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He was a man who didn’t. Want. Children.
Full stop.
Shit ran through his blood. Addiction, viciousness, greed, hatred, and the worst parenting skills known to man. Why the hell would he put more of that into a world already full of assholes and bigots? No, he was happy to keep his DNA from trickling down to future generations.
Or he had been.
Fuck.
Now he was the asshole who didn’t want his own kid and hated her dead mother.
Hours ago, mere hours, he’d been enjoying a beer and a burger with his family. Not a care in the world beyond what he’d wear on his date and whether she’d let him finger her in a dark corner of the bar.
Oh shit, he’d stood her up. For sure, he’d find a slew of pissed-off messages on his phone. Dammit, he had a reputation to uphold. He was known for leaving the ladies happy, smiling, and very satisfied. Standing them up wasn’t his style and wouldn’t do him any favors in the future. Still, his evening was playing out far worse than hers. He’d love it if the biggest problem of his night was some jerk standing him up.
His problem trumped all. He was a single father.
Christ.
Would he ever be able to go out for a night of booze and mindless fucking again, or would he be changing diapers and wiping spit up until the kid was six or however old they were when they started potty training?
He dropped his head in his hands, letting Mary Anne’s letter flutter to the floor.
His chest grew heavy as the trembling increased.
A single fucking father.
It couldn’t be real. It had to be a cruel joke.
For the next eighteen years, a human being would be dependent on him. She’d expect him to be there every day. To support her. Go to dance recitals, help with homework, wipe her tears, and patch up her cuts.
The tips of his fingers began to tingle as his chest tightened even more. He tried to take a deep breath, but it lodged in his throat, unable to reach his lungs.
He’d have to keep her fed, warm, and safe. All things his father had never done for him. Where did he begin?
A soft knock on the door made him jolt. He wanted to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was a high-pitched wheeze.
He couldn’t fucking breathe.
The door flew open, and Keith rushed in.
“C-ca—” Another raspy whistle left him. “Br-bre—” Was this a heart attack? Was he dying? About to leave his daughter an orphan before he’d worked up the courage to even hold her?
“Shh, shh, shh.” Keith sat on the bed next to him. “Don’t try to talk.” He shoved JP’s head between his knees. “Just focus on breathing in and out. Slowly. Let’s do it together. Breathe in, two, three, four. Breath out, two, three, four.”
Keith counted over and over as he rubbed his large hand up and down JP’s back. At first, nothing happened. JP sucked wind and made no progress toward getting oxygen in his system. But as the seconds passed, the repetitive sound of Keith’s calm voice and his soothing touch helped JP relax one fraction at a time. When the first hit of air made it to his lungs, he nearly wept in relief.
Then he remembered why he had a panic attack in the first place.
“Better?” Keith asked when JP’s breathing normalized somewhat.
He let out a harsh laugh. Better? Fuck no, but at least he was breathing.
Keith hauled him up and crushed him against his chest in a mammoth hug. “We’ve got you, brother. Do you hear me? We’ve. Got. You. You are not alone.”
But wasn’t he? Sure, his family would help, but the responsibility was all his. And he ran from responsibility about as much as he ran from the idea of having children. Hell, he didn’t even have a real job. He just flitted from family business to family business when they needed extra help. Jagger’s contracting company, Keith’s auto shop. He even manned the bar for Ronnie when she needed a night off. It worked for him, earning him just enough cash to have fun when he wanted without the repulsive thought of a steady nine-to-five life.
He closed his eyes and allowed his brother’s strength to prop him up as he’d done so many times throughout his life. Oldest of the six kids, Keith was more a father than a brother sometimes. He’d had to take on the role. Their actual father was a piece of shit, and their mother passed when JP was very young.
JP pulled back after allowing his brother to support him for a few moments.
“You good?” Keith asked.
Again, JP laughed a harsh barking sound. “No.”
Somber dark eyes watched him as though he were a skittish animal ready to flee. All the Benson siblings had the same near-black eyes and hair. JP had always found it funny to be on the receiving end of scrutiny from a gaze almost identical to his own.
