His Secret Baby

by Jamie Knight

  Maybe I should just walk in to all the real estate offices I can find, I think, or drop in on an open house and convince the realtor showing the place that I’m indispensable and that he should hire me immediately. Right, by doing what? Refilling the cookie plate?

  “If that’s what it takes.” I’m only talking to myself, but I guess that’s fine, since I’m the one who needs to hear my pep talk.

  The hotel’s elevator is incredibly old, with one of those wrought-iron sliding gates instead of a door. As it creaks and groans its way up to the sixth floor, it hits me that I’m in both a literal and metaphorical box.

  I only took one of Dad’s credit cards, in an effort to prove that I didn’t need unlimited resources and figuring I’d be able to survive on my own once I landed a job. That was two weeks ago.

  Two weeks of staying in this crappy motel, eating mostly microwave dinners, working out in the tiny ‘gym,’ and dreading the day I’d have to use their sorry excuse for a laundry room. Now, I’m halfway to the credit limit on the card, I’ve gone on six failed interviews, and I’m out of clean clothes.

  I honestly thought that getting a job would be way easier and faster than this. I’m not sure what to do next, but I know I can’t give up. I can’t let Dad be right - and I sure as hell won’t let Charles be right, let alone be my husband.

  I flop on the bed and try to ignore the thin cloud of dust that rises around me.

  “Hey, at least if I get murdered here they won’t need to bother with that chalk dust thing,” I say to no one in particular.

  I lay here for a while, doing nothing. Finally, I check the time. It’s only eight o’clock in the evening, and I feel too awake to try and sleep, but too exhausted and listless from the day to do much of anything productive.

  This is ridiculous.

  Interning for Dad’s company, I got used to eighteen-hour days, either in the office watching him negotiate a tough deal, or out on the road when he travelled to show some of the higher-end houses to clients in person. Now here I am, wanting to call it quits after a handful of bad interviews?

  Granted, that last one was a doozy. It was the single worst interview experience I’ve ever had, but still. Bouncing back is a necessity, I remind myself. I can’t give up, can’t go back. If I do, I’ll regret it.

  So, let’s start small. I’ll do something simple.

  Like… the laundry.

  Chapter 7

  Mariah

  Steeling myself, I gather up the clothes I’ve scattered around the hotel room over the last few weeks and throw them into the mash hamper that the hotel (incredibly) has provided, and that I’ve stared at as it’s hung on the back of the bathroom door every day until now before dropping my clothes on the floor.

  I really didn’t want to have to do this, but here goes nothing. It’s time to face reality, and my reality is that I’ve been at this hotel long enough to need to wash clothes.

  Hefting the hamper and the quarters I’ve scavenged from my purse, I head down the hallway to the cramped laundry room, now just wearing the XXXL Bugs Bunny t-shirt I sleep in. It’s so long it goes to my knees. I throw my clothes in the machine, which looks (if it’s possible) even older than the elevator.

  Only when I see that someone’s accidentally left their detergent behind do I realize that I don’t have any. I thought for sure this place would have one of those dispensers that guests can buy necessities from. I guess they don’t like making extra money.

  Darn – there’s no way to actually wash these clothes without detergent. But I’m in the zone now, and a little problem like that won’t slow me down. Stealing a look down the hallway to be sure the coast is clear, I snag the abandoned container of detergent from atop the washer and pour a healthy amount into the machine, on top of my clothes.

  Closing the lid, I take my best guess as to which settings to use, and feed my quarters to the machine. It kicks into gear with a rumble approximating a steam engine, but it does work. The low, rumbling vibration I feel when I rest my hand on top of it reminds me of something else I haven’t done in a while, so, with time to kill, I head back to my room.

  Rifling through my mostly empty suitcase, I grab one of the few essentials I took from the house when I left but haven’t made use of yet: my vibrator.

  “Did you miss me, George?” I ask the purple silicone rabbit vibrator.

  He is, of course, named after George Clooney. Most of my friends laughed when I told them that - sure, they all had nicknames for their vibrators (or if they were rich, their wands) too, but they were all some variation on Chris (Hemsworth, Evans, and on) or occasionally Timberlake.

  But, like I told them, I’ve been into men like Clooney ever since I saw him in Oceans 11. Suave, smart, badass, the best at whatever he was doing… I assumed that expertise extended to the bedroom. It certainly does when it comes to my fantasy version of George, anyway.

  I’ve never really found myself interested in younger men, either in fantasy or reality. Most are too immature, some are too inexperienced, and all of them expect me to put them before work, which, as I’ve found myself explaining over and over again, is never going to happen.

  That may be one of the reasons I’m still a virgin, but it doesn’t bother me. George does the job just fine, and even better, he doesn’t insist on talking about feelings afterwards or wonder why I work so much.

  Flopping back on the bed, I pull off my baggy shirt and kick off my panties. Staring at the ceiling, I try to slow my breath just a bit and clear my head of all the crap that’s bouncing around in there. I’ve earned a chance to relax and enjoy myself for a bit. To indulge in this fantasy.

  I’m standing at the window of my future office, which I imagine to be thirty floors up overlooking the skyline of the city. The sun’s setting. It’s my favorite time of day. The next few hours will be quiet around the office; it’s when I get the most done.

  There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call out, wondering who it is who is still here working. The door swings open.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, staring at the man in the doorway. His name escapes me, but we had a meeting earlier today with his firm. “I turned down your offer already. Who let you back up here?”

  The man smiles. He’s older, but still cut - I had to remind myself to focus on the business side of things more than once in our meeting earlier. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for the deal - I’m here for you.”

  This makes me turn around and face him. He’s closed the door of my office and is standing right in front of me. “What are you talking about?”

  “I admire you. For more than one reason.” He’s touching me now, running his hands up and down my arms and shoulders. I quiver under his touch, but I don’t pull away. It feels…good.

  In real life, on my back, eyes closed, I run my hands over my skin. From my collarbone, down across my breasts, nipples not quite hard yet… over my stomach, until I reach my hips.

  In my fantasy, his hands are on my hips now. “I want this. I want you. Do you want me?”

  Soft as the rustle of silk sheets over skin, I answer, “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  His grip tightens, and my pulse races at the way he touches me. He unzips my dress, letting it drop to the floor. One hand is around my neck, the other slips between my legs, caressing my already damp panties.

  In reality, with one hand, I play with my nipples, switching from right to left, squeezing and pinching. My other hand is between my thighs, teasing the lips of my pussy.

  In my fantasy, his lips trace a path across the skin of my neck as he plants kisses down to my collarbone. I moan softly as he unhooks my bra and I let it drop to the floor. I turn to face him, and we kiss for the first time. Deep, passionate, almost aggressive.

  I drop to my knees as he unbuckles his belt. His cock is half-hard already, and pulses with excitement at my touch. A soft moan escapes his lips as I press mine to the head of his shaft. A light flick of the tongue, and his ha
nds are in my hair. I massage his length with my hand, thrilling as he grows larger under my attentions.

  In real life, my fingers are already wet with my own juices. I pull them reluctantly away from my slit, and bring them up to my mouth. I slip two fingers between my lips and suck gently on them to start.

  In my fantasy, his cock is fully erect now, and I take full advantage of that, gripping his shaft at the base and pushing his head into my mouth. He exhales with pleasure, and I bob my head up and down along his length. I ram his head into the back of my throat, producing spontaneous gagging noises and thick saliva that I don’t even try to stifle.

  I look up at him, tears glistening in my eyes, mouth wrapped around his cock. He entwines his hands even deeper in my hair, pulling tight and producing an exhilarating pain that only makes me want him more. He pushes my head down with just the right amount of force, and I open my throat to him, taking his full length deep into my throat.

  He groans, and I smile around his cock, adding in a few licks to the balls for good measure. He stands me up, pulls off my panties, undresses himself the rest of the way, then leads me behind my desk and sits in my chair.

  In real life, I press the head of my vibrator against my wet lips, easing it between the, my body parts around it, practically demanding its entrance. With barely any effort, I push it inside me, resting the secondary ‘rabbit’ ears against my clit…and press the ‘on’ button.

  In my fantasy, I straddle him on the chair, relishing the feeling of him coming to rest inside me. We move in rhythm with each other, me moving up and down on his shaft, him pulsing his hips.

  In real life, I tap the vibrator again, shifting the low, gentle hum to a pulsing, aggressive rhythm - my favorite setting. I ease it in and out, just a few inches at a time, teasing and pleasing myself. Somewhere off beyond my closed eyelids, I can hear myself moaning loudly. Good…I deserve this, I think, returning to my fantasy.

  Wrapping his arms around me, he lifts me up, still inside me, and deposits me on my back on the desk. My legs are up in the air, ankles crossed behind his head as he thrusts, his hands reaching out to massage my breasts, tweaking my nipples. He pinches them both between his thumbs and forefingers at the same time he plunges deeper into me than ever before, and my orgasm begins to build.

  “Please… don’t stop,” I hear myself murmur. I press the vibrator even harder against my clit, feeling my muscles begin to contract around the shaft.

  In my fantasy, the speed of his strokes increases, and I can see in his eyes that he’s close too. My hands tighten their grip on his arms, feeling the muscles ripple under his skin as he moves. One of his thumbs finds the fleshy nub of my clit, massaging it as he thrusts - once - twice - three times - We both cry out together and…

  …in real life my orgasm erupts through my body, hips bucking, hands grasping at the sheets, toes curling, lungs gasping for air. I open my eyes and stare unseeing at the ceiling. My heart pounds.

  “Holy shit. Yeah. I needed that.”

  Chapter 8

  Mariah

  I’m feeling bold when my laundry timer goes off, so rather than putting my panties back on, I walk down the hall to the laundry room with just my long t-shirt on. It feels daring. Adventurous. Fun. Pulling my clothes out of the dryer, it hits me that those are the kind of feelings I’ve always loved having. I want to challenge people. Be daring, do things that they expect that I can’t.

  That’s why I could never be with Charles, or just go along with my father’s plan for my life. Charles may be slimy, but something tells me that if he’s smart enough to exert influence over Dad to the point where he wants to give the company to him, I’d spend the rest of my life sitting in a house knitting and wake up at sixty years old with nothing but a pile of ugly scarves to show for my life.

  “No fucking way.” I scoop the last of my clothes out of the dryer and into the motel hamper, then head back to my room.

  My head is spinning again, but in a good way this time. This time, I have resolve. I have a plan.

  Back in the room, I hang up my newly clean dress clothes, then turn my attention to my laptop. Even though the motel wifi sucks, I can still access Craigslist - so that’s what I do. Nestled in a pile of pillows (the only over-supplied item in this place), I start applying to any jobs I can find. Real estate office work comes first, but the truth is that so far, I may have been overestimating what my credentials can get me.

  Obviously, as the interview with the frowning S. Goodwyn has shown me, I can’t use my real last name anymore. The only way I’m going to make it is if I do it on my own terms, without the hangups of my father and his company around my neck.

  With that comes the realization that I’m probably going to have to start at the bottom. Landing a job as a full-fledged realtor isn’t easy, and even in my dad’s company, most employees worked their way up from the first floor, or even the basement, before they made names for themselves and made sales.

  So, there’s no way around it. I have to be in this for the long haul. And if I’m going to survive the long haul away from home, I can’t rely on the single credit card with a rapidly approaching credit limit to keep me on my feet. I need to work, and I need to work now.

  I visit the vending machine downstairs next to the hotel lobby, and return to the room with three cans of nice, cold Mountain Dew, which had always been my go-to when it came to putting in late nights at the office or in school.

  Cracking open the first can, I pull up Craigslist and start clicking. As I work, the refrain in my head slowly changes from Dad can’t be right, Dad can’t be right to I know I’m right. I can do this. I can do this.

  After a few hours, I’ve lost track of the number of jobs I’ve applied for: everything from coffee shop barista to secretary to typist and beyond. Anything is better than nothing to get started. I chide myself for not doing this two weeks ago, but my ambitions were larger than life, apparently. By the time I call it quits, it’s almost six o’clock in the morning, and two of my cans of Dew are empty.

  “Okay.” I close my laptop, trying to ignore the first glows of sunlight coming around my shades. “There’s being a workaholic, and there’s being psychotic. Let’s stay on the former side of that line for now.”

  Tossing my shirt on the floor, I curl up in the bed and, for the first time since I left home, am out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  When I wake up, it’s to the ringing of my cell phone and the rumbling of my stomach. Based on plenty of experience in the real estate world and a lot of long work nights, even barely awake, I have enough awareness to take a moment and plug some fake focus into my voice when I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hi, is this Mariah Young?”

  I sit up straight in bed, suddenly very much awake. Young is the fake last name I chose for my resume and cover letters last night. So, this call is obviously for a job.

  “Yes, this is she. May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “Hi Mariah, this is Gary over at Gruber Realty. We received your application for our office assistant position, and you’re by far the most qualified candidate. We’re looking to hire immediately - how soon could you come in for an interview?”

  I take the phone away from my ear long enough to see that it’s 4:32 p.m. “Um, any time really. How late are you in the office? I could even come in today.”

  “Oh, fantastic! I’m here until six. Why don’t I end the day on a high note and have you come in to see me at 5:30?”

  “Fantastic!” He gives me the address and suite number, and I scrawl it down, pulse thundering in my ears. “Got it. I will see you there. And thank you!”

  The call clicks off, I fall back onto the pillow…and that’s when the enormity of what’s just happened actually hits me. My eyes fly open, and I bolt up in bed with a shout of joy somewhere between a pterodactyl victory screech and the cry of a toddler who’s just hit their mother in the face with a mouthful of mashed veggies.

  �
�I got an interview! An actual interview!” I know I’m just talking to myself, but so what? I’m the only one here. This thought’s punctuated with the realization that I have about twenty-four minutes to get myself presentable enough to interview for the job that could turn everything around in my life.

  Chapter 9

  Mariah

  Adrenaline hits me.

  “You got this,” I mutter to myself. And I do - until, moving to get up, the sheets tangle around my ankles and I crash to the floor. “Good start.”

  After pushing myself up on rug-burned elbows, I’m off to the shower.

  Once that’s done (in a hurry, which means foregoing my usual ritual of using the detachable showerhead for its God-given real purpose), I dig through my laundry, super thankful that I kicked myself into gear enough to clean some things last night. After some deliberation, I settle on one of my favorite pantsuits, a deep blue one paired with a white blouse underneath. It looks professional and serious – Dad would be proud. But not proud enough to not want to marry me off to some sleazeball.

  On the walk over to the offices, which happen to be just a few blocks from my motel, I try not to let myself think about the fact that Gruber Realty is the number two company in the area… in other words, my father’s biggest competitor. Sure, part of me desperately wants the job so I can shove it in his face - but I’m smart enough to know that I have to stick to the fake identity I drummed up, or I’ll never land work that’ll stick long enough for me to sell a house myself. No one wants to teach their insider secrets to the daughter of their competitor.

  “Okay. Suite 504. 504… five-oh-four. Got it.” I stride from the office directory board across the lobby to the elevators. Not that it matters, because the entryway is deserted at this time of day. I feel like a runway model with no audience - until I make it to Suite 504.