But I’m not going to see her again. She’s in Los Angeles, and she made it clear she didn’t want to have a relationship. On top of everything else, she’s just damn inconvenient, distracting me way too frequently.
I do not allow women to derail me from what I should be doing. I’m not weak or blind like Dad. A woman is like a good wine. You appreciate a glass, maybe two…and then you’re finished. You don’t keep imbibing until you’re drunk—or worse, let the taste consume you and pull you away from your duties in life. Such as being there for your children. Protecting them. Caring for them. Let them know they aren’t on their own…
But my body doesn’t understand my stance on the matter. Lust lingers in my blood, my cock refusing to accept that it won’t get to experience Jo’s tight, supple body again…
Still, despite my initial annoyance, it’s good that she left without a word when she did. No phone number, nothing. A clean, simple ending. An ideal outcome, really.
You could always get her number. It wouldn’t be difficult…
But she didn’t leave it, so I’m not going to. If I don’t have it, I won’t be tempted to call.
When the meeting finally ends, I stand up to leave for my office, leather portfolio strategically positioned to hide my condition.
My assistant gives me a funny look. Does she notice? But it wouldn’t be like her to act like she notices.
“Yes, Susan?” My tone is coolly polite.
“You have something from a lawyer in Los Angeles.” She gestures at a brown envelope. “It came via special courier.”
“Give it to legal.” She knows it isn’t my job to review legal documents.
“I would, but…it’s marked private.” She points at the front of the envelope. Sure enough, it has a big stamp that says PRIVATE.
“All right.”
I take the envelope, carry it to my office and shut the door. The sight of my cell phone lying on the desk reminds me of the pictures I saw earlier. My jaw tightens until I feel like I’m about to break my molars.
Annoyed and restless because I still don’t know exactly how I’m going to deal with Dad and Mom dating—and because I apparently can’t not think about Jo—I rip the envelope open with more force than necessary, almost tearing the document inside.
My heart almost stops when I read the first paragraph.
Jo wants me to give up the rights to…our baby?
I stare at the paper for a moment. What the hell is the meaning of this? We practiced safe sex. She said she was on the pill, and I used my own condoms. Not expired. Not tampered with.
There’s no way I got Jo pregnant, even if I came inside her more times than I can remember. Rubbers don’t leak, and even if one sperm somehow managed to escape, her pill should’ve egg-blocked it.
My mind in turmoil, I pick up my phone and call the number on the stationery.
“Jones & Jones. Samantha Jones’s office. How can I assist you?” comes a placid male voice.
“I need to speak to…” I look at the bottom of the letter to see who signed it. “Hugo Martinez.”
“Speaking.”
Interesting. Do lawyers answer calls for their bosses? I thought law offices had assistants for that sort of thing. Maybe Jones & Jones is one of those “law firms” that you find in strip malls.
Regardless, I push aside my distaste and maintain a cool and unapproachable tone. “This is Edgar Blackwood. I just received a letter sent on behalf of Josephine Martinez.” I frown, suddenly realizing this Hugo guy and Jo share the same last name. Perhaps they’re related. Or perhaps it’s a coincidence. It isn’t like Martinez is rare.
“Oh, good. I was wondering when you might respond.” His voice is as eagerly aggressive as a boxer climbing into a ring with his worst enemy.
“I believe you have the wrong man. You—or Josephine—must’ve made a mistake.”
“Are you saying you didn’t make a baby with my cousin?” he demands, outrage palpable. “She’s a virgin, you know!”
So they are related. That explains the attitude. I look up at the ceiling. “If she’s a virgin, how can she be pregnant?”
She was most definitely not a virgin. And even if she had been, she certainly isn’t now. She and I debauched each other quite thoroughly, not that I’d share that with this pit-bull cousin of hers.
“Immaculate conception,” he answers promptly. “With your sperm.”
For God’s sake. I can’t believe I’m wasting my time talking to a man this devoid of the most fundamental understanding of human biology. “Is that what she said?”
“She didn’t have to say anything. I found a pregnancy test kit in her purse.” His voice is torn between indignation and embarrassment.
“Do you often go through your cousin’s purse?” If so, he should see a therapist, rather than harassing me.
He sighs. “She asked me to get something from it for her, and that’s when I saw it at the bottom, and I was like whoa, because she doesn’t have a boyfriend or anything, you know, so I had to ask around, and then her best friend Kim told me she hooked up with you about a month ago, and I knew it,” he says in one tumbling stream. He takes an audible breath. “So I’m saying,” he continues at normal speed, “that you’re the only person who could be her baby’s father, and you need to do the right thing.”
Of course. The child needs a father. A positive male role model. But…marry Jo? Goosebumps break out at the thought. I don’t want to get married. Or at least not in this fashion. It isn’t like I’ve been looking for love. Far from it.
I always imagined that if I ever got married, it’d be to a woman who was calm and pleasant as a mild spring day. My gut says that’s not Jo. And my gut is almost never wrong.
But the child… I need to do the right thing for the child. I simply will not neglect my own child, no matter what. I’m not my father.
“So you need to sign that paper and give up your rights to the kid,” Hugo says. “And you can pretend you never made a baby. Ever.”
What the hell? “How is that the right thing?” I demand, suddenly outraged he’s treating me as though I were some kind of…vermin. What’s next? A restraining order to keep me away from my own child?
“Do you how messy and expensive unsettled parental rights and custody battles can be? I’m not letting Jo go through that. She deserves better.”
“I suppose marriage never occurred to you?” I bring up the most logical possibility, and the one this lawyer should’ve thought of if he had a functioning brain cell in his skull. Perhaps I should retain a decent attorney for Jo. She deserves better than some joker who’s incapable of identifying the most obvious and sound solution. “Or don’t they do that in California anymore?”
He chokes out a laugh. “You think I’m doing this to get you to marry her?”
“Aren’t you?” I’m rich. So is my family. And we’re well connected. Why wouldn’t a woman want to marry me?
The horrible scandal? Remember the conspiracy and all that? a small voice in my head whispers.
Yeah, but I wasn’t really part of it. Or so I tell myself when I’m feeling ashamed and responsible for what happened within my family. The Blackwoods are dignified. We do not air our dirty laundry. We pour bleach over the stains, patch up the rips and pretend we’re above everything.