“Want to watch cartoons?” Quinn pats the spot next to him on the bed. He winks at me before he starts laughing. I can’t help but laugh. Not at him, but with him. He makes everything better in my life. I take the spot next to him, putting my arm around him. He cozies up against my chest. I rest my head on top of his and watch his morning shows.
Since moving to Beaumont, he’s adjusted so well. I’m sure he misses his tutor, but I like the idea of him getting on the bus every morning and sitting in a classroom. I don’t know what it’s like to make him a lunch and help him put his backpack together. He needs to be with kids his age and not depend on me or the television for entertainment. I like the relationship he’s developed with Noah, who has taken sort of a big brother role with Quinn. If I didn’t know better, I’d say things are looking up for us, except for me in the love department. Seems I’m jonesing after someone that doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.
I startle awake at the sound of knocking. My sorry ass saunters to the door. I’m not even sure what time it is, but the sun is blazing through the windows in my front room. I should remember to shut those before I go to bed. The knocking comes again, stronger this time. I rub my head, pulling at my hair. I need a haircut, it’s getting too long.
“I’m coming,” I yell out when the offender knocks again. I undo the chain and deadbolt. You can never be too safe in Los Angeles. I open the door to a nice little package. She’s tall and skinny. Her hair pulled back in a tight pony tail. My eyes drift down, her eyes hiding behind dark glasses. Her lips are painted a dark red and I wonder how long it would take me to get that nasty crap off them. She’s wearing a tight black t-shirt with 4225 West on the front. Lovely, I’ve opened the door for a groupie. Sam is going to have a field day with this one. I continue my once over, her tight jeans accentuating her rocking little figure.
She rests one hand on her hip and sighs. “This is heavy, can you let me in?” I look at her other hand, she’s carrying some type of large contraption and it’s making noise.
“Do I know you?”
“Of course you do,” she says with such confidence that I push the door wider, allowing her to step in. As she walks by, I notice the contraption is actually carrying a baby. This chick brought her kid to my house. I certainly hope I didn’t tell her I’d babysit. I know I was drinking last night, but pretty sure I’d remember offering to change diapers.
I follow her into the living room. She sits down on the couch and leaves her baby in the carry thing on the floor. I stand, across from her, against the wall, still not sure if I know this woman.
“Do you remember me?”
I shake my head.
“No, you probably don’t. You were pretty hammered.”
“I don’t get hammered,” I say in response her to statement. That is the one thing I’ve prided myself on, not drinking myself into a stupor. People make stupid decisions when they’ve been drinking.
“Well, you were that night.”
“What’s your name?” I’m quickly realizing that I’ve made a mistake letting her into my house.
“Alicia.”
“Alicia, what?”
“Tucker. Alicia Tucker. We met about ten months ago.”
I’m not stupid. I can do the math. I know it takes nine months for a baby to do its thing.
“Looks like you’ve been busy since we met.” This comment causes her to rip her sunglasses off her eyes. If looks could kill, I’d be dead right about now and she’d be cleaning out my checking account.
“We met ten months ago after one of your shows. I was backstage and we went to the bar. I bought you a drink and you brought me back here.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say. I can only imagine what happened when we came back here and sad to say it, but it wasn’t memorable.
“Anyway, this...” she points to the carrier on the floor. “Is yours.”
The last two words hang in the air. I heard her loud and clear. I don’t need her to repeat herself. I look at her and the carrier. The baby is mostly covered, except the face. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. I really don’t care. This chick is nuts. I always wrap my junk.
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“What makes you think he’s mine?”
“Because we slept together and I got pregnant.”
“Not possible. I don’t drink so I can avoid situations like this. I always wrap my junk. Your kid isn’t mine.”
“It is.”
“It? Do you not know what you gave birth to?”
She rolls her eyes and places her hands on her hips. I stare at her, not willing to give an inch. Her phone rings. She takes it out and looks at it, smiling. How can she be smiling? This isn’t anything to smile about. She’s blaming her mistake on me. She pockets her phone and looks at me.