Lena

 

The morning comes with a delicious ache in my lower half. I’ve never woken up from a night of sex aching, let alone a night of masturbating aching. There’s a soft, dull thud as I roll over in my bed, the morning light not quite yet peeking through my window.

 

God … What is this man doing to me?

 

I lie in bed for a little, thinking about the day and the night before. Though I have a lot of thoughts, they’re decidedly calmer than they were before. Maybe it was the insane orgasm—I’m chalking it up to the orgasm—but there are a couple of things I at least admit to myself as I shower and get ready for the morning.

 

One? I’m attracted to a man I know I shouldn’t be.

 

Two? I’d like to talk to him more about this little arrangement that he wants to have with me.

 

I know, logically, that it’s insane. You don’t just jump into bed with a man because he offers you something—especially not when he wants to essentially use you as a broodmare. But the more I think through the logistics … the more I think about where I am in my own life …

 

I’m fast approaching thirty. It’s not the end all, be all. I still have a lot of life ahead of me, but there’s only so much of that life that can be used to have a child. And I want one. I’ve always wanted one. Growing up in a foster home, surrounded by people that loved me unconditionally, I was always so very, very grateful for my mom—adopted or not—and my siblings.

 

There was a point where I thought I would foster and adopt as well. But I always knew that I wanted to do what my own mother hadn’t, and carry a baby, keep it, nurture and love it, and let it know that it was the most cherished thing in the world.

 

But for a person that desperately wants a family, there’s always been blockages. Schooling. Working. My students are so important to me, and most men don’t like not having your full, undivided attention on them. That’s something I can’t offer.

 

But Booster said I wouldn’t have to do anything differently from what I do now. Just not be with any other men.

 

As I walk on my way to work, I snort. No other men. There hasn’t been another man in so long it’s almost easy to forget what having sex is like …

 

Something tells me, though, that sex with Booster would be very, very, memorable.

 

“Lena! Oh my god, where did you get all of this!”

 

We’re in my classroom—I and the other teachers from the English department. We always get in at least an hour before the bell, as teacher do. I made sure to call them all in for a meeting. Little did they know …

 

I beam out at them, gesturing to the boxes.

 

“Someone was kind enough to donate all of these to the department yesterday,” I say. I don’t want to give away that a biker who wants to knock me up is trying to vie for my favor and that’s why they’re here—that would be asking for gossip. This is a safer option. And to be honest, I like it more.

 

Mrs. Cunningham, one of the older teachers, thumbs through the books.

 

“We’ve been trying to get things like this in for years,” she says, amazed at the titles and the brand-new quality of all the books that are in the boxes.

 

“I know. Principal Walters wasn’t having any of it … But at least now he doesn’t have to worry about this eating into his precious budget.”

 

We all laugh, and together, we get the boxes of books distributed between the teachers. We get done a little before the first bell rings, and I go into the rest of the day with a pep in my step.

 

If nothing else, this little interlude with Booster has helped more than just me. When I see him next, I plan to thank him for that. He might have personal, possibly selfish, reasons, but the results are utterly selfless.

 

The week goes by, and we get good use out of the new materials for the classrooms. I haven’t gone by to tell Principal Walters about the donation, but word gets to him anyway. He gives me furtive, somewhat annoyed looks in the hall when I pass him, but he dares not say anything against the donation—too many of the teachers and the students, even, are appreciative of the new materials. He wouldn’t dare speak against them after having called the investment a waste.

 

Well. Now he can see that he was very, very wrong, and he doesn’t even get the credit that would have come from boosting the quality of the English department.

 

With school straightened out, it opens up my mind to more thoughts about Booster. I don’t see anymore of him, and I find myself looking for him intentionally. I’ll head to the café early in the morning before school and sit at the window, trying to see if I can get a glimpse of him. I take my lunches in my classroom, trying to see if he’ll be out in the parking lot at some point, waiting for me.

 

I have no means of contacting him, and shy of showing up randomly at the bar he took me to, to ask around about him, I’m at a loss.

 

“There’s more where that came from, doll.”

 

Maybe he was just saying that? Maybe he found another woman to fulfill his needs quicker and decided not to bother with me. It’s odd how the thought pains me when I know that it shouldn’t.

 

By Friday, I’m convinced that that’s what’s happened. That I’ve been left in the dust, and I wake up that morning a little annoyed. I’ve gotten all in my head over nothing.

 

Ugh.

 

Though the day is gorgeous, my mood is downcast. More so when the doorbell rings, and there’s a knock on my front door.

 

Who on earth could that be?

 

I don’t let myself hope that it’s Booster, and therefore I don’t feel disappointment when I open up the door in my bathrobe and see that it’s not him. It is, however, another delivery person. My brow rises as his eyes rove over me.

 

“Good morning?”

 

He snaps out of whatever stupor he was in and nods behind him.

 

“Car delivery for Lena Hedlund?”

 

Car what?

 

“P-pardon?”

 

The delivery man steps aside and lets me see. There’s a gorgeous, gunmetal silver car sat parked in my driveway. Just looking at it, I can tell that it’s brand new, and way, way out of my pay grade. I gape at it, and the delivery man laughs.

 

“Your husband must love you a lot,” he comments. “Sign here, ma’am.”

 

I take a few moments before I do so, still gaping at the fact that there’s a car in my driveway that I didn’t even pay for. But I don’t question it. I know exactly who sent it to me.

 

“Yeah … yeah, I’m very lucky.”

 

He hands me the keys, which I take with shaking hands. I’m … in utter shock. This is definitely a huge step up in price from schoolbooks.

 

Booster is very serious about this whole thing.

 

The delivery person laughs a little before he heads back to the trailer he’s driving—his last glance at me not lost, but utterly unimportant to me. I clutch the keys in my hands. I have the urge to run over there, jump and holler like a child, and another to never touch the car, because what on Earth am I going to do with it? What am I going to tell people?

 

My inner child outweighs the adult I should be right now.

 

I bound over as the delivery man pulls away, unlocking the car and sliding in. There’s plush leather inside, and I can scent that it’s new, untouched. Everything is black, from the dashboard to the floor boards. It’s sleek and elegant.

 

Everything that I would want out of a car, had I bought it myself.

 

I don’t know the first thing I want to do. Take it for a drive or sit back and admire it. Considering the fact that I’m still in my robe—

 

I do the adult thing and go inside. But I’m quick in getting ready and getting right back down to the car in question. I’ve had a license since I was a teen, have driven here and there if a friend or my mom will let me drive—but my own car? That’s something that I haven’t actually had for a few years since my last one broke down and I didn’t have the money to replace it.

 

I’m positively, undeniably floored with how wonderfully she handles. I drive through town, getting a feel for the car, getting acquainted with all the controls and the fancy functions of the car. It’s more equipped than any car I’ve ever driven in; I have to wonder where Booster could have found the money for this, let alone all the books, and come to the conclusion that being president of a motorcycle club clearly has its perks.

 

I arrive a little late at the school, but it’s all right—I’m still here before the first bell rings. My car gets the attention of students, who eye it with covetous eyes, and I can’t help but blush when I remember what the delivery man said earlier.

 

“Your husband must love you a lot.”

 

No, not husband. Not even boyfriend—not even loved from afar. But I suppose that it doesn’t hurt, having Booster’s interest. I wonder what more surprises await me before he’s back around to claim what he wants.

 

I don’t honestly know if I’ll tell him no.