One to Tell the Grandkids (2 page)

“Screw them,” Melanie said. “If they’re dicks about it, screw them. You want to do this thing, you can make your own family. We’ll be a patchwork quilt family—a little piece of all of us to bring this kid up right.”

Taryn’s lips quirked up. “You want to be this kid’s aunt, is that what you’re saying?”

“Heck yeah. Rob and I could rock the aunt and uncle thing. Think about it. We’ll cover shopping because we’re going to do it anyway and you hate it. You already call us in every crisis over your blood family. Why not?”

“Patchwork quilt family, huh?” She sat up straighter and picked at a frayed thread on her jeans. “If I keep the kid, I have to tell the dad. What does Baby Daddy get to add to the quilt?”

“Best case scenario? You and Baby Daddy are made for each other, and this is all kismet,” Rob said.

“Yeah, right. That sounds like my life.”

“He brings his own patches,” Mel said. “And we all get to figure out how we fit to make a whole quilt of beautiful, haphazard pieces.”

Rob laughed. “That was poetic and strange coming from you.”

“Hey, man. Babies are a beautiful thing. New life beginning, new hope, all that. You know me. I’m the only one I know more unromantic than Taryn, and I still get the warm fuzzies for babies. I don’t know. I think it’s a cool idea that I could be part of what makes this kid who it is, even if it’s a small part.”

“Crap. That means I’m going to be a huge part,” Taryn muttered. “You want me to be someone’s mMommy? That’s insane.”

“This isn’t about what I want, Tare. We can’t make this choice for you. All I’m saying is it could be really cool.”

Taryn rubbed her temples as though she could massage away the traffic jam of thoughts in her head. She breathed in deep and back out. Her friends sat beside her in silence for a few minutes, lending their support as they promised. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth before the words tumbled away from her. “Okay, but calling the baby ‘it’ creeps me out. We can call it Patch for now.”

Robin fist-pumped and Melanie grinned.

Chapter Two

“H
ey, hey, hey. I can’t have you clean-cut, old guys with no visible tattoos hanging around. It’s bad for business.”

Caleb Ryder looked over his e-reader at his friend. Slate’s stern expression broke into a grin, and he pulled Caleb up out of his seat into a back slapping hug. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

“Eh, I was driving Oni nuts. Can you get lunch?”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a few minutes though.” Slate moved behind the counter. “I have a client coming in at two, and I need to have this sketch ready.”

“Take your time. I have my book.”

Slate retreated to the counter with his sketchbook. For a while, the only sound was the buzz of the tattoo guns and the muted conversation of the other artists and their clients.

Caleb looked up when the bell above the door jangled. A man with streaked blue and black hair looked in, glancing around at everyone in the shop as though he was looking for somebody.

“Be right with you,” Slate said without looking up from his work.

The stranger seemed bemused by Slate’s lack of attention, and Caleb felt the need to speak on his friend’s behalf. “When he gets inspiration, he has to get it down quickly or it would be lost.”

The stranger grinned. “Oh, I get it. This is important stuff.” He pulled up his shirt to show off an intricate tattoo along his side. “I’m not in any rush.”

“That’s great work,” Caleb said.

“It goes without saying I can do better, of course.” Slate still didn’t look up from his work, but he smirked.

The stranger wandered over to the counter. “Let’s see what you got.” Slate tilted his sketchbook in the stranger’s direction. The other man whistled. “Wow. That’s fantastic.”

Caleb hid his own smile when Slate finally looked up to find the stranger was leaning into his bubble space. Their faces were mere inches apart, and the man was Slate’s kind of handsome.

“You’re very talented,” he said. Caleb didn’t miss that his tone had taken on a hint of suggestion.

Slate noticed, as evidenced by the way his blank look turned into his most charming grin. “Thank you. This is for a client, but . . .” He flipped back a few pages and pointed at another drawing. “This one I’m working on for me.” He rested one arm on the counter, near the stranger’s, and pulled up his sleeve. “I was thinking right here.” He ran a finger along his upper arm.

Caleb shook his head and looked back to his book. It wasn’t an accident Slate had found an excuse to show off his arms. He didn’t have much in the way of muscles, but the tattoos on his upper arms were stunning, his own version of flexing. Caleb glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if the stranger had taken the bait. Sure enough, the man ran the pad of his finger over Slate’s arm, tracing the edge of the tattoo there. “I think it would work well with what you have,” he said.

Slate winked and shifted to lean both his elbows on the counter. “Now that you’ve helped me, how can I help you?”

The stranger blinked and straightened up as though he’d just remembered he’d come in with a purpose. “With what you could do, I wish I were looking for ink, but I’m actually looking for someone. This is an odd question, okay, so bear with me. Is there anyone here with a name like a stone? Onyx maybe? Jade?”

Caleb put his e-reader down.

Slate raised an eyebrow. “Slate?”

“Slate would work. Where can I find Slate?”

“Well, you’re looking at him.” He pointed to himself. “Slayton McKenzie.”

The man’s posture went stiff, and he took a step back from the counter. When he spoke again, his tone wasn’t at all flirtatious. “Do you have a tattoo just here?” He pointed to his left hip. “A trail or a path?”

Caleb’s protective instinct flared. He had the urge to step between this guy and Slate. Nothing good was going to come of this conversation.

“This tattoo?” Slate lifted his shirt and pulled the side of his pants down to reveal the tattoo on his hip.

“Of course. Of course it has to be you.” The stranger shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but what are we talking about here? Do we know each other?”

“No. Not you and I, anyway.”

Before they could continue the conversation, the bell at the front door jangled again, and a young woman stepped inside. Caleb meant to only glance at her, but as he did, her eyes met his. Their gaze lingered several beats longer than was polite before she looked at the stranger
.
“Robin?”

Robin moved to her side and took her hand. “I think we found him, Taryn.”

The look Taryn gave Slate was appraising, and if she had not gone shock-pale, Caleb might have been irritated on his friend’s behalf.

“This is
Slate,
” Robin said.

“Slate!” The woman slapped a palm to her forehead. “Yes. Of course. Slate.”

“Okay,” Slate mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “What the heck is going on? You two obviously know me, but I have no idea who either of you are.”

“Oh, man. Okay. Time to face the music.” The woman looked as though she was going to be sick. Robin obviously thought so too as he wrapped a supportive arm around her waist. She gave him a shaky nod. “I got this, Rob. Give us a second, yeah?”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t look sure, but she nodded.

For a moment, Caleb was sure Robin was going to argue, but he hugged her instead. “I’ll go get Mel. We’ll be here, okay?”

“Thanks.”

The silence that followed was awkward. Even the other artists seemed to have piped down. The buzzing tattoo guns made for eerie background music. Caleb was on the edge of his seat, his mind flipping through various scenarios. This woman didn’t have any paperwork with her, so she probably wasn’t from the courts.

“Lady, you’re killing me,” Slate said. His smile was weak, and Caleb could see he was trying not to fidget.

“I’m really sorry.” She looked him over again. “You really don’t remember me at all?” The tone of her voice was pleading. “It was a bar. What’s it called? The 21st, a few blocks from here? It was five weeks and two days ago?”

Caleb started at the name of his bar, but Slate banged his fist on the counter. “Shirley Tipsy!”

She closed her eyes. “That’s how you remember me?” She sighed. “My name is Taryn.”

Now that he had identified her, Slate was his usual smiling self. “Oh, man, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. What happened to you? I woke up the next day and you were just gone.”

Caleb was beginning to catch on. A few weeks before, he was supposed to go out with Slate, but he’d gotten held up. Slate had a one-night stand with a woman he had nicknamed Shirley Tipsy—she’d ordered many dirty Shirley Temples—and now she had tracked him down despite the look on her face that told him she would rather be anywhere else.

“It wasn’t one of my finest moments,” she said, reaching one hand up to twirl a finger through her hair in a nervous gesture. She glanced at Caleb and back to Slate. “Do you think we could go somewhere private? Outside at least?”

Slate’s smile fell, and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
“
Wait. Why are you here? What’s so important you need to speak to me in private?”

“I really think we should be alone.”

“Ah, fuck.” Slate looked pissed. “I’m clean, lady. You didn’t get it from me, okay?”

Caleb rolled his eyes, suppressing a groan. “Christ, Slate.”

Taryn’s head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“I’ve never had a disease, so you didn’t get it from me.” He tugged his hair out of its ponytail in restless irritation. “Great, there goes my clean record.”

“Slate,” Caleb said, but it was far too late.

“Are you kidding me?” Taryn’s face had gone from pale to flushed red with anger. “I’m not diseased, you arrogant asshole. I’m pregnant.”

Under other circumstances, the look on Slate’s face would have been priceless. He stumbled back a handful of steps. “I . . . what?”

“I said I’m pregnant. Yes, it’s yours. Yes, I’m sure.”

“That’s not p—”

Before Slate could make a bad situation worse, Caleb grabbed him by the arm and yanked him. “Shut up. Now.” He turned to Taryn. “I’m sorry. My friend here has a very bad case of foot-in-mouth disease. He’s not an asshole. I promise.”

Taryn huffed. “Right.”

“You’re upset.”

“You think?”

“Half an hour. Give us half an hour to regroup, and then everyone can speak like rational adults. There’s a Vietnamese restaurant one block that way. Give us half an hour, and we’ll meet you there.”

“We?”

“Assumption on my part. Bring your friend with you. It just seems like the kind of situation you both need support for, right?”

Taryn glared. Caleb got the distinct feeling she would have argued, except her eyes brimmed with tears. She looked away quickly. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. Vietnamese food. Half an hour. I’ll be there.”

The second she was gone, Slate let all his breath out in a whoosh. He gripped Caleb’s arm and began muttering under his breath. “Oh, man. Oh, man. Oh, man.”

“Come on.” Caleb started leading him to the door Taryn had just exited.

“Oh, man. Where are we . . . what . . . ?”

“Just follow me, Slate.”

Caleb dragged Slate to his bar, and sat him on a barstool. Almost twenty minutes had passed, and Slate still hadn’t touched the shot the bartender, Oni, had set in front of him at Caleb’s request. Instead he sat with his head in his arms on the bar. “I’m in trouble. Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble.”

Oni eyed Caleb for an explanation. “What he means to say is he got a girl, a woman, in trouble.”

“Got her in trouble?” Oni’s eyes bulged. “As in you knocked her up?”

Slate groaned.

“Come on. Get up. That’s a bar, not a pillow.” Caleb patted his friend on the back. “Talk to me.”

“It was a dick thing to say to her,” Slate said as he lifted his head.

“Yeah, but that’s pretty much the least of your problems right now.” He shook his head. “You really have the best taste in hookups, don’t you? The kind of people you—”

“Hey.” Slate’s eyes narrowed. “Shut your mouth, okay? Whatever happened that night, she seemed like a nice girl. Either way, she’s going to be my kid’s mother, so show some respect.”

At his own words, Slate paled, and he slumped again. “Oh, man. What am I going to do?”

“You know I have to ask this, but are you sure you want to take her word it’s yours?”

“I’m not going to be that prick who insists it has to be someone else. I was a moron that night. We both were. Yeah, I’m not naive. I know she could be trying to pull one over on me, but I’m not going to be the one to suggest that. I’ll keep my eyes open, and if something doesn’t add up, I’ll deal with it then. But really, I just can’t figure why she would lie about it. Why choose me? I’m no one. I’m not rich.”