, of course,” I nod, a slight tremor in my voice.
Megan shifts on her feet and drains the last of her wine, hesitating before pouring more wine – though only half a glass this time.
“Yeah, so anyway,” she continues. “We – uhhh – we think it’s time we move in together. Time that he moves in – here.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I knew it. I knew this was where we were going, and now that we’re here, I want to scream. I want to cry. I look at her and feel a deep swell of fear rising within me. I have no idea where Kinsey and I are going to go or what we’re going to do.
Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly and do my best to steady not just my nerves but my voice before I speak.
“Wow. That’s – great,” I say without any conviction in my voice. “I’m happy for you, Megs.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” she says. “Listen, I know this sucks, and I hate doing this to you –”
“No, I get it. I understand. When?” I ask slowly. “I mean, how long until he moves in?”
“Well, TJ wanted to do it right away, but I know it might take a little time for you to find a place,” she says. “I was thinking sixty days?”
Sixty days. Megan is my friend, and I know I should be happy for her, but all I can think about right now are my own problems. All I can think about is that I have two months to figure out how to keep my little girl and I off the damn street.
17
Roman
“You are kidding me,” El gasps. “You are fucking kidding me.”
I take a long swallow of my beer and shake my head. “I wish I were, man.”
“Wow. A kid,” he says. “I can’t believe you’ve got a kid.”
“That makes two of us.”
The waitress swings by the table and drops off a fresh round for us. After meeting with Scarlet and mulling it over in my mind for a couple of days, I called El and asked him to meet me here at Sloops, a local pub I’ve been coming to for a while. I wasn’t in the mood for the loud, crazy night club scene and wanted someplace quite we could have a conversation in. After what I found out today, I really needed to talk.
Done in dark polished oak and dark colors, Sloops has a nautical motif, with pictures of old tall ships as well as pieces of them scattered around as décor. Aside from having a full bar, they make their own craft brews – best in the city, as far as I’m concerned – and I’ve been coming here since I found it shortly after moving from Chicago.
There are flat-screen TV’s everywhere, all of them tuned to either live games or sports programs showing highlights of those games. The music is low but audible, and most of the clientele here speak in quiet tones. Sloops is the kind of place you come for a quiet drink and a quieter conversation. Which is one of the reasons I come here as often as I do.
Elliott leans back in the booth, draping his arm over the back of it as he takes a long pull of his beer. My eyes drift over to one of the TVs showing the Dodgers game live. Everything about baseball makes sense to me. It’s orderly and precise. There are well-defined lines and structure to everything. There is little mystery about the game. That’s one reason I’ve always loved baseball – you don’t get surprised by things all that often.
Baseball is a direct contrast to life, where there are few defined lines. It’s anything but orderly and precise, and try as you might, there is so much that remains shrouded in mystery. There is so much that doesn’t make sense. Oh, you can try to impose order upon it. You can try to make your own life adhere to strict, defined lines – and you might even have some semblance of success. But, as I’m finding out, it’s an illusion. Eventually, as the outside world encroaches upon your life, those lines blur. Chaos emerges from the illusion of order, and the carefully constructed pieces of your life often come tumbling down in a heap, no more substantial than a house of cards.
I was obviously a fool to think I could impose order on my life and force it to adhere to the strict, well-defined lines I drew. Maybe it was arrogant to believe I could keep order in
the face of life’s chaos.
Or maybe, since I’ve been here for the better part of two hours and have barely emerged from my pint glass long enough to take a breath, I’m just really feeling that alcohol-fueled wisdom. It’s probably that.
“Look, I don’t want to sound like a dick,” El starts. “But are you sure this kid is yours?”
I nod and take a swallow of my beer. “I’ve done the math and it fits,” I tell him. “Plus, I don’t think Scarlet is the type who’d try to scam me.”
He shrugs. “You never know these days, man. People are assholes.”
“This is true, but I don’t see that in Scarlet,” I respond, strangely feeling like I need to defend her. “She’s one of the few rare, good ones. She’s a really good person.”
El grins. “Sounds like you’ve still got something for her.”
A wry grin pulls one corner of my mouth upward. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”
He leans forward on the table again, his hands folded in front of him, and his eyes boring into mine. He’s got his lawyer face on.
“I’m paid to be skeptical –”
A sharp bark of laughter bursts out of my throat. “I thought you were paid to clean up the messes rich people leave behind.”
“That too,” he laughs. “But as your lawyer, I would advise you to be very cautious, Roman.”
“Why? What’s there to be cautious about?” I ask. “She’s a woman who hates me, apparently happy to be raising my daughter without me.”
“Think about it, Roman,” he taps his head with a finger, adding his lawyer voice to his lawyer face. “You bump into this woman after all this time has passed. She sees you’re a wealthy, successful doctor, and the next thing you know, she’s introducing you to who she says is your daughter? Convenient, isn’t it?”
I drain the last of my beer and call for another. “She said the only reason she told me was that it was the right thing to do. Because I had the right to know,” I explain. “Other than that, I got the very clear feeling she’d prefer it if I didn’t darken her doorstep anytime soon. As far as she’s concerned, she’d be thrilled if I remained out of the picture of my daughter’s life.”
El swallows down the last of his beer just as the waitress drops off another round. He stops speaking as she does her thing. She collects the empty glasses and looks at me with a little concern. I’ve gone through a hell of a lot of beer in the last couple of hours, and she’s probably concerned about overserving me – and the legal implications of it. Not that she needs to worry, I honestly haven’t been able to cop a decent buzz all night. I hold up my hand and give her a smile.
“Sober as a judge,” I tell her. “And not for lack of trying, I assure you.”
She gives me a tight smile. I can tell I’m going to have trouble getting another round out of her. When she leaves the table, El leans forward again, his expression earnest.
“Maybe she’s being straight up, but maybe not,” he drills into me. “It could be part of a con game, Roman.”
“A con game? Scarlet?” I shake my head. “It’s not. Trust me.”
“Doing what I do – and who I do it for – means I’ve seen some shit, man,” he says. “When there is money on the line, you would be shocked what some people will stoop to. People do shit you would never expect them to do when there is the possibility of a payday. They turn into monsters, Roman. I’m being straight up with you here.”
Maybe the alcohol actually is working, because ordinarily, I would be up in El’s face right now, shouting him down. Instead, I simply feel a mild annoyance. A flash of irritation. I’m more mellow than angry right now – mostly because I know Elliott is saying what he’s saying not just because he’s my lawyer but because he’s my friend. He’s a good friend who doesn’t want to see me get taken for a ride. I get that. And I appreciate it.
But for reasons I can’t explain, I feel incredibly protective of Scarlet – and her daughter. Our daughter. In my heart of hearts, I know she’s one of the few truly good, decent people on this planet, and I am confident that she’d never do something like that. She’d never put her own child in the line of fire that way, just to squeeze me for some money.
“Time and circumstances change people, Roman. And money changes them most of all,” El adds, as if reading my mind. “Maybe the woman you knew back in Syria wouldn’t do something like that, but the woman she is today may be somebody entirely different.”
I lean back in the booth and let out a long breath. As I turn it all over in my head, I have to admit that he’s right. Four years can do a lot to a person. And if I’m truly being as logical as I usually pride myself on, the timing and coincidence of it all is – curious. I mean, why would she not contact me for four whole years, and the day after we run into each other again, she tells me her daughter is mine? As much as I don’t want to believe that Scarlet is capable of doing something so shady, I have to admit that I don’t know her anymore. She probably isn’t the same woman I met in the desert.
“Do me a favor?” El asks.
I nod but say nothing. Instead, I take a long pull of my beer as everything continues turning over and over in my head.
“Get a paternity test,” he pleads. “Before you do that annoying thing you do and try to be all noble and shit, then do something rash, get a paternity test. Make sure that girl really is yours.”
I nod absently. I know it’s the smart thing to do. It’s prudent and wise counsel. I’m not naïve – or drunk – enough to believe people always have the purest of motives. Especially when it comes to money. And yet, the idea of forcing a paternity test also makes me feel like shit. It makes me feel like I’m straight up calling Scarlet a liar. A thief. A piece of untrustworthy human garbage.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I admit.
“Of course I am. You don’t become the preferred lawyer of the rich and famous by being an idiot,” he laughs.
I grin and raise my glass to my friend. We sit in a companionable silence for a few minutes as I watch the game again, ruminating once more on how unlike baseball life really is.
“What if she is yours?” El asks. “What if Kinsey really is your daughter?”
I shrug. “Well, I’ll do the right thing then,” I tell him. “I’ll make sure she’s well taken care of.”
“Of course you will, but that’s not what I mean,” he presses. “Are you going to be part of her life?”
Although the idea has flitted through my head ever since I found out, it’s not something I’ve really given serious thought to. Call it the shock of it all. But the idea of being part of Kinsey’s life – of being a father – hasn’t really settled and firmed up in my head.
“I – I’m not sure,” I respond. “Personally, I think I’d make a shit father. It’s not like I had the best example to learn from.”
El shrugs. “I’m not so sure you’d be as shit at is as you think,” he shrugs. “But I’ve heard you talk about wanting a family before, so it begs the question.”
“Yeah, I talked about it but in that abstract, perfect world kind of way. Not in a concrete, real life sort of way,” I reply. “I was probably three sheets to the wind when I said it anyway.”
“The world isn’t perfect, my friend,” he declares. “And yet sometimes, surprisingly good things can hit us when we least expect it.”
I purse my lips and look at him. “So now you’re saying I should just trust Scarlet and be a father to this girl?”
He takes a sip of his beer and sets the bottle back down. “That’s not what I said. I still believe you need to have a paternity test done,” he responds. “But I also think you might be wise to think about what your next step is if you are, in fact, the father. Those thoughts are not mutually exclusive, my friend.”
I let out another breath and then drain the last of my beer. I think about calling for another round, but I feel myself suddenly growing a little lightheaded, and know I’ve had enough. Apparently I was wrong. I’m not quite as s
ober as a judge. But then, based on some things Elliott has told me, that old phrase isn’t exactly accurate all the time either.
“Be smart and protect yourself but prepare for what comes next. Think two or three moves ahead, Roman,” he goes on. “That’s all I’m saying.”
I nod. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Trust but verify, and all that.”
He laughs. “Quoting Ronald Reagan? God, you may really be drunk after all.”
“I’m buzzed, that’s for sure,” I admit. “I’ll take a car service home.”
“Good idea.”
Elliott looks at me for a long moment. Even in my current condition, I can see his mind working behind his eyes. But I’m suddenly not thinking clearly enough to try and parse out what’s going through his head.
“What about Scarlet?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “What’s there to say? She’s married. Saw her husband and everything.”
“So you assume,” he points out. “But then, you assumed Kinsey was her child with another man.”
It’s true, I saw the guy in the bed and assumed that he was Scarlet’s husband. It’s possible I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am. But then, even if it isn’t, I don’t think it matters anyway.
“She would rather stab me than date me, I think,” I laugh.
“You are just chock full of assumptions tonight, aren’t you?” El laughs along with me. “For being a man who values logic and things like empirical evidence above all else, I have to say, that’s kind of surprising.”
I run a hand through my hair, still grinning. “The way she glared at me – with absolute, visceral hatred – is empirical evidence enough for me.”
“Well, from what you told me, the fact that you said you’d get in touch with her after you left Syria – and didn’t – could account for the anger issues,” he chuckles. “Especially since you left her in Syria knocked up with your kid.”