My Bad Boy Boss's Secret Baby

“Hey sweetie,” Auntie Blair greeted, giving me a great big bear hug.

“Hi,” I said, a bit too overwhelmed to think of anything better.

Some weird but great music blasted from the stereo as we roared up the freeway. I unconsciously took hold of the ‘oh shit’ bar above the door.

“What’s that?” I asked, having to yell to be heard.

“Motörhead,” Auntie Blair yelled back.

Of course. Of course, it was. The name was so perfect and the sound so awesome, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Go get changed, sweetheart,” auntie Blair said, as soon as we were through the door to her modest home.

“Changed for what?” I asked.

Auntie Blair just raised an eyebrow, as though to say we both knew exactly what she was talking about.

In the privacy of the guest room, I dug through the pretty dresses to the clothes I’d hidden at the bottom of the suitcase. Feeling like a smuggler as I had done so — personality contraband.

Awkwardly, I shed the adorable, if deplorable and obscenely expensive Donna Karen number I had worn to the airport in San Antonio. Left in the girlish cotton underthings, I took those off as well, instead opting for a pair of boxer briefs and a sports bra.

Eminently more comfortable, as well as covered, I slipped into the jeans and Longhorns home Jersey I had brought. Feeling almost elated as I gathered my hair up into a ponytail and pulled a cap down over it. I left my feet bare for the moment to recover from the heels.

Cautiously, I turned and looked at myself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. It came on slowly. Starting at the very corner of my lips, it crept ever upward until the smile had occupied my entire mouth. I looked fucking awesome. Still like a girl but the girl I wanted to be, instead of the one my daddy demanded.

As I walked into the kitchen, the smell nearly knocked me out, though in the best possible way. It had been years since I’d had green chili, and it only took one whiff to remind my tummy how hungry I was.

I’d been hungry for a while. Daddy put on what amounted to a wife training diet—repeatedly mentioning my girlish figure. Though I had no idea what he was talking about. I knew what he was thinking of, sure enough, but it was never a description that fit me.

I’d always been athletic as well as almost flat-chested up until a few years before. After my 17th birthday, breasts apparently decided to make up for lost time and came in with a vengeance. From 22A to 22C, seemingly overnight. Wasn’t that a cruel trick for nature to play? Though not getting my first period until I was 16 came in a close second.

“You look great,” auntie Blair said, turning from the pot.

“Thanks,” I beamed.

“Sports bra?” she asked secretively, as though Daddy might hear us from Terrell Hills.

“Um, yeah,”

“Good girl,” she winked.

Hearing her say that made me happy. Even more than when Daddy did. Probably because he wanted me to do things ‘right’ and Auntie Blair wanted me to do what was right for me. I could feel the tension release from my shoulders. It was relaxing to be somewhere I could openly be a tomboy.

“So, what’s with this marriage business?” Auntie Blair asked out of the clear blue.

“Sorry?” I asked, nearly dropping my spoon.

“Your daddy made it very clear that being a mechanic was just a hobby for you to do after you’re married.”

“I—”

“Please tell me that was a ruse,” she said.

“Yeah,” I confessed.

“Good, you are far too young for such a responsibility, even if it was someone you wanted to marry.”

“How did you know?”

“Intuition, darling. The suitor is the son of your dad’s business partner. It has marriage of convenience written all over it. Oh God, he didn’t get a dowry, did he?”

“No,” I giggled, “at least I don’t think so.”

“Let’s hope not. Either way, I think you should just focus on being a mechanic and not worry about relationships right now. Get a skill, get yourself settled, and then find a guy you can meet on even ground.”

“Like you and Uncle Bill?” I asked.

“Exactly,” she said, only the slightest twitch of pain in her eyes.

It seemed radical. At least according to everything I’d ever been taught. Yet, as we sat down to green chili stew, I wondered if my aunt might be right. What she’d suggested sounded a lot more appealing than what I had been doing.

“It would be nice not to marry Art,” I said, daubing the chili with a bun, “not only because he’s got a wandering eye, if you know what I mean.”

“All too well, and you shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of bullshit from any man. Least of all your husband. You should be able to count on him. He didn’t—” She looked me up and down with a raised eyebrow.