His Secret Baby

by Jamie Knight

  “You’re leaving.”

  “Just the house, Dad. I was on my own for four years in college, I can handle this.”

  He almost looks… impressed. But just for a split second. Then it’s gone, replaced with his usual stoic businessman face. I’ve seen it a thousand times at the office, in meetings. But never directed at me. Until now.

  “I think that’s a mistake, Mariah. You’ll never make it in this city by yourself.”

  Those words sting. Pride is replaced with anger in my head. “God, Dad! You really don’t think I can do anything, do you? I’m just your stupid little girl who can’t tie her own shoelaces.”

  He doesn’t disagree with me. The silence is somehow worse than if he’d just said yes, or even pretended to deny it.

  “You know what, Dad? I’m going to do it. I’m going to live on my own, and I’m going to sell a million-dollar house, and I’m going to do it without you.”

  I zip my suitcase up, haul it off the bed, and glare at him. “Starting now. Goodbye.”

  With that, I walk past him and out the door.

  Once it closes behind me, I sag against the wall, drained. I have no fucking idea how I’m going to pull this off… but I will. I have to.

  Chapter 5

  Wesley

  I should probably get out of bed. Or off the internet. Or both.

  I ignore that inclination towards responsibility and stay curled up in my four-poster bed, staring at my laptop. You’d think cute animal videos are only for teenagers to text each other about, but here I am, watching a wiener dog and a lion being best friends.

  My dog, Carrie, jumps up on the bed next to me. She’s a sweet mutt, and I reflect, probably the best friend I have. “Aren’t you, girl? Yes, you are.”

  I scratch her ears and she nuzzles up next to me.

  I grew up having dogs and I can’t imagine living life without them. I know it’s fucking cheesy, but a dog is always there for you, even when people aren’t.

  Speaking of people, I think about texting or calling someone to go out for drinks. It’s the weekend, after all - shouldn’t people be around and up for something fun? I run down the list of people in my mind.

  Dennis: Married. Moved to Chicago.

  Andrew: Two kids. Ugh.

  Jeremy: In prison for tax fraud. Whoops.

  Back in the day, I had lots of buddies I used to hang with, but I guess it’s been longer than I thought since I’ve gotten together with any of them. Usually I just work a lot now – and so do they, unless they have families they spend a lot of time with, which is almost worse, in a way. A single guy always has time for happy hours or last minute parties. A married guy – or, worse, a guy with kids – never does.

  If I had a girl in my life, I wouldn’t want to be hanging out with a bunch of dudes either. So, I can understand where most of my friends who are now part of a couple are coming from.

  “Jesus, I really need to make new friends. Or meet a girl.”

  Right. Fat chance of that happening. I’m thirty-eight, and my perfect woman still hasn’t come along. I mean, there are plenty of women out there, and a lot of them are my type, I guess… blonde hair, blue eyes, curves in all the right places. More than that, though… I want someone who can match me when it comes to smarts, and isn’t just a doormat.

  “Maybe I should just post on Craigslist again, huh girl?” Carrie looks at me, then flops her head down on the bed when she figures out I’m not saying any of the magic words: “outside,” “food,” “toy,” “treat.”

  “Or maybe I should just stop talking to my dog so much. That could work too.”

  As if she understands me, Carrie tilts her head, grunts dismissively, and leaves the room. A familiar fwump tells me she’s settled into her favorite chair out in the main room. “Well. I guess I had that coming.”

  Not even my dog wants to hang out with me now.

  Maybe it’s time to get out of the house, hit the bar scene again. It’s not like I haven’t had my share of one-night stands, and it’s not like I haven’t thoroughly fucking enjoyed most of them, but nothing ever seems to get past that point.

  The last one felt like it might be going somewhere until I caught her on my balcony talking to a girlfriend on her cell about how she was just “going to wait it out until this old guy dies… I’ll be like one of Hugh Hefner’s Bunnies. Hot and rich.”

  Apparently, it wasn’t going as well as I thought – or not for the right reasons anyway. Not that being compared to Hef is the worst thing in the world - I still owe him an immense debt of gratitude for the pile of Playboy mags I stole regularly from our neighbor’s mailbox when I was a kid. Well, him and the kid who lived there, since he’s the one I expect took the blame for the stuff that ended up hidden under my mattress.

  But, fuck – I wasn’t even that much older than her. Ten years or so. I guess in her eyes, though, that was ancient.

  That experience taught me not to date younger women, and to be skeptical of ‘relationships’ I think are going well. In fact, I don’t really ‘do’ relationships now. Still, I keep finding myself wanting something more. Someone more.

  The desire’s fueled by boredom, at least in part, and I know that. But on the other hand, what’s wrong with wanting some excitement in life? Like I said, my friends are all married off, having kids and the like - it’s not like I want that, exactly… I just find myself jealous of the fact that whatever’s happening with either one of them in a couple, they get to share it. I used to think that eventually, that perfect woman would walk through the door and I’d just know it…

  I figure I’d be sitting at my desk, poring over some paperwork for my latest real estate deal, when a knock comes at the door. A young woman I’ve never seen before enters: she’s tall, blonde, curvy… with piercing blue eyes that would make me weak in the knees if I was standing up. Fortunately I’m not, so I keep my composure. She smiles at me cooly, a file held under her arm.

  “Mr. Drive, I take it.”

  “That’s me. Did you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I know that’s not a problem.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t take that shit from anyone… but right now, I’m at home alone on my bed, and the thought of someone standing up to me like that sends charges of excitement through my body. My cock starts to twitch, and I unbutton my pants.

  “It’s not?” I tilt my head back, sizing her up.

  She’s gorgeous, with a wardrobe to match. Her hair is long, falling across both her shoulders and brushing against the fabric of her red dress, which is just long enough to be professional and just short enough to push my imagination into gear. It hugs her hips perfectly, revealing their tempting curves.

  Her high heels look more like they belong onstage at a burlesque joint than in a real estate office, but who am I to complain? This is a fantasy, after all.

  “No. It’s not,” I answer her.

  “We need to discuss the terms of this latest lease your company is handling. It’s for the Machado family?”

  “Ah, the Machados. So that would make you - ”

  “Their lawyer.” She hands me the file. “And the one who caught on to the fact that you’re leasing their home to them at nearly $3,000 more a month than is necessary for upkeep and sustainable living conditions. So, the question is, where is the rest of that money going?”

  Her breasts are heaving just a bit with… passion, I assume? Despite my best intentions, it’s immensely distracting.

  “Listen. We lease our homes at extremely fair rates - ”

  “I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there. We both know that’s not true, and because I both know that and can prove it, I have just as much power in this room as you do. So what do you say we find a solution to this here and now instead of in the courts?”

  She’s moved closer as she speaks, and now she’s leaning forward over my desk, eyes locked on me. I stand up to match her.

  “I’m sure we can find a… mutually beneficial way to resol
ve this.” I can smell her perfume now, and it’s intoxicating.

  She comes around the desk. Our faces and bodies only inches apart now. Somewhere in the back of my head, I know this fantasy is akin to the cheesiest 70’s porn out there - but my cock is hard, my imagined perfect woman is… well, perfect, so I don’t give a shit. I stroke my cock, and -

  I can feel her breath on my neck as she whispers, “I’m glad.” and nips at my skin. My hands are on her shoulders now, gripping tightly, and she strains just the slightest bit under my fingers. She bites her bottom lip, but can’t quite keep the low moan of desire inside.

  I turn her around, and she goes to her elbows on the desk without the slightest hint of complaint. Her juicy bottom is sticking up at me, ready to be taken. I run my hands over her wide hips, down to her exposed legs… and pull up her dress. Her panties match it - a vibrant red, and when I slip two fingers between her thighs, she’s already soaked them.

  “You knew exactly what you were doing, coming here, didn’t you?”

  “I always do. And you’d better work something mutually agreeable out with me, or…”

  “Now stop talking and let me do what I want with you,” I command her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now she knows who’s in charge.

  Her panties slide down her legs, lying across her heels like lacy, castoff flower petals. With two fingers inside her already, I push in and out, feeling her juices. My cock is as hard as I’ve ever felt it, and with my free hand I undo my belt.

  “Don’t make a mess on my floor while I’m having my way with you,” I warn, and then I’m inside her.

  She presses back against me, demanding the full length of my shaft. She feels amazing. I tease her at first, sliding in and out of her wet pussy ever so slowly…

  “If you don’t start fucking me for real, we’re going to have a problem.” Her head’s down on the desk, but she’s no limp toy to be used. “They call it a quickie for a reason.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  I start to speed up my thrusts, locking my hands into a strong grip around her hips.

  “That’s more like it!” she manages between deep moans of enjoyment.

  “Fuck yeah it is.” I twine my fingers through her hair and pull - she loves that, and so do I - and she stops talking.

  I’m close already. It’s hard not to be, with her. I thrust a few more times, then press as deep as I can into her, grip her hips hard enough to leave bruises...

  …and cum. The office disappears, she disappears, and about thirty seconds later, I open my eyes. I’m lying on the bed, cum splashed on my belly. I grab a tissue from the nightstand and clean myself up.

  Jesus, you’re kind of sad, Wesley. Jerking off at home thinking about a fantasy with a make-believe woman that happens at the office? Is that really the best you can do? Come on.

  I hate that I know that’s right. As fun as strong blonde woman is, she’s imaginary, and I need something real. That’s when it hits me.

  “A vacation. I need a vacation. Somewhere new, fresh, somewhere that isn’t this town!”

  I grab my phone and call my secretary’s line. It’s Saturday, she won’t answer - but I’m not waiting to do this. “Hey, Charlene, it’s me. Listen, I’m going to be out of the office this week. Taking some vacation time. Not sure where, exactly, yet…just a vacation though. I’ll see you in a week.”

  Well then. A vacation it is.

  Chapter 6

  Mariah

  The interview goes south fast. It’s the first promising one I’ve gotten in a week – two other ones were duds – and I’m desperate for it to turn into a job… but not this desperate.

  “Put your dick away, asshole.” I stare across the desk at the scrawny white dude doing the ‘interviewing.’ He’s standing up, his pants are unzipped, and he’s got that predatory, ‘you know you want it’ look on his face that so many women, myself included, have seen a dozen times too many.

  “What’d you say?” The guy (Seth, I think is how he introduced himself?), looks at me quizzically.

  “You heard me. I’m not sucking your dick so I can maybe get a job in the mailroom. On the other hand, if you’d like to pay me for the beej you clearly so desperately want, we can talk. ‘Hashtag: Sex Work Is Real Work,’ you prick.”

  I’m kidding – I wouldn’t really go down on him for money, but I just like messing with him because he’s such a jerk.

  Just then, the door to the office opens, and an older woman walks in. “Oh! Justin, what are you doing in my office?”

  The fact that this guy’s real name is Justin combined with the expression on her face tell me pretty clearly that I’m fucked. Fortunately, so is he.

  “So much for the side hustle, hey Justin?” I ask.

  The dude looks terrified now. Good. I turn my attention to the older woman, who, it now clicks into place, must be the real S. Goodwyn whose nameplate is on the door.

  “Hello Ms. Goodwyn,” I tell her. “Your assistant was just interviewing me for a job that I’m guessing doesn’t even exist. I don’t even want to know how many times he’s turned your office into a Casting Couch.”

  Goodwyn looks appalled, and to her credit, doesn’t hesitate a second after surveying the whole scene. “Justin, get the hell out of my office. You’re fired. And don’t think I won’t make sure your next place of potential employment hears about this shit.”

  Justin’s practically frozen in place, unable to speak. “Get out!” she snaps again, and off he goes like someone just stuck his finger in a socket.

  “I am so, so sorry about this,” Goodwyn says, with a mix of fury and mortification on her face. “We didn’t even have a position available. But,” she adds, apparently having an idea striking her, “One did just open up. I’m Stephanie Goodwyn. What’s your name?”

  Relief floods my body, and I let out a half-laugh. “Mariah. Mariah Harper.”

  “Wait. Mariah Harper? As in the Harper Realtor Company?”

  I wasn’t expecting her to come right out and ask that, but I probably should have. The real estate game in the city, as my father put it, is “immensely competitive. Some businesses are dog-eat-dog; ours is wolves and bears tearing each other apart.” Shit.

  “Yes. He’s my father.” I level my gaze at her.

  Why oh why did I put that on my resume? I should have just come up with a fake name. The other interviews I’ve had weren’t with people who were smart enough to catch on. But S. Goodwyn certainly knows her stuff.

  She meets my gaze, and her eyes are steely again as she crosses the room to sit behind her desk.

  “I’m sorry, dear. That’s going to be a problem. You must know that your father’s company is our largest competitor, and handing a position as sensitive as this one to his daughter…well, I’m sure you can imagine the issues that would cause.”

  I take a deep breath to keep the tears out of my voice and replace them with anger. “So you’ll hire an assistant who I can only assume is a serial harasser, but you won’t even consider me? I don’t work for my father.”

  Goodwyn blinks, and her look softens. “I truly am sorry for that. As you can see, I rectified the situation immediately. Our company does not tolerate harassment. But we also have a business to run - and your presence could very well seriously damage that.”

  She’s right about all this, and I know it. She did the right thing firing her assistant on the spot… and unfortunately, I can understand why she thinks she’s right about not hiring me to replace him. I want to fight her, but I can’t think of any way to do so.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Justin walking by with a box in his arms.

  “I understand,” I tell her. “Thanks for the interview.

  Goodwyn frowns. I can tell she feels bad; but it’s not her fault.

  “All right. Best of luck to you,” she says, probably wondering why I’m not working for my dad.

  That’s too long of a story to explain in an interview, and it’s clea
r I’m not going to get this job anyway. Might as well make my way out of here and try to see if I can get interviews anywhere else.

  I duck out of the office, setting my sights on Justin’s retreating back. I soon catch up to him and race ahead to the door, making sure not to hold it open for him. Once I’m outside, I turn around to see him pausing, box in hand, on the other side of the door, as if wondering whether he’ll have to put the box down to get out of the building.

  “Karma’s a bitch,” I mouth to him through the door.

  It’s not as if I got him back by doing the same thing he did to me – nor would I want to – but at least I was rewarded by getting to see a little justice in action before I was on my way.

  It takes exactly four steps from the sidewalk to the subway for me to start rethinking everything I just did in that office building. I should’ve pushed harder for that job, or argued more, or threatened to sue, or something! Anything.

  But no, here I am on the street again, leaving my fifth failed interview in three days. Maybe Dad was right - maybe I’m not ready.

  “No.” I stop on the sidewalk, muttering softly to myself. “You can do this. You’re not a quitter. You didn’t quit when you were eleven and that kid down the street threw a stick into your bicycle spokes, did you? No, you soaked him with a hose every day he left his house for a week.”

  That memory, at least, makes me smile.

  It’s not a long walk back to the motel where I’ve been staying ever since I very ceremoniously left my father’s house. The place is called the Cityscape Motel, which is a total lie. I’m in a room on the top floor, and my view so far consists of a concrete wall and a single window, the shades of which are always drawn.

  “Ugh.” I’m almost out of clean clothes. The blouse-and-skirt combo I’m wearing right now is my last real ‘business’ outfit. Not that it matters much, since I don’t have any more interviews set up.