“Of course you’d say that. You’re a man-whore who doesn’t want kids, and the thought of a family terrifies you.”
“No. I’m saying that as your best friend and someone who loves you.”
“White.”
“Someone who knows that Tommy Haynes would make you miserable.”
“Will you let go of my ass now?” she sighs, and it’s then I realize that not only am I still holding her, but my hands are kneading her juicy flesh. I don’t particularly want to stop, but I force myself. I need to get out and clear my head, maybe even get laid, because holding Kayla like this and touching her has me hard as a fucking rock.
“If I must,” I tell her, trying to make a joke out of it, because the last thing I want to do is to stop touching her.
“You’re an asshole.”
“But you love me anyways.”
“On most days. You’re fixing my door and taking me out for breakfast.”
“I am?”
“It’s the least you can do for waking me up.”
“Okay, but while we’re out, I’m buying you a better lock.”
“You’re buying me Bavarian cream doughnuts from Caesar’s.”
“And better locks.”
“Whatever. I’m going to shower. Please make sure my door closes while I’m in there.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Kayla slides off my lap and walks away. For a minute I’m stuck watching her walk away. I’ve got some shit to work out here. How I never noticed how sexy she was before, for one. Why I really wanted her marriage to Tommy canceled is another. And as I hear the water to Kayla’s shower come on, I know there’s one more thing.
Why the fuck is my dick throbbing at the idea of seeing my best friend naked with water sliding down her body? I’m up and have taken three steps toward her bathroom before I realize it and stop myself.
Shit just got more complicated.
CHAPTER 9
KAYLA
“We’re sorry, Ms. Graham, but surely you understand our position.”
“I understand you’re not even considering my application,” I tell the lady behind the desk at Cabinet for Child and Family Services.
“But we are. I’m just saying that for right now, there are many applications before yours that will take precedence.”
“All because those have two parents.”
“Listen, I’m sure you would make a great mother. But, there are guidelines and we have to make sure that each of these children have the best opportunities when they leave the facility.”
“But you have kids who aren’t even being considered for adoption. Surely they would be better in my home where I can give them housing, love, attention, and make sure they get every advantage I can physically make possible rather than stay in care of the state.”
“I’m not saying it won’t happen, Ms. Graham.”
“You’re just saying I have a better chance of winning the lottery than adopting a child.”
“I understand your frustration.”
“No. I don’t think you do,” I tell her and sigh. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. The system sucks, and from the looks of this woman’s desk—which holds frame after frame of family photos with her, a husband, and two kids—there’s just no way she could truly understand.
“You could adopt privately.”
“If I won the lottery, maybe, and even then two parents are given priority.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I know. It seems I have wasted both your time and mine. I’ll just be going,” I tell her, already getting up. I turn my back to her, gathering up my coat and purse that I hung on the back of my chair. Today has been fucked up. I’m going to need a drink. Hell, maybe a lot of them.
“There is another possibility,” I hear the woman say.
I turn around to look at her. I don’t know what she’s about to suggest, but I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted all avenues here. If I want to be a parent, I think it’s getting clearer and clearer I have limited options. Heck, even in-vitro will cost more than I make for the entire year with my salary. Nope. It’s looking like I either go back to Tommy and do things his way—a choice I’d rather die than do—or I could go out to a bar and hook up with random strangers until I get lucky in more ways than one. Isn’t that a heartwarming story to tell my son or daughter about the way they were conceived? I could make a children’s book about it: how I became a whore trying to stick a freaking bun in my oven.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You could take classes to become a foster parent.”