Six years ago I conceived my beautiful, gorgeous, fabulous little boy, Alex. I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, but the date still stands as the hottest day of my life, and one I do not regret even slightly, despite the fact the man in question turned out to be a rat bastard and every kind of piece of shit. Since then my life has been all messed up and screwed over and irredeemably fucked except for two factors: Alex was born, and his conception entailed some seriously hot sex.

I never saw Tom again after that—unless you count the time I saw him for less than five minutes. I was six months pregnant and had spent the preceding six months hunting his ass down to inform him of our little “oops.” Or, more correctly, his oops; he’d assured me he was “fixed.”

I was thirty-two at the time and managing a restaurant . . . okay, well, fine, managing a titty bar. Managing, mind you, not dancing, or waitressing. I’d done my time waitressing in New York, then LA, and then Nashville, and then Chicago, in my pursuit of a career as a musician. Which had gone belly up . . . or, rather, never really got off the ground.

I was told over and over and over again that I had talent, I had the looks, and I had the stage presence, but the timing just wasn’t right, or my songs sounded like a major artist’s . . . only better. It all just meant that the years got whittled away little by little, and suddenly I was thirty-two with a few songs I’d written playing on the radio, performed by another artist, for which I was paid a laughable amount. The result was the only real work experience I had was waitressing, and I was going nowhere with that career, so when I was offered a job managing a strip bar, I took it because it meant a steady paycheck, and I wouldn’t have to rely on tips to make a living.

And then I’d met Tom at the gym, and we slept together a few times, and then a few more, and then we met at his hotel room downtown and had a magical afternoon . . . and I ended up pregnant.

Guess what the strip bar didn’t offer? Health insurance.

Guess who hadn’t ever bothered to get Medicaid because I was never sick, and thus never needed it? Me.

I found out the hard way you can’t get pregnancy coverage after you’re already pregnant? True.

So guess who ended up stuck with a massive hospital bill?

And guess which strip bar didn’t take kindly to me needing a few weeks off after having a baby?

There went that job.

Anyway, about six months into the pregnancy, when I was really starting to show, I finally tracked down Tom’s address—and let me tell you, that fucker did not want to be found. I showed up, unannounced at his door, at two in the morning. He lived in the nice, upper-crust end of suburban Chicago. A brick house, huge and beautiful. Manicured lawn. Four-car garage. Porsche in the driveway.

I pounded on the door until he answered. He was naked as he flung the door open. Just as hung and ripped as ever . . . and not pleased to see me.

He stared at me, as if absorbing my presence, and then his gaze slid down to my rounded belly.

“Oh, hell no,” he’d snarled.

“Oh, hell yes,” I’d snarled back. “And yes, I know it’s yours.”

He’d stared at me again, and then held up a finger in a wait a minute gesture. He disappeared then reappeared a few minutes later with a check in his hand worth ten grand.

And I noticed a ring on his ring finger, which had never been there before, nor had there been a tan line, which meant he must take it off a lot.

I stood there staring at his check, and his cock, and his house, and the marble floor, and the chandelier over his head, when a young woman several years my junior descended the stairs, wrapped in a thin robe that highlighted her perfectly fake tits, and her perfectly fake tan, and her perfectly fake blonde hair.

She’d sidled up behind him, leaned against his back, stroking his chest and stomach, as if trying to tease me. “Really, Tom? Another one? Pay her and come back to bed. I want you again.”

I waved the check at them. “He did pay me. But I’m not sure it’s enough.”

The woman—Tom’s trophy wife, I assumed—snatched the check out of my hand, glanced at it, sniffed, and tore it up. She reappeared after a moment with another check, this one for twenty-five thousand. “There. Now leave, and don’t come back. He’s a lawyer, and our lawyers have lawyers, so don’t think about trying anything.”

“He does this a lot, then?” I’d asked. “Knocks up girls and then pays them off to vanish?”

She’d eyed me up and down. “I’m not sure you count as a girl, honey. A little past your prime for that.”

Damn. That had hurt. The only retort I could manage was, “You know, if I’d known all along it was like this, I’d have tried to get some goodies out of you.”

“You were a side-fuck, Delta, not a sugar-baby,” Tom replied.

He was wearing a watch, something gold and glittering with diamond insets. He stripped it off and tossed it at me, careless of whether I caught it or not. “Here. Now, seriously, get the fuck out of here.” I took the money and the Rolex, and I got the fuck out.

I still own that Rolex, although there have been times when I needed money and it was the only asset I had. But I kept it because I want a reminder of my bad decisions and how I got to where I am today. It’s way too big, but if I wear it with a sexy little black dress, I can pass for someone I’m not. Which is useful when you’re a single mother trying to get laid.