All In: Paying His Way (Gambling With Love) (3 page)

Jordan

As soon as I finish up my shift at Danville Electric where I’m the crew supervisor to a few dozen men, I head to the local cellular store to buy Maggie a phone and add it to my account. What single woman doesn’t have a phone in this day and age? One that can’t afford it. Fuck if that doesn’t piss me off, the idea of her living in that crime infested neighborhood without any way to call for help. Or
anyone
to call for help. 

During the forty-five minute drive to Greensboro, I have too much time to think. I worry about my brother who’ll likely be deployed overseas soon if he doesn’t get kicked out of the Army. That doesn’t mean I’m not so angry with him that I'll likely throttle him the next time I see him. When a woman you’re sleeping with tells you she’s pregnant, calling her a liar is probably not at the top of the list of best ways to handle the situation.

When I get into town, I stop at
Elizabeth’s
, one of the best Italian restaurants on the planet, and order a variety of things, calzone, stromboli, manicotti and baked ziti, all of which come with salad and garlic bread. I figure Maggie will eat at least one tonight and can save the rest to have leftovers tomorrow. It was obvious based on her frailness that she barely eats anything, and after what she said about not having enough milk to breastfeed, she probably isn’t getting enough nutrients.

Maggie breastfeeding is not something I need to be thinking about. Ever since I accidentally caught a glimpse of her bare, heavy breast, I can’t get rid of the image. I need some Clorox to scrub my memories free of that damn titty. The idea that the simple sight made my cock hard and my mouth water with an overwhelming desire for a taste is so fucked up that there are no words foul enough to describe how big of a pervert that makes me. She’s barely legal and she’s my brother’s girlfriend or ex-girlfriend for Christ’s sake! And holy hell, don’t even get me started on seeing her in those tiny shorts or panties. I don’t know what they were, but they weren’t covering much of her curvy ass at all.

Telling myself that I will be a goddamn gentleman and not look at my brother’s baby mama’s lady parts tonight, I juggle carrying the stacked cardboard boxes and brown paper bag up the stairs to her third floor shitty apartment and knock on her door.

This time Maggie answers without me having to yell at her to do so through the damn door.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks, her big indigo eyes still looking tired with dark circles underneath. Last night on the drive home, when I had time to think, I realized why I didn’t recognize her at first. She looks tired and worn down by the world, instead of the vibrant, happy, carefree girl she was with my brother. At least when they weren’t fighting.

Tonight, she looks so exhausted that it’s a wonder she’s even able to stand. Her brown hair is pulled tight in the same ponytail and at least she’s wearing pajama pants instead of just panties like yesterday. Only, this top is a hundred times worse. While her shirt the night before had been thin, it’d been baggy enough that her tits were mostly hidden. But now, standing in front of me in a pink spaghetti strap tank top, the swells of her very large breasts are as clear as a cloudless sky, and those two pointy nipples are going to make eye contact nearly impossible now that they’ve grabbed my attention.

“You eat yet?” I finally manage to force the words out, and my voice is deeper, making me sound like a caveman.
You. Woman. Eat
.          

“Yes,” she answers softly, and I’d swear she’s lying when I see her throat move as she swallows deeply.

“Well, you can eat again,” I say before turning to the side to get past her. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek so that I don't groan when my chest brushes against her breasts. Her gloriously braless breasts.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, and I worry she felt the growing bulge in my jeans, but then she says, “That smells so freaking good.”

“Damn right it does. Do you like manicotti, calzone, stromboli or ziti?” I ask while heading for the kitchen.

“Yes to all four.”

“Good.” Sitting the boxes down, I open the cabinets to look for plates and grab two, offering her one.

“Thanks, Jordan. You didn’t have to do this. Don’t you live in Danville?”

“Yeah, but I needed to come to Greensboro anyway to get a part for my truck.” I quickly make up the lie. Which reminds me of the phone. I pull it out of my pocket and set it down on the counter with a wall charger, since I know she probably won’t accept it if I just hand it to her.

“Here’s a phone I picked up on the way. It’s got an unlimited plan, so use it as much as you need. The number’s saved in it.” Realizing I don’t have the number for it, I pick it up and dial my own phone, and then hang up after it rings a few times so I can add it to my contacts later. “There, now you’ve got my number in it.”

“Jordan…” she starts to say from behind me.

“Don’t,” I warn her.

“This is too much,” she says, completely ignoring me.

I hear the baby make a fretful sound; and for the first time since I got here, I look up and notice him in the living room, sitting in some sort of seat thing. I’ve never actually gotten a good look at him wailing in the back of her car or while he was sucking on her titty, so I cross the room and squat down on the floor in front of him.

He’s tiny, with wisps of chestnut hair on a mostly bald head and dark chocolate eyes just like mine, my brothers and our dad.

“You can hold him if you want,” Maggie says from the kitchen. “Mind if I go ahead and eat?”

“Go for it,” I tell her, and then I debate on how to go about picking up the small bundle without breaking him. I ease one of my hands underneath his back and realize he’s more fragile than I thought, feeling all the bones in his spine.

“Keep one hand on the back of his head,” Maggie thankfully says before I picked him up. I slide my other hand under his fuzzy head and then lift him up until I’m standing again, holding the little guy straight out in front of me. His face scrunches up like he’s gonna bitch, so I maneuver him around until his head rests in the crook of my arm, the side of his body against my chest. That seems to make him happy. His face relaxes, and he blinks his dark eyes up at me. We engage in a silent staring contest. He's giving me sad, puppy dog,
Are you my daddy?
eyes, while mine likely convey my own thoughts,
No, and I'm sorry your daddy's not around and is a fucktard.
He seems to handle that news pretty well, and instead of crying he starts gnawing on my shirt, looking up at me as if asking,
Where the hell are your tasty nipples, man?

I’ve never really been around many babies, other than a few of my cousin’s at holiday get-togethers, but I have to say this kid is pretty damn cute.

At the sound of a camera shutter, I look up and find Maggie smiling while taking a picture with her new phone.

“You’re the first person to hold him,” she says in explanation, which is just so freaking sad. “And I haven’t had a camera to take any photos of him. He’s already grown so much.”

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

I never expected my heart to sound like Rice Krispies when it breaks. I want to punch somebody, mostly my brother, because anger is a helluva lot easier to deal with than the enormous weight of pathetic sadness.

There's this other strange emotion that's grown exponentially since last night. One that’s invoked an overwhelming need in me to take care of these two like they're mine. Probably because no one else is doing it, and that just seems…wrong. 

If my parents were alive, hell, I’m certain they wouldn’t stop until the baby had not only what he needed, but one of every single item in the baby store just because. And Maggie…they always wanted a daughter, but were given four boys. My mom, in particular, couldn’t wait for us to all get married so we could start giving them grandbabies. But out of the four of us, we didn’t give them a single wedding or grandchild before they were killed four years ago by a drunk driver. Which makes me feel guilty since I’m the oldest, about to turn thirty next month. I should’ve settled down years ago so I could've shared those memories with them, and now I never will. It’s depressing as shit.

So, yeah, Maggie would’ve been welcomed into our family with open arms, despite our brother being a complete jackass.

“He’s really cute,” I tell her.

“Yeah, he is,” she agrees, taking a seat on the sofa with a plate of ziti, salad and bread.

“Camden, right?”

“Yep. Camden Douglas.”

I nod, knowing she picked Douglas because it’s Jason’s middle name.

“Your last name?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she says around a mouthful of pasta. The girl eats like she’s starving, which probably isn’t far from the truth. “I don’t usually eat this fast, but I know it won’t be long before he screams and is ready for his dinner,” she explains, like she knows what I was just thinking.

I gulp in fear at the thought of enduring another feeding. Part of me wants to bolt, while the other part wants to kick back with my hands behind my head and take in the show. I tell myself I can’t leave until I at least eat some dinner. Which is partially true, I guess.

Turns out Maggie knows Camden’s schedule well, because not five minutes later the baby starts kicking and fussing when my shirt doesn’t produce any milk.

“Here, let me have him before I start leaking,” Maggie says, after she puts her plate away.

“Leaking?” I ask, handing the bundle over to her, and nearly cursing when my knuckles accidentally brush against her boob.

“Yeah, the sound of his crying releases the milk. Then my shirt gets soaking wet. It’s a big mess.”

Thinking of her shirt wet is highly inappropriate I warn my cock, but the bastard ignores me and gives a salute.

To steer my mind from that shit, I go fix my own plate of food and dig in. My traitorous eyes ignore my command and watch as Maggie yank’s the side of her tank top down. Her back is to me so I can’t see anything, not that I wasn’t trying.

Much to my horror, I even make my way back to the living room quickly as to not miss any of the action. By then there’s a blanket hiding most of the baby from view, but it’s too late. I know what’s underneath; and despite how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it. I resolve to Google my fascination later to see if I’m the only freak. Maybe there’s a support group I can join. If not, I'll start one,
Pervy
m
en with breastfeeding fetishes
. While I’m searching, I’ll also look for
Pervy men who think naughty thoughts about their brother’s exes
. I’ve reached an all-time low in my life.

“This grosses you out, doesn’t it?” Maggie asks, penetrating my dirty mind. Thank God I have a natural year round tan or she would see me blushing right now.

“I’m not grossed out,” I assure her. More like perving out. “I just don’t think I’ve ever, um, seen this sort of thing before.”

“I was pretty self-conscious before I had Camden, but now it’s like whatever. He’s gotta eat,” she says with a shrug, at the same time she scoots lower on the couch. “The only problem is it makes me milk drunk.”

“Milk drunk?” I ask, still shoveling pasta into my mouth. It’s like dinner and a show for the price of admission.

“Yeah, it makes me sleepy and gives me this weird, happy, euphoric feeling.”

“Like an orgasm?” I say before my brain can filter the question.

“Yeah,” she giggles. “I guess it’s sort of like that, but more of the drowsy than elation. Although, that could just be from sleep deprivation,” she says with a yawn, her eyes closing as she rests the back of her head on the sofa.

She needs help or a break. What’s today?  Monday? Shit. I’ll have to work four more days, but then I’ll stay Friday night so she can sleep. I’m sure she can pump or let him have bottles during the night, so she can rest. I bet she hasn’t slept all night since he was born.

“How old is he?” I ask, cleaning my plate, even though I don’t remember what it was I just ate.

“Four weeks, three days,” she says without opening her eyes.

“That’s a long time to go without sleep.”

“Tell me about it,” she says with a smile on her peaceful face. “He was sleeping for four or five hours straight until recently. Now he's back to wanting to eat every two or three, which is exhausting.”

“I’ll go so you can get some rest,” I tell her.

“Thanks again for dinner, Jordan. And for the phone,” she says, lifting her head and watching me through heavy-lidded eyes.

“No problem,” I tell her as I wash my plate and put it in the dish drainer. Seeing her phone on the counter, I grab it and go over to take a few photos of her since she said she doesn’t have any. She doesn’t even open her eyes or take notice. After I send one of the photos to myself for some unknown reason, I put the rest of the food in the fridge and sneak out, hoping she remembers to lock it when she gets up. Then, I worry all the way home that she won’t remember to lock the door. And she lives in a shitty neighborhood. So, when I pull up at my house almost an hour later, I send her a text reminding her to lock up. I spend the rest of the night with my phone in my hand, panicking with worry that she won’t see it and that I left her and my nephew in danger. I’ve got to get them out of that hellhole or I won’t be getting any sleep either.