Chapter One
Lark’s Bad Day
I look over to the bar where Trip is sitting on a stool, playing on his fucking phone. He was done sweeping and mopping the floor nearly twenty minutes ago, and I am still stuck with my arms elbow deep in soapy water. My frustration comes out in a growl as I wash the last couple of glasses and pull the drain.
“You could help out a little, asshole,” I say, picking up the tray of clean glasses and walking to the bar. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get your hands wet.”
“No fucking way, brother,” Trip replies, looking up from his phone. “We made a deal. My ass will never wash a dish in this joint.”
When we first opened the bar, I was a dumb fuck and offered to do anything if I didn’t have to mop the floor. Trip and Ripley jumped right on that, saying they would handle the floor and restocking if I did the dishes. They even offered to handle the books, anything to keep them away from washing a damn glass. At the time, I thought I had been given a gift. But, I was wrong, really fucking wrong.
Growing up, working in my parents’ restaurant, I mopped my fair share of floors. I did dishes, too, but not as often. I was usually stuck with a mop in my hand, long after everyone else was done. When I left, I promised myself that I would never hold a mop again. After nearly seven months of washing dirty glasses every fucking morning, I would give my left nut to trade the duty for a little time with the mop.
“Fuck you,” I mumble, setting the tray down on the bar top. “You could at least help me restock all this shit.”
“Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “We agreed that was part of clean-up duty, and my friend, you are on clean-up duty.”
I love Trip, fucking love the man. He and Ripley are the brothers I never had. I fought and bled at their side for more than ten years. Still, he can be an arrogant fucker when he wants to be. Sometimes, like right now, it pisses me the hell off.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I start placing the clean glasses on the shelves. “Whatever, man.”
Getting the bar ready to open is tedious, just doing the same shit over and over again. It’s just routine now to wash the dishes from the night before and put everything back where it goes. Then, I have to do it all over again the next day. As much as I love the bar, this shit is getting tiresome.
Ripley walks out of the stockroom, carrying a keg under each arm. “Is the big baby crying again?”
Trip lets out a chuckle before responding. “Hell yeah. He wants me to help him, but that isn't gonna happen.”
Ripley shakes his head, looking at me with a smirk on his face. “You wanted dishes, so you got them.”
“I didn’t want dishes,” I growl out, glaring at him. “I didn’t want to mop the damn floor. It’s not the same fucking thing.”
Before either can respond, the bar phone starts to ring. We all go quiet, jerking our eyes to the sound. The phone rarely ever rings. In fact, we may have gotten five calls since we opened up over six months ago. None of those were this early, before the bar even opens. By the third ring, I’m grabbing it.
Bringing it to my ear, I answer, “The Landing Strip.”
I love the name of our bar. As much of a pussy as it makes me sound, I smile every damn time I say it. We knew we wanted the name to pay homage to our time in the Army. We argued, bitched, and nearly came to blows when trying to pick one. Then, Ripley came up with The Landing Strip. With all three of us being pilots, the name fits us perfectly.
“I need to speak to Lark,” says a female voice that I don't recognize.
“Guess it’s your lucky day because you’re talking to him,” I reply, leaning my hip against the bar. “Who is this?”
There is a moment of silence, making me think that whoever is on the other end has hung up. Just before I do the same, I hear a sigh come through the receiver.
“It’s Crystal,” she says, going silent again.
I stay quiet, trying to figure out who the fuck she is. I’ve met a lot of women through the years. As far as I know, I’ve never met a Crystal. If I did, I either worked really hard to forget her or she wasn’t too damn memorable in the first place.
“Sorry, sugar, but I’m not sure who you are,” I say, knowing that, whoever this woman is, she will not be happy with that fact.
“I should have known you wouldn’t even remember my name,” she says, her voice filled with anger. “Men like you never do.”
I grind my teeth together and push off the bar. “Why don’t you help me remember? Maybe you can tell me where we met.”
“About two months ago, give or take a day or two, we were together,” she starts, sounding even more pissed. “You fucked me on the bar and again on one of the tables.”
Oh, yeah, I remember her. The bar fly. The sex wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t all that memorable. What I do remember is the fact she made herself a pain in my ass for the following two weeks. She came in every night, trying to get a repeat performance. I tried letting her down easy, being as friendly as possible, but that didn’t work. She kept coming in, night after night. She even went as far as hiding in the bathroom on one of the nights I closed. That didn’t quite turn out the way she wanted.
When Trip realized what was going on, he let me know really quick what she was about. He said she was a leech, wanting to latch onto any man who would have her. He said he had to let her down, and that he did it in a way that there would be no doubt in her mind that anything they shared was now in the past. I did the same thing, and I did it in a way that caused her never to come into the bar again.
“What do you want?” I ask, feeling my irritation building.
I get it; she wanted more than just a quick hook-up. Still, I had made it clear that I didn’t. I made that clear from the beginning, when I offered to put her in a cab as soon as we were done. I made my point again when I put her in the cab without so much as a quick kiss goodbye. It was what it was and nothing more.
There is a long moment of silence before she finally speaks. “It isn’t about what I want anymore. It’s about what I need.”
She sounds so whiny that I have to fight the urge to hang up the phone. I would if I thought it would end with that. It won’t though. No, this crazy bitch is going to keep hounding my ass if I do not put a stop to it right fucking now.
“Your needs don’t have a damn thing to do with me.” I can feel my stomach twist with revulsion at the thought that my dick was once inside this woman. “I thought I made myself clear; I don’t want any fucking thing to do with you.”
“Do you want anything to do with your child?” she asks, causing me to blink in both confusion and a touch of panic.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I growl out, drawing both Trip and Ripley’s attention. “I don’t have a kid.”
I know what she is saying, but I also know it is complete bullshit. I wrapped my shit up tight before my cock got anywhere near her well-used pussy. I may not have gotten a lot from my asshole father, but he pounded always wearing a condom into my head. At thirty-four, my cock has never felt a bare pussy. I cover my shit every single time. It is something I always do and always will. I don’t want any kids. Not now, probably not ever.
“Not yet, but I’m pregnant and the baby is yours,” she says with a bitter laugh.
All of her earlier anger is completely gone from her voice. If anything, the chick sounds happy, but not in a way any expectant mother should sound. No, in a way that says she has trapped a man that doesn't want shit to do with her.
“I don’t think so. You’ve clearly got the wrong man,” I say through teeth clenched so hard that my jaw is aching. “I wore a condom.”
I want to say more, tell her there is no fucking way, but I can’t find the words. My brain will not focus on the conversation. Instead, it keeps replaying the night over and over. I remember taking off the condom after both rounds. It wasn’t busted, was it?
“Condoms do not always work. If they did, there would be a lot less accidental babies in the world,” she states, her happiness growing with each word. “This baby is yours.”
I understand shit can happen, but I never thought it would happen to me. I still don’t, not really. This woman wanted me bad. Hell, she wants any man she can get her hands on. She may not even be pregnant. This whole thing could be just another play to get me to fall in line with her plan.
Then again, if she is pregnant, she probably doesn’t even know whose kid it is. Both Trip and I fucked her a little more than a week apart from each other. Before us, she tried to play her game on Ripley, but he turned her down.
“I’ll believe you when I see some proof,” I tell her, feeling my heart beat rapidly against my chest. “I wouldn’t be the first man accused of having a kid that isn't his.”
“As soon as the baby is here, you’ll have your proof,” she says, sounding pretty damn sure of herself.
My chest tightens as the thought of this woman having my kid fills my mind. I may not want kids, but even if I did, I wouldn’t want them with someone like her. She’s not the type I want to be tied to for the next eighteen years.
Shaking off the thought, I say the only thing I can. “When you have the baby, you know where to find me.”
I don’t give her a chance to respond before hanging up the phone. When I turn around, Trip and Ripley are staring at me. Judging by the looks on their faces, they heard every word I said and figured out what is going on.
“Who the hell was that?” Trip asks, placing his forearms on the bar.
Suddenly, a thought pops into my mind. If the woman is really pregnant, Trip has just as much to worry about as I do. It could be my kid, as much as I want to deny that possibility, but it could also be Trip’s. I know for a fact he is not as careful as me. In fact, this would not be his first pregnancy scare.
“Do you remember Crystal?” I ask, her name tasting bitter on my tongue. “The bar fly that wouldn’t leave me alone, or you either.”
He leans forward, his eyes locked on me. “She’s pregnant?”
“Obviously, dickhead,” Ripley pipes in with a shake of his head. “Why does she think you're the father? Why not Trip?”
I’m quiet, just looking at Trip. I can see the fear in his eyes. There is no doubt in my mind that same fear can be seen in my own eyes. Even having bullets fired at me and bombs going off around me, I have never felt fear like this.
“Did you wear a condom?” I ask, not caring that it's really none of my business.
He reaches up and runs a hand over his neatly buzzed head. “I think so, but I was drunk, really fucking drunk. I don’t even remember half the night, so I can’t be sure.”
I let out a relieved breath, knowing he would not have even admitted that much if he wasn’t pretty damn sure he didn’t wear one. Not that I want my brother to have to deal with this shit, but better him than me. I’d take a bullet for him but not this shit.
“I guess we’ll be finding out soon enough.” Deciding to pretend it's not weighing on me, I walk over to the cooler and grab a beer. “Let’s celebrate. In a few months, I’ll either be a daddy or an uncle.”