Fair Game: A Football Romance (94 page)

Chapter Nine

Liam

The track my buddy in Amsterdam sent me today is so smooth and addictive. I can’t believe he’s letting me use it in a mix. Standing behind the decks in my nightclub, I bob my head up and down as I slowly introduce a sporadic heavy beat to the soft melody. I wish I could stay up here forever, high above the dance floor between the powerful speakers, where I have the power to control people’s mood and energy. But most importantly, I have the power to blast the music so fucking loud that I can’t hear a damn thing, including Amira’s voice telling me we have an appointment with a surrogacy agency this afternoon.

This shit is insane. It’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, but I don’t have much of a choice when her billionaire father is standing in the sidelines threatening to ruin everything I’ve worked for since I left home when I was fifteen years old. I actually called him two days ago. I’ve never spoken to the man directly, but this situation warranted more than a simple email or speaking to him through his security people and secretaries.

He didn’t even try to hide his motives. He told me straight up he wants to cut Amira from his will as punishment for being insolent and insubordinate. He said that he likes watching her squirm, and if she would just submit to his demands, he would give her everything. He wants her to grovel and beg for her inheritance. He wants her to stop drinking and partying and go to college. He also wants her to move home and marry a proper upper-class Nigerian man, which means a divorce from me.

This was information I did not know about, and it made me perk up and listen closely. He also made it a point to remind me that if he cuts her off, she’s going to go after me to secure her future financially, and with no prenuptial agreement, she could wipe me out.

Mr. Oni knows his daughter is stubborn and loves her party life. This is why he came up with the baby idea. If she believes she is strapped with a child, she will be more apt to settle down and behave. This is what he thinks, but I’m not so sure. Mr. Oni says if I can get her pregnant, he will allow the divorce and he will do everything in his power to keep Amira from taking me to the bank. He just wants her home where he can control her and shove a boring, dull life down her throat. He wants people to think he cured her of her crazy ways and made a perfect, subordinate woman out of her. The only part of this that I don’t like is allowing Amira to take my child to Nigeria. I don’t want any kid of mine near any of those people. When I told him I want to keep my baby, he was thrilled. He said he doesn’t want a half-breed baby running around his palace anyway. His exact words were, “Just get her pregnant and scared, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

My own dad was a loathsome military fucker who thought it was fine to take out his aggressions on my mom when he came home from a deployment with PTSD. I want so much more for my own children. That’s why I gave up on having them. I don’t have an abusive bone in my body, but my lifestyle isn’t conducive to having kids . . . but it looks like I’m going to have at least one.

Mom left him when I was ten and worked minimum wage jobs trying to support me. She did her best, but when I was old enough, I freed her of the burden. I floated from one friend’s house to another for years while making a name for myself. I wasn’t old enough to get into clubs, but I was fucking adorable with my dimples and All-American quarterback looks, and the club owners knew the crowds loved my turntablism. The floors were always packed with people when I was in the booth, and I worked for free. All I asked for was time in the club to work on my mixes when they were closed. One club owner hooked me up with a well-known professional who took me under his wing and let me tour with him for a year, and that was when DJ Freedom was born. After a few years on the road, I opened a club named FICTION so that I would have a place to work and stay in contact with my fans when I wasn’t touring. FICTION is more of a home to me than my house now that I share it with Amira. She likes to remind me lately of my famous closing time quote, “You can’t live in FICTION. Nothing there is real.”

Yeah, well, I like it here where nothing’s real. It’s a hell of a lot better than the real world with her.

Now my life is about to change some more. When I jack off into a cup, I’ll be agreeing to Oni’s plan to ruin Amira’s life just like she ruined mine. Karma’s a bitch. Bringing an innocent kid into the world under these pretenses feels so fucking wrong, but I don’t see any other way out.

I’m having a baby, unless . . . what if it doesn’t work? What if they mix our shit together and it won’t make a baby? What if they make babies and they don’t live? What if we end up with two or three?

Fuck! I rip the headphones off my head and throw them over the railing onto the empty dance floor below, where they explode into hundreds of pieces.             

I bet Amira hasn’t even considered that. She can’t see past her trust fund and her inheritance to begin to understand the magnitude of this situation.

I glance down at my watch. Shit, I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now. I hate being interrupted when I work, especially when something is coming together so well. I swear, Amira made the appointment at the most inconvenient time for me on purpose. I’d bet every penny I earned on my last tour that she scheduled this appointment right after her workout and before her manicure.

Outside, under the perfect California sun, I sling my leg over the seat of my Harley and take a deep breath. I hate being fucking manipulated, and I hate what my life has become. If I can just get past all this shit with Amira and end up with a kid of my own, I might be able to find some peace.

I’m taking my bike today to piss Amira off. I can’t wait to see her spaz when I pull up on my
death trap
, as she calls it. Not real appropriate for a baby, is it, bitch? I need to develop a better attitude.

Inside the waiting room of Joyful Connections, I smile to myself. Mission accomplished. Amira saw me pull up, and she’s fuming about the bike. I couldn’t be happier. I hope it throws her off her game. Maybe they’ll see thorough her fake mommy act and refuse to work with us? Nah, she’s a pro. She can turn that shit on and off like a light switch. I’m doomed. I don’t know why she doesn’t just save us the money and the trouble and let me fuck her. I’m sure I could put a baby in her in no time, but no … she can’t ruin her perfect body.

The agency is decorated to promote a calm, soothing atmosphere with classic furniture, a sandstone color palate and grey-blue accents. I’ve always been into meditation and energy, so I notice shit like that. Hell, I had the whole house repainted when I came home and saw the way Amira had redecorated. She had the place lit up with reds and yellows that gave me a headache. I swear, the calm colors brought Amira’s energy down from a tightly wound coil to a more relaxed curl.

“It’s so good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Wild. Please come right this way.”

Amira’s angry, contorted expression changes like a chameleon into a bright, friendly smile as she turns to face the cute red-head greeting us.

“Oh yes, it’s lovely to finally meet you in person, Britney!” Amira says.

Goddamn, she’s so fake.

When we sit down with the redhead, I’m surprised to hear that Amira has submitted a lot of
our
requests and requirements for the surrogate mother, as well as much of the legal paperwork.              

I’m also surprised to realize that Britney is a big DJ Freedom fan, and that’s killing Amira.

It’s been forty-five glorious minutes of discussion and light flirting, and I swear Amira is about to crack when Britney’s phone rings, saving her the embarrassment.

Britney is all smiles when she hangs up the phone. I look at Amira to check on the bulging artery in her neck. It’s better now, but five minutes ago, I was sure it was going to explode with the next beat of her cold, black heart

“I’m so glad you two are still here. I’ve been waiting on a specific surrogate’s paperwork to be finalized. I think she might be a perfect match for you two. That was her lawyer on the phone. Everything is a go on her end, so I’ll give her your profile and see what she thinks. If she’s open to it, you may be able to meet her as soon as this week!”

“Wow, so you already have somebody?” I say.

I was hoping this would take a little longer—I don’t know why. That would only be prolonging the inevitable. Now, we might be meeting with a potential mother before the week is out.

“Yes, she’s everything you’ve asked for: African American, healthy, educated, she’s already been through a pregnancy with no complications, and she lives right here in LA so you wouldn’t have to travel at all.”

“Cool. Ok, so call us when she says yes,” Amira says, getting up to leave.

She’s so full of herself, assuming the surrogate will choose us without a second thought. Britney looks surprised. This is the first time that Amira has come close to showing her true colors. She’d better watch it.

“
If
she chooses you, I’ll be sure to call.” Poor Britney looks confused and a little irritated. She ain’t seen nothing yet.

Amira slides her purse into the crook of her arm and calls over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

“I’m sure you’ll make it happen. We’re paying you enough.”

Now Britney’s mouth is hanging open, and I’m left to apologize for my smart-ass wife.

“Sorry. She’s a little abrupt sometimes. Just call me if the surrogate is interested. You have my number, right?”

She shakes herself from the moment of surprise and nods her head.

“Oh yes. Yes, I have it right here. So you’d like me to call you instead of Mrs. Wild?”

Her voice is hopeful. Ten minutes ago, I would have taken that hope as a compliment or flirting, but after Amira’s exit just now, it’s probably fear.

“Sure, yeah. That’s probably best.”

I shake her delicate hand and follow my
lovely
wife out to the parking lot.

Chapter Ten

Lourdes

“Come on, baby. We don’t want to make Auntie Rachel wait for us.”

Toby has one shoe on and one shoe . . . somewhere. I don’t even know where. He’s standing in front of the coffee table playing with his Hot Wheel cars, lining them up in one hell of a traffic jam.

Shit. I hate running behind, and having a dawdling toddler doesn’t help. If I hadn’t overslept, we would have been in the car twenty minutes ago. Rachel is taking the kids to Disney on Ice this afternoon while I have conference calls with two prospective couples from Joyful Connections. I hardly slept last night worrying about what kind of questions to ask. Picking people to give a baby to isn’t something you learn in a class or online. It’s work for the heart, and I can’t imagine doing it over the phone. The agency has a method, I guess, and these phone calls are the first step.

I went through dozens of profiles until my head hurt. I couldn’t remember which couple had a barn full of horses and which couple owned a restaurant. Before I fell asleep, one couple stood out though. I never got the chance to read their stats before I drifted off, but the photograph on the first page had me thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking about Mr. Wild, things Mrs. Wild surely wouldn’t appreciate.

I didn’t choose Mr. and Mrs. Wild.

I have two conference calls today, one with a couple in Malibu—the husband is an anesthesiologist and his wife was an executive who wants to have a baby and be a stay at home mommy. The other couple owns software design companies here in LA. They’ve been trying to have a baby for ten years with no luck. They both seemed perfect on paper, but anyone can write pretty words and a heartbreaking story. I need to get to know these people well before there’s any baby making involved.

“Where’s your other shoe, Toby?” He looks up at me and shrugs his little shoulders, and I drop to my knees to look under the couch.

I grab a back scratcher from the coffee table and pull his red sneaker out from behind a dinosaur action figure.

“Got it!”

I straighten up and watch him zoom his cars around while I shove it on his foot and tie the laces.

“We go?” He asks.

I pat him on his legs with both of my hands.

“Yep, we go.”

“You nervous?” Rachel asks.

I run my fingers along my necklace with one hand and wrap my other arm around my waist.

“Never mind,” she says, waving her finger at my throat.

“What?”

“You always do that when you’re nervous.”

I drop the chain and wrap that arm around my waist too.
              “I guess I do, huh?”

“Yep. It’s going to be fine. Do you have a list of questions?”

I tap the side of my head.

“All up here.”

She stops packing the bag of snacks and places her hands on her hips.

“Lourdes! You didn’t write anything down? I don’t know how you do that.”

“I work better under pressure, Sis.” I step behind a dining room chair and place my hands on the back of it to keep them occupied. She’s really rattling my nerves.

“Yeah, well I sure hope so. This isn’t a math test. It’s some kid’s future. Sorry. I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” she says, eyeing my fingers that are white-knuckling her dining room chair.

A thin layer of perspiration is forming on my forehead as I grip the chair harder.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Ok, shutting up.” She returns to packing her bag.

“Good luck. We will be home in a couple of hours. Make yourself at home, as always. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek and ruffle Toby’s wild hair as he runs for the door with Ivy.

I pull out the chair and sit down at the table, placing my hands palms-down for a second to pull my shit together and organize the questions in my mind. My bag full of profiles from Joyful Connections is on the table next to me. I spread them out to look them over one more time. I have twenty minutes before I have to make the first call.

My eyes are automatically drawn to Mr. Wild—the Wilds, whatever. God, there is something about that man’s eyes that suck me in and leave me breathless. I have purposely avoided looking at anything other than the cover photograph. I don’t want to know about his wonderful life with his beautiful wife in their lovely California home. I don’t want to know about the love and generosity they want to give a child or their hopes and dreams for their future together, all snug as bugs in a rug.

“Liam Wild,” I say it out loud and a shiver runs up my spine. Lord, his name alone stirs something unrecognizable deep in my belly.

I’m attracted to him, but there’s something else. Something other than his lean, muscular build and his adorable dimples and perfect white smile. And those deep, dark blue eyes are so commanding, so powerful so…

Oh my God, this is so wrong. What the hell is the matter with me? I’ve hardly given men a second thought since Toby was born. I’m too damn busy with school, work, and being a mother to go on a date, and here I am, drooling over a guy who wants to have a baby with his wife. I should be ashamed of myself, and I am.

Sort of.

Yes, I am. I can’t believe I’m arguing with myself about this.

I shuffle the profiles around and flip through a couple of them again, but Mr. Wild won’t leave me alone. I give in and push them all aside except the Wilds. I sit back in my chair with my arms crossed over my chest, staring at the damn folder.

After a minute of internal battle, I flip the Wilds’ folder open to read about them . . . him.

Curious to see what he-they-do for a living, I skim to the occupation section first. What the hell? He’s a
DJ?
And she doesn’t work at all. How are they going to afford a surrogate on a DJ’s salary? Now I’m genuinely glad I didn’t choose them. They can’t expect to give a child a full life when Daddy works nights in a bar and Mommy doesn’t have a job at all.

I closely examine the professional photographs taken in their living room. The house looks expensive and big, not what I would imagine a DJ’s house to look like.

Things just don’t seem to be adding up until I read further, and whoa! They make more money in one year than I’ll ever see in my lifetime!

I continue to the personal and confidential information section of the profile and learn that Mrs. Wild has a trust fund that would choke a horse, and Mr. Wild is a professional international electronic DJ

Ok, so that’s were the money is coming from, but I still can’t understand why a trendy jet setting couple like these two would want to have a baby. Mrs. Wild looks like she spends twelve hours a day in a gym, and Liam . . . he looks dangerous, like sex on a stick.

They have only been married for six months, not long enough to try to have a baby. I wonder why they’re taking the surrogacy route? Maybe one of them knows they can’t have children. Yes, that must be it.

I check the time on my phone. I have five minutes before my call with the Malibu parents. I tuck the Wilds’ folder away and pull out Ken and Barbie’s. If Mattel ever wanted to do a Barbie movie with real people as their characters, this couple would have to be Ken and Barbie.

After twenty minutes of a painful, boring conference call with Ken and Barbie, I’m thinking that they aren’t the couple for me. Ken was overbearing and snobbish and Barbie was timid. She sounded like she was afraid to say anything at all. Whenever she started getting friendly with me, he would shut her down with a passive aggressive comment, as if he didn’t want us getting too close. That’s not the kind of people I want to be involved with. I do agree to meet them in person, though, because the counselor at the agency said sometimes people don’t act like themselves over the phone. I’m not holding out much hope for them though. It’s pretty clear these two have shown their true colors today.

I call Mr. and Mrs. Weaver next, couple number two, and I’m immediately comfortable with Mr. Weaver’s polite tone and the good energy flowing between us. His voice is like thick velvet with a tinge of grit, and I find myself leaning back in my chair with my knee pressed against the table, rocking back on two chair legs, until Mrs. Weaver joins the call. She’s late. He made an excuse for her at the start of our call, and he didn’t sound hopeful that she would make it, but unfortunately, she did.

If I have to listen to this woman’s Nicki Minaj, whiney voice for the next nine months, maybe ten, I may not live to the end of my pregnancy. It’s painful and anxiety inducing. I can feel my top lip pulling up involuntarily every time she interjects, which is often. She’s not only annoying to listen to, but she’s an interrupter as well. With every other word, she’s circling the attention back around to herself. All I want to do is sit and listen to Mr. Weaver’s words glide off his tongue like honey, but Mrs. Weaver is constantly shaking me from my trance with her ugly tone.

After forty minutes of tug-of-war between the Weavers and me, we agree to meet tomorrow for dinner. But first, I’m having lunch with Malibu Ken and Barbie. I feel a long day of stress eating coming on.

With the rest of the afternoon to myself in my sister’s house, I let my curiosity get the best of me. I Google Liam Wild. Big mistake. Big, big, mistake. The picture in the profile was flattering, but the things I find online are downright mind blowing. Blowing. Now there’s an idea.

Good grief, what’s happening to me? This stranger is making me a mental slut! The more I read, the more intrigued I am. He isn’t just a DJ. He’s an international super star in the electronic dance music industry. His concerts pack in hundreds of thousands of people, and without even hearing his music, I can see why. I’d go just to stand by and watch him work.

I click on my sister’s
Spotify
account and pull up
DJ Freedom
. When the cover of his first album pops up on the screen, I raise my hand to where my necklace sits in the dip of my throat and touch the delicate charm that Terrell gave to me.

Freedom’s cover is all black, and in the center is a gold tree with the leaves blowing off into the wind, representing what else but . . . Freedom. That tree is the same tree as my charm. I frown and lean closer to get a better look. This can’t be, but it is.

I sit, holding my breath while I try to untangle my emotions until my lungs burn. I push away from the computer, gasping for breath, and rush outside onto the porch with memories of Terrell flooding my mind. Terrell playing football, holding my hand, cuddling on the couch, watching movies and planning our future, making love for the first time, and finally, the memory of him smiling while he accepted his diploma on stage the last day of his life.

It’s been years, but my emotions have no concept of time. They feel the same today as they did the day he died, and so do the hot tears that race down my cheeks. I swipe them away and take a deep breath in and blow it out while I step back into the shadows so Rachel’s neighbor, who is out mowing his lawn, doesn’t see me crying. I don’t want her thinking I’m upset about the surrogacy situation.

This neighborhood is like Wisteria Lane on Desperate Housewives. Everybody knows everybody’s business. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the universe was trying to push me into Liam Wild’s life, but that’s absurd. He’s a happily married man, trying to find a way to have a baby with his wife . . . or is he?

Liam Wild, also known as DJ Freedom, doesn’t look like a family guy in the photos of him touring Europe. He looks like a mischievous handful, a player, and a partier,
not
a daddy.

I pad back inside in my bare feet and stand behind the computer chair, fiddling with my necklace. I reach out and tap the mouse to expand a close-up picture of Liam standing behind a massive array of electronic equipment with an insane light show going on around him. Surrounded by a crowd of people known for their ability to party for hours on hallucinogenic drugs, alcohol, and who knows what else, he seems to be a part of them but not. His eyes are clear, his clothing is neat and tidy, and his music is phenomenal, he’s like a sober pied piper leading a million drugged-out rats into a massive party.

I click through ten or fifteen more pictures before I sit down and pick apart the scenes. The dates on the articles and interviews are all very recent. It looks like he’s only been home in the United States two or three times during his six-month marriage.

It takes a while, but I finally find a picture of him with his wife, Amira, the night they got married in Germany. He looks nothing like he does in any of the other pictures I’ve seen so far. His eyes are glassy, and he’s slumped over, hanging on Amira’s shoulder with a drink spilling from his hand in almost every shot. There are thousands of pictures on the Internet of DJ Freedom, and so far, I haven’t seen him drinking alcohol in any of them.

In the YouTube videos of his shows, he always looks bright-eyed and energetic, and prior to six months ago, there is not one single pic without at least two or three gorgeous women hovering around him—and none of them are Amira. It’s almost as if she appeared one day and BAM, they were married.

When I Google Amira, I learn that she is the daughter of the wealthiest oil tycoon in the world. This woman will do just about anything to get attention, including making sex videos with famous men
and
women, sky diving naked, frequenting raves, doing drugs, and craziest of all, in my opinion, refusing to go to college because she will never need to earn a living. There is a whole interview about her lack of desire to go to college.