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A baby-daddy who—according to my friend, Kim—slept around and was a known asshole, check.
That one was a doozy. I’d known how Eagle was before I’d ever sneaked into his room, and I never would have selected him as my child’s father. Who knew if he even liked kids? What if he didn’t want to be involved in the raising of ours? Then again, what if he did? His slutty asshole status sure didn’t make him a promising candidate for any Father of the Year awards.
Then again, being wasted when I conceived no doubt slid that Super Mom title well out of my grasp.
Honestly, based on our wild drunken trysts, neither of us were qualified to own a puppy, let alone raise a child. But really, who was? My mom wasn’t a drinker and she looked great on paper, but she couldn’t even hang in there until Link and I hit double digits. I, on the other hand, had never quit anything in my life. Softball, college, my ten-year commitment as an Air Force pilot… when I agreed to do something, I saw it through.
Maybe I wouldn’t be Super Mom, but at least I wouldn’t cut and run.
Rubbing my belly, I silently promised the baby I wouldn’t give up on him or her. No matter how tough life got, my kid would be able to count on me to hang in there and keep trying to be a good parent. I just needed a game plan, stat. According to the base doctor who’d checked me out before I left, I had approximately thirty weeks to get my shit together and figure out my life before this little bundle of joy came screaming into my chaos.
Piece of cake.
My first move would include telling Eagle and seeing whether or not he wanted to be involved, which I planned to get to as soon as I figured out how to break the news.
Maybe I should send him a congratulatory balloon and a card?
That would be easy, but I refused to sink to that level of chicken-shitty. No, I’d handle this like the slugger my dad believed I was. Collecting my luggage, I used my phone to request an uber, realizing it was the first time I’d ever arranged for a ride in Seattle. Growing up in the club, prospects had taxied me around until I was old enough to drive. Then I’d built my bike with Tank, Dad’s old vice president and the man who used to run the auto shop before he retired and Wasp took over.
My first taste of real freedom came in the form of a 1985 orange and black Harley Sportster that was still garaged at the fire station. Now that I was home, I planned to give it a good tune up and take it out for a drive. Hell, I could take it out for all the rides I wanted now.
I was home.
For good.
Mixed emotions churned my stomach and possibilities buzzed in my mind as the driver dropped me off at the fire station. Since I didn’t want anyone to know I was home yet, I had him park on the side, unloaded my luggage, and wheeled everything around to the back. I still had a key, so I let myself in the back door and snuck my bags upstairs, stowing everything in my room, which suddenly seemed tiny and cramped, moving the task of getting my own place right to the top of the list.
Grabbing my purse, I crept down the stairs to the floor Eagle’s room was on. I knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer. He’d been working the day of the wedding rehearsal, and I’d overheard Link saying that he usually got off around three. Glancing at my phone, I saw that it was just past two. I had lots of time to kill, and I didn’t want to go back to my room and risk running into Link or one of the guys, so I tried Eagle’s door. Finding it unlocked, I let myself in.
Eagle’s room was spotless and his bed was made, all tucked and tight with hospital corners and everything. It was the type of bed I could bounce a quarter off. Clearly, he still clung to the discipline and attention to detail the service had drilled into his head. They say once a Marine, always a Marine.
No surprises there.
Setting my purse on his bed, I did a sweep of his space, searching for clues about the man who was fathering my child. It was a gross violation of his privacy, but since he’d knocked me up, and he didn’t see fit to lock his door, I reasoned that he couldn’t be too private.
Besides, I was nosy, and he’d told me very little about himself.
A half-empty bottle of Jack was on top of his mini-fridge. Inside the fridge, I found sandwich fixings, part of a pepperoni pizza, a six-pack of beer, and a quart of milk. Pretty much the basic staples of bachelor life.
A big free-standing black gun safe with an electronic lock stood against the wall behind the fridge. I would have loved to explore his collection of weapons, but they were locked down tight, telling me Eagle was a responsible gun owner.
As I was skirting his bed, I realized it had drawers under the mattress. Expecting to find clothes or Playboys or something, I tugged them open. There had to be more than a hundred hardcover books under his bed, all spine up, in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. The biggest surprise was that he appeared to have all the classics and several newer books as well. Maya Angelou, Jane Austen, Ray Bradbury, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Khaled Hosseini, Harper Lee, J.K. Rowling, J.D. Salinger, J.R.R. Tolkien, Mark Twain, I’d never seen such a comprehensive collection outside of a library, and I sure as hell didn’t expect to find it in a biker’s bedroom.
Now that is a surprise, Marine.
Closing up the book drawers, I turned my attention to the nightstand beside his bed. A Beretta M9 (apparently not all of his guns were kept locked up), a box of condoms, and some bank statements were stashed in the drawer. I wasn’t after Eagle’s money, and couldn’t have cared less about the state of his finances. After all, I’d been banking most of my checks throughout my ten years of service and had built myself up a nice little nest egg. I wasn’t rich, by any stretch of the imagination, but I had enough that I wouldn’t struggle if I waited until after the baby was born to find a job.
I didn’t need Eagle’s money.
What I really wanted, was his participation.
For just a moment, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to dream about what that would look like. Our child would most likely have Eagle’s dark hair and eyes. I could almost imagine him with a baby in one hand and one of those books in the other, reading aloud. The image made my chest squeeze and my eyes burn.
“Damn pregnancy hormones,” I mumbled, blinking back tears.
Refusing to let myself get caught up in what might be, I focused back on the task at hand—operation find shit out about Eagle. I was holding his bank statement in my hand. I considered not looking, knew I’d be able to tell a lot about him by where he spent his money. Besides, like I said, I was nosy. So, yeah, I looked it over.
