Baby Maker (It Takes Two 1)

He twists left then right. Finally he turns it sideways and stretches out his long legs, parking his motorcycle boots next to the side of my chair. The lazy charmer persona he wears without effort is nowhere to be found.

“I would like you to reconsider me for…” His eyes dart from the utensils he’s busy rearranging, to the table next to us where a couple of suits keep glancing furtively in his direction. “You know––as a potential baby daddy,” he adds, turning down the volume of his deep, raspy voice by a couple of decibels.

“Baby daddy?” I repeat, my attention locked onto his hyper-focused gaze. “We’re talking about having a child together, not something to be taken lightly…this isn’t a joke.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

He sounds offended. Boo-hoo. Cry me a river. “No,” I answer, head shaking to drive home my point.

His whole demeanor changes, takes the shape of determination mixed with a touch of resentment. A small vein pops up in between his brows. He runs a supersized hand through his unruly hair and tugs on the ends.

Before he can jump into the argument I can see brewing, I continue. “No, I don’t. I’m not even sure you’re capable of taking care of yourself.”

At my gesture to his eye, he frowns.

“Give me a chance. Get to know me before you say no for good.”

He’s serious. I would venture to say almost desperate to convince me. Not only does this make me suspicious, but also begs the question why. What reason could he possibly have to want a child with a stranger? One that he doesn’t like, and doesn’t like him in return.

I sit back, arms crossed. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to have a baby with me? Why not get married and have one the conventional way? I’m sure there are plenty of women who would accommodate you, three in this restaurant alone by the looks of it. You may even have a couple of kids scattered about the country you’re unaware of, Mr. Fuck Hard.”

He didn’t like that last jab, his eyes turning into slits, his lips pressing together tightly.

I tip my head in the direction of the table near the door where three women of childbearing years are foaming at the mouth as they undress him with their eyes.

Following my line of sight, he spots them and exhales. His expression changes to troubled. Admittedly, I’m a little surprised. I would assume this is the kind of attention he welcomes.

“Give me one good reason why I should consider binding myself to you for the rest of my life.”

The silence continues, for enough time that I assume I’m not going to get an honest answer out of him.

“My mother left us when I was five.” His gaze moves down to the tabletop, to where his long fingers fiddle with the paper wrapper of his straw. I watch him flatten it against the wood, smooth out the wrinkles with the pads of his blunt fingers, his nails short and neat.

“She took off with some carny that was headed out west. He filled her head with a bunch of nonsense that she wasn’t meant to waste her beauty on a ranch…Happened again when I was eight. She called from Vegas beggin’ for money for a bus ticket home. After that she stayed put for three whole years. I was fifteen the last time she left––for good it turns out. By then it was a relief…always waitin’ for the other shoe to drop. If today was gonna be the day.”

This is costing him to tell me. I can see it on his face, in his stiff posture, in the way the cords of muscles of his forearms flex while resting on the table. For reasons unknown, seeing him look so vulnerable makes me uncomfortable. A small pang of shame hits me.

“Each time she left, a part of my father died. It was like…the light went out of him. The only time I saw him shine was when he came to watch me play.”

His face lifts and it’s all in his hard eyes: the leftover pain, the work it took to overcome it, the determination.

“Football gave me everything. A ticket out of sad town and my father back for four quarters on Sunday. I’ll never get married. I don’t believe in it.” His eyes briefly flicker away. He exhales. When they return to me, they’re soft, a bit of hope restored. “But I want a kid…a son, hopefully, to share with him what I have with my dad.”

I expected one of his obnoxious comebacks. I expected more callousness. I didn’t expect him to bare his soul. His honesty, the one thing I didn’t anticipate, gets under my skin and peels back the thick layer of resolve I thought I’d sufficiently shored up. And for the first time, I see what Ethan sees in this guy––I see potential.

“I can promise you I will never shirk my responsibilities. I swear to you that I’ll always be there for our kid.” He pauses. Laser-focused, his gaze won’t let mine go. “And my hunch is you’re the reliable sort, too.”

Every legitimate argument I had a minute ago seems trivial under the weight of his stare, and the conviction behind his words.

“Okay,” I say half-dazed, the word sliding out without thought.

“Okay?” he repeats, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I’ll give you a chance. We’ll get to know each other and then I’ll decide––don’t make me regret it.”

No smile this time. Wylder’s expression is serious like it never is. “I won’t.”

Chapter Seven

Dane

I’m a man of action, not one to sit around and wait for things to happen. I go after what I want and I go after it hard. So when I don’t hear from Stella the following week after our lunch, I start to have doubts, thoughts that say she was stringing me along only to get rid of me later, and hell would freeze over before I’d let that happen.

It didn’t take long to wear Ethan down. He gave me her cell number after I threatened to show up at her office every day until someone else gave it to me. After that, it was only a question of how long it would take to convince her to see the merits of choosin’ me.

Me: Busy or can you talk?

Stella: Who is this?

Me: The father of your child. :) Are you hungry?

Stella: No, and how did you get this number?

Me: I asked. Let’s have lunch.

Stella: …

Stella: Ethan?

Me: He never stood a chance. Let’s have lunch and you can get to know me better.

Stella: I’m working.

Dane: It’s Saturday. Let’s have lunch. I’ll be at your place in twenty to pick you up. You said you would give me a chance.

Stella: …

Stella: How do you know where I live?

Me: No comment.

Stella: :/Fine.

Twenty minutes later, I’m waiting by my Harley when she walks through the doors of her building. She’s in black jeans and a white t-shirt, hair pulled back painfully tight. She takes one long look at my bike and tilts her pretty head.

“You expect me to get on that thing?”

’Kay, I guess that’s out of the question. “We can take a cab.”

“Do you have a car? On the off chance I decide to shackle myself to you for the rest of my life?”

“When you choose me––when. And don’t fret, they make the cutest little baby seats for bikes. I’m gonna get one custom made with a matching blue baby helmet.” Staring seems to be her only reaction. “Or I could put the baby seat in my Escalade.”

Crossing her arms, she glances down the street. “There’s a good restaurant around the corner. Do you like Chinese?”

A smile stretches across my face. It can’t be helped. I seem to always want to smile around this one. And the more prickly she gets the more it makes me smile.

“Chinese sounds great.”

We walk in silence all the way there. I get the impression she’s uncomfortable around me and that’s the last thing I want her to be. Considering what happened the last time we saw each other, after I spilled my guts, I was hoping she would loosen up a little, let her guard down, but that guard seems insurmountable right about now.

I’ve never told that story before. As I sat there wo

rkin’ up an argument, debating what to do, it was her eyes that made the choice for me. Her eyes convinced me she could be trusted. They’re inherently open, reflecting a strength of character I’ve seldom seen, if ever, in a woman.

I knew then that if I wanted her to take me seriously, I had to put my trust in her. Best decision I ever made. I walked away from that lunch feeling better than I had in years, the burden a little lighter. My future lookin’ a little brighter. Strange that.

The restaurant is mostly empty. We sit in a booth in the back, far away from the curious stares fixed on us since we walked in. At six-five it’s kind of hard to miss me.

My attention is one hundred percent on the woman sitting across from me. She’s trying to hide behind those ugly glasses again. I think that’s what threw me off when we first met. She uses those things to distract.

Slowly those baby blues lift off the menu and take me in. A strange burning sensation grows in my chest. Feels like heartburn but I haven’t eaten yet. I make a mental note to get a physical some time this week.

“Are you okay?” she asks with genuine concern.

Cute. She’s cute. “What’s with the glasses, Clark Kent? They’re as big as your face.”

A dark eyebrow bumps up. “These happen to be Morgenthal Frederics.”

“Morga what?”

“A designer––not that it’s any of your business.”

“I think it is my business if your faulty eyesight will earn my kid the name Franky Four Eyes with his school buddies.”