The Baby Gamble (Texas Hold'em)

Annie couldn’t get any words out.

“Annie?” Becky leaned forward until their eyes met. “Isn’t he just leaving the goods at the fertility clinic?”

Annie didn’t move.

“He’s not.”

Still staring at her friend, Annie shook her head. Once. Slowly.

“You’re going to make love with your ex-husband—a man who, if I remember your description correctly, made you utterly crazy just with the touch of his hand?”

“What? You want to discuss positions or something?” Annie was ashamed of the comment as soon as it was out.

“I want to talk about you.” Becky didn’t even acknowledge the rudeness. “About your heart, and how you’re going to do this without losing yourself again.”

“I’m going into it with my eyes fully open,” Annie said emphatically, wanting very much to believe that she was right about that. “So the sex part might be good. What’s wrong with a little pleasure?”

“Annie Kincaid. This is me you’re talking to. I can’t believe you didn’t tell him to visit the clinic.”

“He made the old-fashioned method of conception a condition of his acceptance.” There. She’d said it. And the words were as painful, as frightening spoken out loud as they’d been when they were rattling around in her head all night.

“He did.”

“Yes,” she said, even more sharply. Challenging Becky to make something of it.

When her friend said nothing at all, Annie drained her wineglass.

THEY WERE HALFWAY THROUGH dinner when Annie heard a car door close out front. A common occurrence on this street, which was filled with middle-class families. Especially on a Saturday night. Tonight she couldn’t sit still. The sound reverberated in her brain like a gunshot. A prelude to something to come. A knock on her door? A visitor she didn’t want and couldn’t handle? Especially not with a glass of wine playing with her emotions.

He was probably halfway up the walk by now. Jumping up, Annie approached the front window from the side, peeking through the sheers without being seen. She knew it wasn’t Blake. There would be a car out front of one of her neighbors’ homes. Blake had no reason to visit her. Ever.Except when she called him over to make a baby.

The car out front wasn’t a Lincoln Continental. And it wasn’t on her side of the street, either. It was a Jeep. And…

“Bec? Didn’t you say Shane was at Devin’s house, having pizza and watching a movie with some of the guys from the team?”

“Yeah, that’s right. They’re watching that old Jim Carrey movie, Me, Myself and Irene. Shane’s seen it before but he thinks it hilarious.”

Annie turned from the window, still holding the sheers so she could see out. “He’s not at Devin’s.”

“What?” Glass in hand, Becky joined her at the window and glanced out.

Standing with her best friend, Annie watched as fifteen-year-old Shane Howard, with occasional glances toward Annie’s house, leaned back against the Jeep parked in front of Katie Hollister’s house, pulled the eighteen-year-old between his spread legs and kissed her full on the lips.

BLAKE AWOKE WITH A START. His bedroom door, which he’d shut and locked with the dead bolt he’d had installed before he’d moved in, had just creaked open. He tried to see through the darkness. Could only make out a thin sliver of light where the door was ajar.

Someone was in the room. He had to get up. Wasn’t going to be taken captive lying down again. But his arms and legs wouldn’t move. He couldn’t turn his head. The covers trapped him and held him hostage. Sweating profusely, Blake struggled to break free, to move at all. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anyone. He didn’t have much time.And then…the blow came from nowhere, straight to his chest, a heavy weight crushing him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. He could see the creature. Could make out the large green puss-filled eyes. Could feel the thin, sharp fingers curling into his skin. It was a demon. Rank-smelling breath spewed forth, attacking Blake’s nostrils, while matted hair brushed his chin. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die.

Suddenly free, Blake shot up and out of bed. Out of the room, and grabbing his keys and wallet as he ran, out of the house. The Lincoln purred to life and he roared down the driveway, heart pounding as he sucked air into desperate lungs.

The all-night coffee shop was just around the next corner. Blake focused on his destination, on the turn signal and steering wheel and gas pedal. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot, he had his breathing under control. Running a hand through his hair, over the T-shirt and sweats he slept in because of occasions such as these, he reached into the backseat for the tennis shoes he’d kept there for two years, since the first visit he’d had from his night stalker. He slipped them on. Tied them. And with shaking hands reached for the door handle.

“Hey, Blake, it’s been awhile.” Hallie, the forty-something waitress, met him at his usual booth, a pot of decaf in hand.

“Thanks, Hal,” he said, taking a sip, the coffee’s warmth seeping through him, bringing him back.

Hand on her hip, she looked him over. “Rough one, huh?”