Bad Boy's Baby_A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance Read online

  I wheel my chair away from him and bring my kit closer to me - my palette of colors and my needle gun, some paper towels, and few skin-safe felt-tip pens in case I want to change up the design at the last second and give my client an idea of what I have in mind. I don’t do this often - it’s probably borderline unprofessional - but I don’t want a good idea to go to waste.

  “What do you mean by huh,” I ask, rolling back to him. I pull his skin taught to warm him up and then I dip my gun into the black ink and go at it. I’m experienced enough that I could probably do this blindfolded or with my hands tied behind my back. Not literally, but you know what I mean.

  “Nothing,” he replies.

  “I know nothing, and that huh was not nothing.”

  “It’s just a little weird. I don’t know. I guess she really loves her cat.”

  I shake my head and focus on the design on my client. It hadn’t occurred to me to question Mandy. I wouldn’t do that - and anyway, what the hell would I be questioning? Do I think she was lying about the emergency to get out of our date early? It’s ridiculous.

  “You know how people are about their pets,” I say, “when I was a kid I had a cat. He was a black outdoor guy. I used to bring him bread and water and milk sometimes, and I’d leave it by the back door of the house. We lived out in the woods back then, just my mom, dad and me. Mom always scolded me for feeding the cat. She thought I was encouraging it to come around.”

  “She was right. You were encouraging it,” Nick says, looking down at the beginnings of his new tattoo’s outline.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say, “but I liked that cat. And anyway, what was I supposed to do? It would come around and meow so damn loud it would wake me up in the middle of the night.”

  “It didn’t wake your parents up too?” Nick asks.

  “Nah,” I reply, “their room was on the other side of the house. The thing that kept them safe from the cat’s incessant meowing was the same thing that made it super fucking easy for me to sneak out of the house in high school.”

  We share a glance and laugh. I go back to working on his new ink. The thrumming of the gun in my hands is exciting. The way the outline of the design comes to life makes me proud. For this session I’m just going to be outlining the design, and the coloring will be completed over the course of four more appointments.

  I look at the clock after some time has gone by. Sometimes I get into a damn daze when I’m working. It’s been over an hour, and it feels like no time has gone by at all.

  “Looks good,” Nick says as I wipe away the last of the excess ink. “It kind of looks really fucking cool just with the black outline.”

  “Yeah, well wait until you see it when it’s colored in. The blue and white’s gonna look really good.”

  Nick shakes my hand as I wipe a little sweat off my brow with the back of my other hand. He goes out into the waiting area while I clean up, go to the back to wash my hands, and then go out to the waiting area to meet him. I fix him up with a fresh white bandage, tape it at the edges, and send him on his way.

  “It’ll be more comfortable if you don’t wear skinny jeans,” I say as he leaves.

  Mike and Paul have already left for the night when Nick leaves. It’s been another good day at work - an honest living, a decent wage earned, and I was able to flex my creative muscle. That’s what feels so good about working on shit like what I’m doing for Nick right now. I do lots and lots of boilerplate stuff, and that’s fun too. A lot of girls come in here asking for tattoos to commemorate long weekends at the beach. A seagull, a seashell.

  Hell, that’s pretty much how I met Mandy. She came in here and fucking demanded I give her what she wanted. She would have selected something from one of my design books, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But when I tattoo her, I want it to mean something more. I want to to be something specific to her, something that no one else could imagine decorating their skin with. It doesn’t have to be in a conspicuous place on her body. It could be hidden. Maybe something on that round, candy-apple ass of hers, someplace where only she and I will be able to see it.

  I grab my phone from my pocket and call her up to see what she’s doing.

  “Hey Dylan,” she answers the phone sweetly.

  “Hey princess,” I reply. “I was thinking we should go out again sometime.”

  “Sometime?” she says, “I don’t like the sound of that. That’s too indeterminate.”

  “Okay, how about tonight?” I reply, “the sooner the better.”

  “That would actually be perfect,” she breathes. “I feel like I need to apologize for leaving so abruptly the other day. And there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

  “First of all, there’s no need to apologize. Secondly, anything you need to ask about, I am a open book. Want me to pick you up?”

  “No,” Mandy replies, “let me come to you this time.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I say, “why don’t we meet for a drink at one of the hotel bars near me? I’ll text you the name of the one I have in mind. Let me know when you’re here and I’ll be right over.”

  “Okay,” she replies. “That sounds good.”

  “Park behind the shop, and wear sandals,” I add before we say goodbye.

  I text her the name and address of one of my favorite bars, located inside the hotel where they’re holding the week-long festivities for the annual beauty pageant. I think it’ll be fun for her to see. It’s always a riot to see all those girls walking around, and Amanda, even though she dresses a little simpler than they do, would fit right in with them.

  I slip my phone into my back pocket and go outside, locking the door behind me and pulling the big, heavy metal security gate down. The boardwalk is quiet tonight; everyone’s inside the hotels. There seems to be a storm gathering on the horizon. This is my favorite kind of night.

  Starting down the boardwalk, I hear a familiar song being strum sweetly on an acoustic guitar. A few yards ahead, I see an old man playing “Another Day in Paradise.” His guitar case is open on the ground in front of him, but there’s only a few coins inside. He doesn’t seem to be playing to entertain anyone, though. His eyes are closed and his skin is deeply wrinkled and tanned by a lifetime of being outside in the sun. Once a street performer just like him told me this life pro tip: if you’re asking for money and you have a jar out for people to toss a few coins into, but some bills in there yourself. People are more likely to give if they see other people have given before them. He called it something like social proof. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it, but I fish a crumpled ten dollar bill out of my pocket and bend down to toss it in the man’s guitar case. He doesn’t notice, but I hope it helps him out.

  I keep walking down the boardwalk, taking the sweet, thick, salty air into my lungs over and over as I breathe, inhaling big, refreshing breaths each time. Sitting down on a bench facing the ocean, I lock my fingers together behind my head and take in the rolling of the tide.

  What the hell does she have to ask me about?

  I try to not let my mind go there, because there’s a million and one things she could want to ask about. It isn’t worth speculating about. It could be what the hell happened that morning. That shift in my attitude. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I may have hurt her anyway.

  I know what I would ask me about if I were her. I would definitely ask her why the hell we had to say goodbye the way we did. Fuck, I don’t even remember who say goodbye to who first, or whether we hugged or kissed or what happened. I wish we’d never said goodbye at all, and I wish I’d just asked her what the hell was going on with her when we did say goodbye.

  The look in her eye when I told her I had a full schedule at the shop - it crushed me. I’d initially wanted to spend the day with her, and from the look in her eye, I think she wanted that too. But instead I told her I had to work.

  For right now, though, there’s nothing I can do but sit here and wait for her to get here.
I can sit here and wonder what she wants to ask me about, or I can sit here and remember how soft and perfect she felt in my arms.

  So I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and remember her.

  17

  Amanda

  “Hey, I just got here. I’ll be at the hotel in a minute.”

  I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot behind his shop, looking over at his car next to mine. It’s an old, beat-up pickup truck, and I wonder how a car seat would look inside it.

  “Good,” Dylan replies through the phone, “I can’t wait to see you.”

  My heart tugs inside my chest. I should have written down my question for him, because I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get the question out. I don’t even know exactly what the question is, even though I’ve gone over it a million times in my head in one form or another.

  I am just going to have to wing it.

  What the hell does that mean, anyway, wing it? It’s a weird expression. Does it come from something to do with birds? I wonder what else it could mean as I make my way through the parking lot and up a little set of wooden stairs to the boardwalk.

  The night is cooler than it has been, and for early July, it’s strange to not see many people out on the boardwalk.

  I start to rehearse the question in my head, even though I told myself I’d wing it. Even if I rehearse it, I don’t know what I’m going to end up saying anyway.

  Dylan, what the hell happened that day? Why did you push me away like that? It didn’t break my heart - but it bruised me. And why the hell were you so quick to ask me out again? It’s confusing and weird and it just isn’t adding up for me, no matter how many ways I look at it.

  Simple. Easy.

  Yeah, right. If only it were that easy.

  On the boardwalk, I walk past an older gentleman playing a familiar song on his guitar. I don’t have any cash on me, but I fish some change out of my purse and drop it into the case he has open in front of him. The metallic sound of the change hitting what’s already in there causes him to open his eyes, even though he doesn’t miss a note on his guitar. He smiles warmly at me and I wave softly, continuing down the boardwalk.

  My belly is a mess of butterflies, and the boardwalk feels uneasy, crooked under my feet.

  That’s when I see Dylan, and I feel like I could melt.

  He’s sitting with his back to the boardwalk, his eyes peering out onto the beach. He looks lost in thought; he looks consumed in a daydream. His arms are flung easily onto the back of the bench he’s sitting on, and even from the side, I can see his thick, rippling muscles moving under his inked skin as he clenches and unclenches his fists. I don’t know if he can see or hear me, or if he maybe senses me approaching him, but he way his arms and chest flex so easily, I almost feel like he’s doing it just for my benefit.

  As I get closer, the butterflies inside my belly hold steady, but my breathing picks up slightly as well. I feel my breath flutter inside my chest, matching the tempo of the delicious, excited uneasiness inside me.

  Dylan must hear me, because he turns his head and smiles at me easily.

  “I was just thinking of you,” he says, patting the seat next to him. I slide next to him and he puts his arm around me. “See how the sky is a little red in the distance?” he says, pointing to our right, “that means it’s going to rain tomorrow.”

  “How about tonight?” I ask, easing into him slightly. “There’s lots of clouds tonight. It looks like it might rain tonight.”

  “Probably,” he says, “but you’re not here to talk about the weather.”

  I exhale deeply and put my hands in my lap.

  “You’re right,” I say, “I’m not here to talk about the weather.”

  “What is it, princess, what’s the question you wanted to ask me?”

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “But can we get that drink first?”

  “Two vodka tonics,” Dylan says as we settle into our seats at the bar. He clearly knows the bartender, who quickly points to Dylan in affirmation of his order and begins to prepare our drinks.

  “Not the kind of place I’d expect you to hang out at,” I say, taking in the scenery.

  The bar is very classy, and not very much like the bar where I lost all my inhibitions with those Southern Comfort shots. The ceiling is high and is covered with pretty, glass light fixtures that looks like icicles with tiny light bulbs at the tips. The effect is lovely and sets a low-lit atmosphere. In the corner is a baby grand piano, where an elegant young man in a tuxedo is playing a slow, seductive tune. Low, black leather tufted couches are set up in clusters where stylish men in suits and women in evening gowns are sitting, chatting, and laughing. The conversations seem to flow easily, and everyone and everything seems to glitter with an undeniable spark.

  “This isn’t usually my kind of place, no,” he replies as our drinks are served. “I thought you would like it, though.”

  “Everyone’s in evening wear,” I whisper over to him. “It looks like a fundraiser in here.”

  “I guess you aren’t up on the local news,” he laughs.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know about the pageant,” he replies, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Oh…that’s what this is?”

  As I take another look around, it makes more sense the second time I look.

  “Wow,” I say, “that’s actually pretty cool. So we are kind of surrounded by royalty.”

  “Kind of,” he replies, putting his hand over mine in my lap. His eyes flash up to mine and I feel the intensity of desire coming from him. I picture him leaning over and putting his lips on mine, but I can’t go any farther until we have this conversation.

  “Listen, Dylan,” I say, taking a sip of my drink, “I do want to talk to you about something.”

  “What is it, princess? Just tell me. Get it over with.”

  I take another sip of my liquid courage. It’s just taking the edge off the conversation, and even though I barely feel the drink, I am getting my courage from something else - from Dylan himself. From his eyes. From the way he makes me empowered to say what I want.

  Sarah is right; it’s ironic that I’m able to fight for other people, but when it comes to me and my needs and my wants, I don’t always put myself first.

  But when I look at Dylan’s eyes, at the sexy way he smirks at me with his expectant expression, I feel just a little bit more willing to put myself out there and get what I want.

  And right now, I want answers.

  “We had a really fun night together,” I start, still unsure of exactly what I need to say, “and when it was happening, I didn’t have any expectations. I never imagined it would go beyond just that night. But then I felt something change between us. It’s not like I thought you were going to ask me to be your girlfriend or anything. That would have been silly. But everything between us just flowed so damn well until…until it didn’t.”

  “I agree, Amanda,” he says, surprising me by using my full name.

  “So what happened?” I ask. “After we woke up, it seemed like we were jiving. We were getting along. We were having fun. And then we said goodbye without even exchanging numbers.”

  “You could have found my number,” Dylan says, looking away from me. “You knew where to reach me. All you had to do was look me up. Remember? Big D’s.”

  “I know,” I say, “but I didn’t know if that was what you wanted.”

  “What I wanted?” he laughs, still looking down at his drink. “Was I unclear for a fucking second about what I wanted, Amanda?”

  I feel my insides crush with regret. I feel my heart nearly stop, my world nearly tilt on its axis, and the bar filled with sparkly gown and tuxedos nearly fall into the sea.

  “Yes, you were. You got cold on me that morning. You changed. And honestly, you’re making me nervous right now by using my real name,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, I just...I can’t do this. I have to tell you something.”

&n
bsp; “You can’t what, Dylan? Tell me what?” I ask, putting my hand over his. He pulls it away quickly and takes a sip of his drink.

  He turns to me again and slams his drink down.

  “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he says, the light in his eyes dimming. “I didn’t want to ever tell you this because I didn’t think it would fucking matter, but I saw your texts that morning. And there was a text from some other fucking guy.”

  I swallow hard in a vain attempt to get my heart to get the hell out of my throat and move back into my chest. It’s no use, though.

  “You read my texts?” I say. I am absolutely incredulous. I feel ashamed. And I am fucking furious.

  “Not on purpose,” Dylan says, finishing his drink in one swift motion. “You told me to bring your phone to you. It was stupid of me, but I didn’t do it on purpose and I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it had already happened. There was a text from someone on your phone, on the lock screen, and it was from some other guy, and he was telling you to come home. That’s what changed between us. That’s why I turned cold. I’d assumed the worst.”

  He shoots daggers into me with his eyes, cutting me to the bone.

  “Wait,” I say, my hand flying to my forehead, “what? First you read my texts, and then you accuse me of - what, of cheating on my boyfriend with you?”

  “That’s not what I said. You asked what happened, and I told you. I’m sorry.”

  There is an ache in his voice, an undeniable sadness mixed with regret. He can’t help how he feels.

  But I can’t help how I feel, either.

  “You know what?” I say, pushing my chair out, “I don’t need this. This is the last thing I need right now.”

  I nearly knock over a girl in sky-high gold stilettos as I rush out of the bar. I turn around quickly to apologize to her, and I see Dylan getting out of his chair to follow me.

  “Fuck this,” I say under my breath. “Fucking presumptuous prick.”

  “Mandy,” he calls after me, “don’t be mad about something that happened a long time ago. Don’t.”