Romance: TOXIC (Forbidden, Pregnancy, Taboo Romance, Stepbrother Romance, New Adult Short Stories) (4 page)

"I mean exactly that.  Would you keep saying that if I got fat?"

"I suppose I would," he said.  "Why?"

"Because I'll be gaining a lot of weight in the future."

Watching the expressions ripple across his face--confusion, understanding, and then, pure joy--was priceless.  "You mean--really?"

"I took the test yesterday," I said.  "There were two lines."

"Oh man," he said.  "We have to get married.  We need to--the second bedroom--we need to make that into a nursery.  We'll have to arrange for child care.  You'll need to pick out an OB--"

"Relax, Blake," I said. 

"Relax?  You just told me I'm going to be a dad!"

"Yes, you are," I said.  "And I’m going to be a mom.  But right now, she's--"

"Wait, how do you know it's a girl?  They can tell this early?"

I almost had to laugh at him.  Instead, I kissed him.  The kiss deepened yet again, and his hands began moving all over my body again.  But when he touched me again, it was different, yet again, from what he'd done earlier.  I was the mother of his child, now, and when his hands floated over my belly they seemed to be asking permission. 
Can I know this child?  Can I love this child? 

"Yes," I whispered.  "You can, and you will."

"What will we call her?" he asked.  "And how can we afford everything that she'll need?" 

"I don't know," I said.  "We'll think of something.  We'll find a way."

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Just Take Me Already

By Celia Styles

He was hardly the first man I had been attracted to.

I could recall the quiet soccer player at my school, the one I always caught myself turning out to games for. Then there was John, the sandy-haired, blue-eyed cadet who had trained alongside me back at the academy.

There had also been countless men on the streets I’d caught myself looking twice at; there were even a couple I’d ended up at sweaty, passionate third base in the restrooms of pubs with. But I’d been brought up in a conservative, homophobic family, so I had dated women when I was too pressured to have a love life. Mostly, I had just kept quiet on the topic.

Once I started working, no one paid much attention to my love life or lack thereof, but that was fine by me. It’s probably why I spent so much time at the station; it was far easier to fill my time with the day-to-day work of a suburban cop than it was to spend some time actually thinking about myself and what I wanted. I had managed to keep those desires at bay for most of my 32 years, until I opened the door on a quiet September night, and saw him there. Little did I realize that the floodgates, so to speak, had been opened.

He was shorter than me, though only by a few inches, but slender: his broad shoulders tapered into a slim waist, his limbs long and languid. He was the opposite of brown-eyed, brown-haired, stocky old me, and I felt conspicuously big in front of him. Those eyes, flecked with green and glowing, bored into mine, and his sculpted lips slightly parted as he let out short, sharp gasps into the wintery air. His olive skin was clear and bright, and I wanted to reach out and feel it under my fingertips.

“Can I help you?” I barked.

“I-I’m sorry, I just came from the border, and the
policia
, the police, they’re following me.” he blurted, his tone urgent. It didn’t take the accent for me to figure out where he was from.

“If you’re looking for a place to hide, I’m afraid this isn’t it,” I replied, closing the door on him.

I had moved to the town fairly recently, but I’d been warned that part of the country was often the first port of call for illegal Mexican immigrants. I guess some of the hostility the town had towards them had rubbed off on me, for I only felt the smallest twinge of guilt over turning him away.

But his foot got in the way of my shutting the door properly, and he used his hands to open the door wider. I couldn’t help but notice how long and elegant his fingers were, and how strong he was for someone so slender otherwise. If not for the door, he would’ve been in my personal space, and I felt the tiniest shiver at the thought.

“Please, you’ve got to help me!”

The desperation in his voice made me pause, and I peeked from the crack.

“Why the hell should I let you in?”

“Because it wouldn’t make a difference to you, but it would mean life or death for me!”

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, so you really think I won’t get into any trouble for harbouring an illegal immigrant?”

He grabbed my arm, and if I had shivered at the thought of being close to him, it had been nothing compared to the electricity I felt now.

“If you let me in now, you’d get rid of me in a day, two days, at the most. If the cops come, you could say ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone,’ and they’ll believe you because you’re a nice upstanding white man and no one would suspect you of doing something like this.”

He was right. I hated to admit it, but he was right. If I let him in and then denied it when my colleagues showed up, they would believe me. They knew that I was the last person who’d let an illegal immigrant into my house, judging by the vitriol I spat about them whenever we had to collect them from the side of the road somewhere. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even bother to ask me.

I looked at the man in front of me again, read the desperation in his face, felt the pressure of his fingers digging into my arms. I could just open the door, and that would be that.

So I did.

I didn’t say a word as I pulled the door back, allowing him over the threshold. He released my arm and practically jumped into the house, a grin breaking over his face. He laughed with relief, and spun around to face me, his dark curls whipping against his face as he did so. I would’ve placed his age at about 25.

Whatever my misgivings about letting him in, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.. Stepping forward, I directed him to the living room.

“In here. You can sleep on the couch. Don’t make any noise, and don’t go outside until I say it’s okay. I want you out of here in two days, tops, okay?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

“Do you have a name?” I asked, after a pause. I was reluctant to leave him just yet.

“Gabriel. And yours?”

“Officer David Felton.”

His eyes widened. “You’re a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you letting me stay?”

“I think it’s best that you don’t make me think about that too hard,” I replied. “You want something to eat?”

“No, no, really, I will wait until I can get out by myself. I don’t want to be any trouble.” He shook his head, sitting down on the couch and shaking off his jacket.

“Come on, eat something. The last thing I want is you getting ill while you’re here.” I snapped, walking through to the kitchen. The urge to protect him and look after him was overwhelming;
white saviour complex
, they’d have called it in a psychology paper. My brain was conflicted; I didn’t want him to stay, but I didn’t want him to leave, either. Pulling out some bread, I made us a round of bacon sandwiches, serving them on separate plates.

“Sorry it’s not any of your burrito-taco-diarrhea food,” I said as I handed him his food.

He looked at me as I walked round the couch, eyebrows raised. “I know what a bacon sandwich is, David.” His English was surprisingly good for an illegal immigrant. It was time to revise my assumptions, I supposed.

I shrugged grumpily, taking a large bite of my sandwich. “Whatever. Just eat.”

After he was done eating, I showed him to the bathroom and insisted that he bathe. I didn’t want a filthy immigrant, however good-looking, living in such close quarters with me, for however short a while.

He stepped out of the shower with just a towel around his waist, and I checked out his abs rather shamelessly. Boy, he had a delicious body.

Delicious body or not, I didn’t sleep as restfully that night as I usually did, my brain thrumming with the knowledge that an illegally gorgeous (and illegal) stranger was sleeping under my roof. I woke up to go check on him at least three times, afraid he would make off with some of my stuff. But I found him peacefully asleep every time. He didn’t even register that someone was shuffling around him.

It amazed me that he trusted a complete stranger in a foreign country enough to just go to sleep in his house.

The next two days went by in a strange, quiet sort of domesticity. I’d come down the stairs in the morning to find him leafing through my books, an English –Spanish dictionary next to him as he ploughed through Stephen King and Ray Bradbury and all the other American classics I had on my bookshelf. I didn’t like people touching my books, and illegal Mexican immigrants definitely didn’t feature in my list of ideal book borrowers, but I knew already that it was beyond me to deny him anything.

When his third morning came, he didn’t bring up the possibility of leaving and neither did I. I would go out to work in the morning, and he would clean the house and read during the day. We would talk about my books when I got home, and I would cook us up a meal of something delicious and unhealthy

We gradually, carefully, began to open up to each other, one little secret at a time. He had come to America on a whim, because he didn’t want to be stuck in his small rural Mexican town any longer. I told him about my parents and how they had died in a subway accident, my brother and how he had gone hiking to Europe and never came back.

He was extremely intelligent, and followed arguments easily. Thanks to his stay with me, his accent was increasingly losing its Mexican touch and sounding more, well, American. Unwittingly, I started picking up colloquialisms in Spanish I had never heard before. I could feel myself warming up to him, our conversations flowing easily. Staying up late nights talking to him had become the new normal routine for me, and I found myself living my days for those long, warm evenings.

Around a month into our acquaintance, we got to discussing US immigration policy, and all the things that I’d been tacitly taught over the years- that I should see these people as the enemy, and not as human beings- started to dissolve. It was impossible not to feel guilty about all the people like Gabriel who’d come over here not to cause trouble but to find a new start, the people I’d coldly turned away or cruelly thrown out. My worldview was shifting, inch by inch, and it was a liberating experience.

My unabashed physical attraction for him had, unbeknownst to me, given way to an emotional connect, and I forgot what it had been like to have a house without him in it. Cheesy though it sounded even to my own mind, I couldn’t imagine living without him. He had proved every single stereotype about his people wrong.