Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

“Mo-momma,” she cries out. “Wh-where’s Momma?” Kenny grasps Belle’s hand, and she startles awake, her lip quivering as tears drip from her lashes. She sucks in a breath and sits up in my lap, brushing the matted hair out of her face.

She looks around the space, dark and unfamiliar. Panic flashes in her eyes, and her spine stiffens. “Where’s my daddy?” And the ugly cry is on. Not just for Belle. Ken-man sucks back a tear as he lays against my side.

“Whys you sad, Belly? You go see your daddy tomorrow. Thrwee, ‘member?”

“JoJo?” Belle questions.

“Belly, it’s okay. You’re safe with JoJo.”

She nods, the corner of her lip still trembling. “I-is Daddy otay?”

“Yes, baby. Your daddy is okay. Remember, we’re having a slumber party.”

“You promise, I’s go home to my daddy when it’s this many?” She attempts to hold up three fingers, wiping her face with the back of her other hand.

“I will take you now, baby girl, if you want to go.”

Belle shakes her head from side to side. “I’m a big girl, JoJo. I’m otay.”

Kenny pats her hand again. “It’s okay, Belly. Auntie JoJo and me will both give you cuddles.”

Kenny relaxes back into his pillow, and Belle lies between us, holding on to us both until the morning sun greets the new day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MADDEN

“Another round of beers on the buff fucker!” Maverick yells over the music to the waitress, although we’re all still nursing our third longnecks.

I pull my attention away from the game on the TV. Nash Walters throws his third knuckleball this inning strikin’ the Boston Whalers out—a-fuckin-gain. Dude’s got an arm, but I hate him by default simply because of how he acts with Jo. Handsy. Flirty.

I notice a movement out of the corner of my eye. Maverick’s groping a handful of the waitress’ ass as she clears the empty bottles from the tabletop. She leans in and whispers something to Maverick, and he laughs, shaking his head as she walks away. I turn my attention back to the game, torturing myself. Nash Walters is the star pitcher for the Savannah Sailors. Sure, he ain’t makin’ it in the Majors, but he’s got notoriety, clout—and he obviously isn’t a pathetic overweight fuck. No, his muscles probably have muscles, if that were even possible. He probably has a high metabolism and can eat whatever the hell he wants without it going straight to his gut. Me, I gain five pounds just thinking about a cupcake. And just the way he looks at Jo, the way her smile beams when he leans in close or picks her up. Fuck.

Kissing her was stupid.

She doesn’t want me.

If she did, she wouldn’t have pushed me away.

She wouldn’t have left my arms and walked right fuckin’ into his.

Fuck. I slam my beer back and chug the contents. Pulling it away, I look at the label and realize how much I’ve missed the taste of Budweiser. Not any of that light shit tonight. Hell no. I’m knockin’ ’em back just like I used to without a care in the world. And I’ll regret it when I hit the gym on Monday, if I actually let Jo weigh me in. If the numbers haven’t dropped like I imagine they have, I’ll be a brooding dick. It’s a safer bet to just feel the looseness in my jeans or shirts. But stepping on the scale. Hell no.

“You assholes can get your own drinks, while I get some pussy,” Maverick interrupts my self-loathing as he knocks the barstool over as he stands. He walks toward the back of the bar, out of sight for the smoke-filled haze hangin’ over the air.

I turn my attention back to the game, wishin’ ill-will and harm on Nash Walters. If the asshole breaks an arm, he can’t be all handsy with my girl.

My girl…

Fuckin’ hell.

“Taint sucker took our damn waitress!” Carter complains, and I shrug, hopin’ he’d take the hint that I’m in no mood for their bullshit antics tonight.

“She sucked anyway.”

“We’ll find out for sure in about six minutes.” Carter laughs and kicks back his barstool. “Let’s head to the bar, get our own fuckin’ drinks.”

I follow him to the bar and straddle a stool, Nash Walters all but forgotten. The game lights up every TV behind the bar too. I should’ve kept my ass at home. Sulking there would have been less expensive, the cleanliness wouldn’t be questionable—thank you, Momma for having pity on my sorry ass—and there’s a cabinet full of Belle’s favorite snacks.