The Champ: Bad Boys Book 5 (The Bad Boys) (22 page)

“Damn babe sorry, but this one is all me again.” I’m proud as fuck about that but my wife has beef with the fact that all our kids look like me. Poor baby, she can’t catch a break. “This has got to stop Wyatt dammit.” She didn’t look like she did five minutes ago, now her face was glowing and she had that special light in her eyes.

“Fine, next one is all yours I promise.” I kissed her as she held our boy, enveloping them both in the warmth of my arms.

“Damn straight.” That’s my girl. She’d just been through the seven levels of hell but didn’t bat a lash at the idea of going through it again. That’s my champ.

THE END

***

BABY DADDY by Eve Montelibano”

Excerpt:

I WAS READY TO GIVE UP when he walked in like an answered prayer.

Wow.

I don’t believe in destiny but I’m a little bit convinced now.

Just a little.

How is it possible that he looks almost exactly as the one I’ve been envisioning for weeks now? He has all my physical specifications down to his sexy feet.

Incredible coincidence.

But he’s right there.

In the flesh.

Tall, above six feet so that my baby will be an improved version of his generation. I’m only five-foot-three. Check.

The face that will give my little princess a shot at becoming a supermodel if she falls short in the IQ department— not that supermodels are intellectually challenged, mind you— but that’s unlikely to happen as mine is Mensa level. However, I don’t want to piss off Someone up there so please God, make my little princess as healthy, beautiful and smart as one of her parents, at least.

Jawline and cheekbones that make an artist want to pick up a brush and paint away like a master. That simpering bubblehead he’s currently flirting with at the bar is just about to condense on the floor like sludge.

Check, check and check!

Oh, that body! He has broad shoulders and strong-looking arms corded with hard, defined muscles. No, he’s not bulky like those gym rats lifting weights every day. He’s toned and lean and can definitely command a giant billboard in Times Square or a spread in GQ wearing my men’s underwear label. He could be an athlete, or maybe a construction worker around here. Whatever, that fine-looking form can sure make beautiful, healthy babies easy.

My ovaries flutter in hyper excitement. I can hear ‘em yapping in frenzy, too.

'That’s your Baby Dada come to life! Yup, we’re putting him in capital letters because he just became flesh and blood and no longer just a figment of your imagination. Baby Dada is now a proper noun. Go get him NOW before that maneater at the bar steals your supply of sperm for the whole week!'

I cringe at my shameful thoughts, but they’re the unvarnished truth.

I came to this place to carry out an important decision in my life. I’ve thought of it for years but I’ve procrastinated for far too long until my clock started ticking ominously like a time bomb.

Now, I’m on a countdown.

I’m desperate to do the most I can, given the limited time left in my system. Pardon the analogy but this must be how people dying of terminal illnesses feel like. Time becomes their lifeline, the very foundation of their waning existence. Every second counts like the snapping of every single strand in the rope anchoring them to life. Every snap represents the things they’re losing as they get nearer to the last strand. The last number.

This painful cliché is happening to me right now. My biological clock is ticking. And it’s an irreversible progression.

The bomb was set off by my gynecologist last month during my quarterly medical check-up.  No, it’s nothing life-threatening like the Big C, but it’s somehow related to that, too.

According to my good doctor, I must get pregnant NOW if I still want to have at least one child and also to reduce the risk of getting breast cancer.  To put it more bluntly, my eggs are shrinking every month and pretty soon, like SOON, my ovaries will just wilt away like plants during the worst drought and cease functioning altogether.

If I do get pregnant, my lactation period will vastly improve blood circulation in my boobies, thereby greatly reducing the risk of developing cysts in any of the unused ducts in there.

If I want to analyze that further, I’ll come to the conclusion that making babies is mandatory for women as it’s literally a cancer prevention measure, which will set off an endless argument by yours truly about gender equality which at this point, I’d be arguing with THE Creator, so let’s not even go there.

Anyway, what my doc said was definitely the granddaddies of all wake-up calls that set me in an apocalyptic panic. For real.

It was time to face the reality of it.

I finally made up my mind.

Like really, really, really made up my mind.

I want a baby.

So here I am now.

I’m not picky. I don’t care who or what my Baby Dada is as long as he’s clean and smells like heaven and has a smile that makes my tummy flutter like a million butterfly wings and has the body that will make me want to finally end my ten-year aversion to men and sex.

Wow. Has it been that long? I normally don’t count the years but when situations put me in the math zone, even I recoil at the reality of those numbers. It scares me, truth be told, that I haven’t really felt the need to have sex with a man in so long, that I haven’t felt the need to be with a man, even just for companionship, for a decade! It emphasizes the fact that I’ve refused to see (yup, Denial Queen)— that maybe, maybe there’s something seriously wrong with me.

'There IS something SERIOUSLY wrong with you. What the hell are you doing in this island in Asia, trying to blend anonymously among the mélange of tourists of various nationalities, planning to hook up with some random stranger and steal his sperm?'

I inwardly cringe again. It’s not really stealing his sperm. I call it borrowing. What is one sperm anyway? Just one in gazillions he produces every day, and may I add, wastes everyday. I just need one healthy tadpole to fertilize one of my eggs before they croak for good. Just one! It’s not stealing, okay?

Come on!

'Sperm thief!'

I quit wrestling with my conscience. I don’t need my moral codes nagging me today if I have to make a move on that hunk of masculine glory over there.

'Okay, so what the hell are you still doing here boring the shit out of yourself cataloging your internal shit? Go on, prove how gungho you really are about this baby-making project.'

I’m a very confident woman in my turf, commanding the most good-looking men to move the way I want them to while wearing my label. Adonises are commonplace in my line of work and I deal with them almost on a weekly basis. Lots of them in various nationalities. But asking a very good-looking man to have sex with me right off the bat is something I’ve never done before. It’s uncharted territory for me and I’m basically almost clueless.

I can just go for another guy, someone not so intimidating in the looks department. A regular-looking one. Plenty of them around here, too. Average height, balding, not-so-panty-creaming body.

My ovaries protest violently.

'Don’t be a fucking loser! Aim big and high! We don’t want regular! We want extraordinary! If you’re going to get knocked up, do it by design! Choose the best man for the job! He’s gotta be the best of the best! You’re staring at him!'

I inhale deeply. My ovaries are right, of course. I take it back. I’m actually picky, that’s why I squandered a week looking for him. Now that I found him, I can’t let this chance pass. He doesn’t know me, I don’t know him, so no preconceived ideas about each other, ergo, no judgment. Just a one-week-stand if he’s amenable to it.

He has to be. I’ve no other choices in sight.

'He’s leaving! Hurry!' My ovaries are panicking.

I need to be Machiavellian.

Amazonian.

Girl power.

Yes, I want that man’s sperm and I’m gonna get it come hell or high water.

Zeke (A TorqueCrash Novel)

By KAT MADRID

“You’re late!” Ryker yelled.

Zeke was already on a hair trigger, and hearing Ry yapping at his rare tardiness almost made him fly off the handle.

He ignored his friend and continued his way to the dressing room.

“Fuck you.”

That’s it! He turned and shoved Ry to the nearest wall, raising his arm to strike.

He heard footsteps running and was pulled away before he could do any damage to his band mate’s face. Too bad. He was itching to punch someone after a brush with his Dad.

“Hey, hey...chill,  guys!” Syd intervened.

Ry straightened. “Tell that to Mr. Diva here. It wasn’t me who almost cost us this gig.”

Zeke scowled.

“Got your panties in a twist again, Ry?” he asked as he tried to wrestle his way out of Ridge and Syd’s hold.

“Cut the crap you two! Don’t care if you bash each other’s heads but do it later. We’re here to jam and we’re up in five. Fuck! We can’t even do a sound check. The place is already packed!” Ridge vented.

Zeke stopped struggling as his stage persona took over.

He turned to Syd. “Jimmy and his crew already here?” he asked, referring to the venue’s fold back guy.

“Yeah. Gave him a pack of ciggies to sweeten the deal.”

“Good. We’re in good hands then.”

“Just get your vocals loud enough and signal if the feedback’s a bit boxy. Jimmy will do his magic,” Ridge said.

“I’ll tone down my riffs,” Syd remarked.

“Nah, you don’t have to. Just let Mr. Jackass here play a bit of bass drum and I’ll handle the vocals. Let’s keep it simple.”

Everyone nodded, including Ryker. If there was one thing great about TorqueCrash as a band, it was their ability to set aside their individual differences for the greater cause.

Luck favored them tonight because they sounded great despite the lack of sound check. Any fold back issues were easily ironed out by Jimmy. It could have gone the other way and made them look and sound like the Village Freaking Idiots.

A full hour went by.

Before he knew it, it was time for the encore.

Zeke squinted as he eyed the crowd.

“You’ve been great tonight,” he began. “Thank you.”

Relief wouldn’t even cover what he felt right now.

Major catastrophe had been avoided as the audience--majority of which were college kids like them--ate up every song in their lineup. Some moshed and head banged their way to future head injuries.

“I love you Zeke!” a drunk sorority girl hollered. “Take me home.”

“I love you too, sugar,” he bantered back, winking. “You guys want some more of our shit?”

“Yeah! Encore! Encore! Encore!”

He smiled as he soaked up the energy and adoration. His day may have been a cluster fornication but it would end sweetly on this stage.

“Let’s see...any birthday celebrants? I’m open to song suggestions,” he addressed the group. “As long as you don’t make me rap or sing any Britney or Christina songs, we’re gonna be fine.”

Chuckles broke out.

“Here!” he heard a group of females shrieking from the bar. They were pointing at someone. A brunette.

The object of the group turned slowly to face the stage. And him.

“Any song request, babe--” his voice trailed as soon as he saw her.

Recognition was swift. He’d been looking all over the campus for her...the girl from the bus who had haunted his head for weeks.

His blood pounded and his senses reeled, finally waking up after years of being numb. Sweetbabyfuck!

No one ever made his heart race before. Until this girl.

And her Bambi eyes.

He won’t be leaving this venue alone, he vowed.

Without lifting his gaze from her lovely, flushed face, he opened his lips and began his serenade.

“Woke up to the sound of pouring rain. The wind would whisper and I’d think of you...”

***

TIARA

“Woke up to the sound of pouring rain.

The wind would whisper and I’d think of you…”

Tiara recognized the song.
Of course she did. Who wouldn’t fall for Sebastian Bach’s signature 90s piece? Not even years of strict Christian upbringing could stop her for fantasizing that the Skidrow frontman wrote the song for her. But that was before her father found out she was listening to ‘unholy, devil’ music and destroyed all her CDs, including the rare vinyls that she painstakingly saved for and rummaged from garage sales.

She thought no one could ever top Sebastian’s ‘I Remember You’…even seasoned lead singers were intimidated and backed off from making covers of that song.

Until now and him…the hot guy from the bus…

He had prototypical rock god looks—lithely muscular, broodingly dark, and oozing with raw sexiness. He even rocked the tight jeans and the tats. Who was she kidding? The man was smoking. But it was his voice that really sealed the deal.

He sang the power ballad with aplomb, sailing through the high notes with ease... totally owned it. His voice poured out of that mouth without artifice or gimmickry…filling up the emptiness of her soul to fullness. It sent goosebumps to spread out all over her body.

Strangely, she felt connected to him on a much deeper level. She was equally surprised when she felt a strong sense of possessiveness—that the song and his amazing voice was meant for her…more than everyone else inside the venue.

The bar was bursting at the seams with bar rats hollering and screaming for his attention. He wasn’t paying them any mind. He never took his eyes off from her.

People began to turn to where she was sitting. She could feel her cheeks growing warm as she tried not to freak out from the collective sea of curious stares. She ignored them and concentrated on the singer. Bad move.

Even from across the room, she saw the undeniable hunger in his intense eyes. He eyed at her like a condemned man and she was his only salvation.

Her heart sped up as her chest tightened.

He was openly, unapologetically, eye-fucking
her
.

She was jostled out of the moment when Karen elbowed her side.

“Amazing, isn’t he?” she screamed.

Karen’s room mate, Diane, snorted.

“Better watch out, ‘lil girl…he fucks like an animal, too—” she drawled.

“Don’t mind her, honey. She’s bitter 'coz she never got a call back,” Karen retorted.

Figures.

“Who’s he?” Tiara found herself asking.

“That, my dear, is Zeke Blade.”

Even his name made her shiver.

She couldn’t recall feeling this strongly for anything or anyone in the past. It scared her. Enough to want to run out of here before his set ended.

Zeke Blade? No, that ain’t right. His name should be Trouble.

Big Trouble.

***

ZEKE

Zeke knew he had to move fast lest she disappeared again.

He cornered her before she could open the door, placing both his hands flat on either side of her body.

“Hi.”

Her head snapped up, her beautiful eyes mirroring her fear and turmoil.

“What do you want?” she whispered. Her lilting voice was lovely to his ears, warming his insides in a way no alcohol can.

Damn, she was so close,  he could smell her. And  he wanted more than a whiff…he wanted the entire bouquet.

“I just want to talk,” he declared. “I’m Zeke, by the way.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” came her jumpy reply.

“I have to disagree. We have plenty of things to talk about. If you’ll only give me a chance…Tiara.”  Shit, he never pleaded with a girl before.

Her eyes narrowed. “How’d you…”

He smiled down at her. “I can be resourceful when motivated.”

“Look…Zeke…I’m grateful for what you did on the bus. I really am. But you didn’t have to intervene.”

“They wouldn’t bother you again. I made sure of it.”

“I can handle those boys on my own—” she seemed flustered, especially when he couldn’t stop looking at her delectable lips.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” he asked.

“What?!”

“Will you go out with me?”

“Why?”.

“Why what?”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“I just want to take you out for dinner, babe.”

“No…sorry.”

“It’s just dinner, Tiara. It’s on me.”

Her eyes widened before she lowered them and smiled almost sadly.

“I can’t go out with you.”

He frowned. He didn’t expect that. “Why not? You have a boyfriend?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t. And that’s not it. I don’t date. And if I do, I don’t think musicians would be a good idea.”

He was crushed. This chick was really doing a number on his ego. “Ouch.”

“I can list ten things why I shouldn’t.”

He leaned toward her ear.  “And I’m gonna tell you why you should.”

She was about to speak but he held a finger to her lips to silence her.

“One, a musician knows how to listen. He can tell your moods and nuances just by hearing your voice.”

“I don’t need a shrink.”

He chuckled. Man, he’s got his work cut out for him.

“Two, he believes in emotion. How can he not? It’s bound to happen after hearing tons of love songs inside his head.”

“I don’t do emo either.”

That made him roar with laughter. She was spicy and he liked it. A lot.

But he was running out of lines.

Time for his trump card.

“Lastly, if you go out with a musician—meaning
me
—you’re the girl I’m gonna sing for, the face to all those songs I’ve sung in the past. Only you.  So, I’m gonna ask again and hope you’ll reconsider. Tiara Angela Bailey, will you have dinner with me?”

***

ZEKE

A decade and a half later…

He was freezing his butt off.
NYC has turned into an iceberg. He was sure of it.  Zero fucking degrees and not even a degree more! The weather bureau lied through their teeth. Incompetent fools. The air was so frigid his nuts would certainly fall off from exposure, rendering him useless. Not truly a great loss, as his southern bits barely seen action months after he got out of the hospital to recuperate. He hardly left his Miami home except to take his dog, Duke, out for a run along the beach during mornings.

Miami weather spoiled him too much, leaving him completely unprepared for NYC’s frigid weather.

Drawing his leather jacket closer to ward off the sudden gust of wintry wind, he lowered his head and briskly walked the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan’s Lower East Side Avenue.

The stretch used to be teeming with crack and meth heads. He knew that from experience. That period of his life was well-chronicled by the press; when he hobnobbed among then-fellow junkies. How they welcomed him like a homecoming king every time he dropped by to get his fix. Why wouldn’t they? They shoot up and got high on his account. They blast and crash together then repeat the process, chasing the highs incessantly…only to find rock bottom and unfortunately for some, dead end six feet under.

He shivered as he literally walked down the unpleasant memory lane.

He should’ve asked his driver to wait for him at the restaurant where he met Corrine Harris, head writer at Rolling-fucking-Stone. They were doing another cover on him, a slant on him being rock music’s version of Robert Downey, Jr…except that Robert got to don a shiny red costume and play Ironman nowadays while he…let’s just say that his present condition was comparable to  a rusty sink drain.

He was furious when when he heard about it first-hand. As if there weren’t enough trash written about him over the years that they needed to do another fucking piece.

Next to lawyers, media men (and women) were his least favorite people. Fucking piranhas, all of them were out for his blood from day one.

But his management people begged him to keep his rapier tongue in check and be on his best behavior. Ryker even called him that morning to make sure he’d be at the interview. He’d fallen off the wagon too many times to instill trust. Can’t blame them, really.

Still, that hurt.

“Man, we need this positive shit.”

“So I’ve been told. Like every hour.”

“Look, Zee…go zen for once and be nice to the little lady,” he said. “Promise me, man. Don’t fucking screw this up. I know you hate publicity but keep it in, okay?”