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At this point, Ayana is pretty much done eating, and she pushes her chair back and races to the living room. I follow her, wary that her going through my record collection is…well, it’s not an invasion or anything. I’m not particular about that kind of thing unless it’s my brothers rifling through my stuff because they “borrow” things and never give them back. It’s just that seeing her elation at finding a particular soundtrack for a particular dance movie from a particular era does things to me—bubbly fluttery butterflies in the chest kind of things. Watching her take that record from the sleeve and slip it onto the turntable with the utmost care and reverence…yeah. More butterflies. I’m really a moth kind of guy, but these feel very pretty and fluttery. Too pretty to be moths in my motheaten soul.
“Hey, if your dad threatens to carve my face up with a spoon, can you tell him it’s already been done?”
Ayana slips the needle onto the record’s groove. As the upbeat dance music starts to play, she raises her arms above her head, which makes her dress pull tightly across her lovely breasts. It also makes the hem of her dress ride up her lovely thighs. Her feet start tapping out a beat while her knees join in, her hips start swaying, her breasts also moving, and her lovely shoulders shimmying.
The other thing I’m aware of?
That music can lead to happiness, which can lead to silliness, carefreeness, and dancing, which can then lead to all sorts of things. Uh, isn’t that what old-school parents say? That dancing can lead to sexing? I wouldn’t know. I didn’t have parents. But I swear there are parents out there who would call good music sinful because they obviously lived it up back in the day, and now they’re against people having fun the way they did. Also, they know that music can lead to dancing, which can lead to sexing.
And sexing, even with a condom, can lead to this. Right here.
Ayana twirling in my living room, swaying like an ethereal creature straight out of a fantasy fairy tale. The loveliest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She’s glowing. Because she’s carrying my child. Because we made a life together even though we didn’t mean to, which means she’s here. Here now. With me. I didn’t live my life as a monk the way my brother, Alden, did because he was afraid to involve anyone in the kind of life we lead—taking people down, righting wrongs, busting criminals. It’s dangerous. It’s a dangerous job, and as a result, we’re often on the run with some major cover. Even when we do settle and get jobs, it’s never a permanent thing.
I’ve only ever had one-night stands before because I didn’t want to endanger anyone or put my brothers, myself, or Granny at risk of being found out. It also just wouldn’t be fair to date someone when I could never tell them the truth about who I am and what I do.
I have no idea where that leaves me now. Absolutely. No. Idea. All I know is that when Ayana throws back her hair, lets out a squeal of pure joy, waggles her hips at me, wiggles her brow at me, and shoots out a hand to twiddle her fingers at me, doing the whole come-hither-and-dance-with-me thing, I come hither, and even though I’m no dancer, I find myself dancing.
Her hand slips into mine, her palm so delicate and dainty, her fingers tapered and tinged with black paint. Her touch, so, so light.
“I have to tell you something,” I blurt, but then she pulls herself in against me, twirling prettily and stepping lightly while I stand here like a big block of wood. As you guessed, I didn’t exactly make it to charm or finishing school.
She waits for me, lips pursed, as she rocks her hips in time to the music. Right. Against. Me. Okay, not right against, but close enough that my dick swells up and becomes hard as stone, which makes it impossible to think.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be a good dad,” I choke out. Not what I wanted to say, but it’s so brutally honest that my eyes start doing this funny thing, and all the memories I’ve choked up on the inside—all the bad, hard ones—start ripping through me, pounding at my temples mercilessly.
“Everyone’s scared of that,” Ayana responds patiently. Softly. Her face is so damn open. God, she’s so good. She’s so wonderful. She’s given me every benefit of every single doubt, and here I am, lying to her.
“I have to tell you something else,” I spill, acid churning my stomach. Now isn’t the time to go rogue. I should wait for Granny’s instructions, but I hate lying to this woman. We might be strangers who don’t trust each other yet, strangers where a one-night stand led to something growing between them that wasn’t chosen by either of them, and strangers muddling through strange, unchartered waters, but that doesn’t mean I can keep lying.
