The Champ:Bad Boys Book 5(42)
My ovaries flutter in hyper excitement. I can hear ‘em yapping in frenzy, too.
'That's your Baby Dada come to life! Yup, we're putting him in capital letters because he just became flesh and blood and no longer just a figment of your imagination. Baby Dada is now a proper noun. Go get him NOW before that maneater at the bar steals your supply of sperm for the whole week!'
I cringe at my shameful thoughts, but they're the unvarnished truth.
I came to this place to carry out an important decision in my life. I've thought of it for years but I've procrastinated for far too long until my clock started ticking ominously like a time bomb.
Now, I'm on a countdown.
I'm desperate to do the most I can, given the limited time left in my system. Pardon the analogy but this must be how people dying of terminal illnesses feel like. Time becomes their lifeline, the very foundation of their waning existence. Every second counts like the snapping of every single strand in the rope anchoring them to life. Every snap represents the things they're losing as they get nearer to the last strand. The last number.
This painful cliché is happening to me right now. My biological clock is ticking. And it's an irreversible progression.
The bomb was set off by my gynecologist last month during my quarterly medical check-up. No, it's nothing life-threatening like the Big C, but it's somehow related to that, too.
According to my good doctor, I must get pregnant NOW if I still want to have at least one child and also to reduce the risk of getting breast cancer. To put it more bluntly, my eggs are shrinking every month and pretty soon, like SOON, my ovaries will just wilt away like plants during the worst drought and cease functioning altogether.
If I do get pregnant, my lactation period will vastly improve blood circulation in my boobies, thereby greatly reducing the risk of developing cysts in any of the unused ducts in there.
If I want to analyze that further, I'll come to the conclusion that making babies is mandatory for women as it's literally a cancer prevention measure, which will set off an endless argument by yours truly about gender equality which at this point, I'd be arguing with THE Creator, so let's not even go there.
Anyway, what my doc said was definitely the granddaddies of all wake-up calls that set me in an apocalyptic panic. For real.
It was time to face the reality of it.
I finally made up my mind.
Like really, really, really made up my mind.
I want a baby.
So here I am now.
I'm not picky. I don't care who or what my Baby Dada is as long as he's clean and smells like heaven and has a smile that makes my tummy flutter like a million butterfly wings and has the body that will make me want to finally end my ten-year aversion to men and sex.
Wow. Has it been that long? I normally don't count the years but when situations put me in the math zone, even I recoil at the reality of those numbers. It scares me, truth be told, that I haven't really felt the need to have sex with a man in so long, that I haven't felt the need to be with a man, even just for companionship, for a decade! It emphasizes the fact that I've refused to see (yup, Denial Queen)- that maybe, maybe there's something seriously wrong with me.
'There IS something SERIOUSLY wrong with you. What the hell are you doing in this island in Asia, trying to blend anonymously among the mélange of tourists of various nationalities, planning to hook up with some random stranger and steal his sperm?'
I inwardly cringe again. It's not really stealing his sperm. I call it borrowing. What is one sperm anyway? Just one in gazillions he produces every day, and may I add, wastes everyday. I just need one healthy tadpole to fertilize one of my eggs before they croak for good. Just one! It's not stealing, okay?
Come on!
'Sperm thief!'
I quit wrestling with my conscience. I don't need my moral codes nagging me today if I have to make a move on that hunk of masculine glory over there.
'Okay, so what the hell are you still doing here boring the shit out of yourself cataloging your internal shit? Go on, prove how gungho you really are about this baby-making project.'
I'm a very confident woman in my turf, commanding the most good-looking men to move the way I want them to while wearing my label. Adonises are commonplace in my line of work and I deal with them almost on a weekly basis. Lots of them in various nationalities. But asking a very good-looking man to have sex with me right off the bat is something I've never done before. It's uncharted territory for me and I'm basically almost clueless.
I can just go for another guy, someone not so intimidating in the looks department. A regular-looking one. Plenty of them around here, too. Average height, balding, not-so-panty-creaming body.
My ovaries protest violently.
'Don't be a fucking loser! Aim big and high! We don't want regular! We want extraordinary! If you're going to get knocked up, do it by design! Choose the best man for the job! He's gotta be the best of the best! You're staring at him!'
I inhale deeply. My ovaries are right, of course. I take it back. I'm actually picky, that's why I squandered a week looking for him. Now that I found him, I can't let this chance pass. He doesn't know me, I don't know him, so no preconceived ideas about each other, ergo, no judgment. Just a one-week-stand if he's amenable to it.
He has to be. I've no other choices in sight.
'He's leaving! Hurry!' My ovaries are panicking.
I need to be Machiavellian.
Amazonian.
Girl power.
Yes, I want that man's sperm and I'm gonna get it come hell or high water.
Zeke (A TorqueCrash Novel)
By KAT MADRID
"You're late!" Ryker yelled.
Zeke was already on a hair trigger, and hearing Ry yapping at his rare tardiness almost made him fly off the handle.
He ignored his friend and continued his way to the dressing room.
"Fuck you."
That's it! He turned and shoved Ry to the nearest wall, raising his arm to strike.
He heard footsteps running and was pulled away before he could do any damage to his band mate's face. Too bad. He was itching to punch someone after a brush with his Dad.
"Hey, hey...chill, guys!" Syd intervened.
Ry straightened. "Tell that to Mr. Diva here. It wasn't me who almost cost us this gig."
Zeke scowled.
"Got your panties in a twist again, Ry?" he asked as he tried to wrestle his way out of Ridge and Syd's hold.
"Cut the crap you two! Don't care if you bash each other's heads but do it later. We're here to jam and we're up in five. Fuck! We can't even do a sound check. The place is already packed!" Ridge vented.
Zeke stopped struggling as his stage persona took over.
He turned to Syd. "Jimmy and his crew already here?" he asked, referring to the venue's fold back guy.
"Yeah. Gave him a pack of ciggies to sweeten the deal."
"Good. We're in good hands then."
"Just get your vocals loud enough and signal if the feedback's a bit boxy. Jimmy will do his magic," Ridge said.
"I'll tone down my riffs," Syd remarked.
"Nah, you don't have to. Just let Mr. Jackass here play a bit of bass drum and I'll handle the vocals. Let's keep it simple."
Everyone nodded, including Ryker. If there was one thing great about TorqueCrash as a band, it was their ability to set aside their individual differences for the greater cause.
Luck favored them tonight because they sounded great despite the lack of sound check. Any fold back issues were easily ironed out by Jimmy. It could have gone the other way and made them look and sound like the Village Freaking Idiots.
A full hour went by.
Before he knew it, it was time for the encore.
Zeke squinted as he eyed the crowd.
"You've been great tonight," he began. "Thank you."
Relief wouldn't even cover what he felt right now.
Major catastrophe had been avoided as the audience--majority of which were college kids like them--ate up every song in their lineup. Some moshed and head banged their way to future head injuries.
"I love you Zeke!" a drunk sorority girl hollered. "Take me home."
"I love you too, sugar," he bantered back, winking. "You guys want some more of our shit?"
"Yeah! Encore! Encore! Encore!"
He smiled as he soaked up the energy and adoration. His day may have been a cluster fornication but it would end sweetly on this stage.
"Let's see...any birthday celebrants? I'm open to song suggestions," he addressed the group. "As long as you don't make me rap or sing any Britney or Christina songs, we're gonna be fine."
Chuckles broke out.