School and Rock (Raptors Book 5)
open front door. Madeline was growing fussier and fussier and I had no idea why.“Dude, oh my God, is that a baby?” Buick shouted as he stumbled into the foyer, wearing nothing but a sombrero and a few dozen love bites. I nodded at my drummer. He grinned that lovely grin of his then hurried over to tickle Madeline’s chin. “She’s cute. Why is she stressing?”
“Probably because you reek.”
That made my drummer snort. “I fell asleep in a bush.”
“Dude, the gardener’s like just composted the flower beds, or something. Don’t touch her face with shit fingers.”
Buick, who was actually Tom Marks from Fort Wayne, Indiana, gave me a lopsided grin.
“I said I fell asleep in a bush. I never said what kind of bush.” He sniggered as bits of bark and dirt fell from him to the Italian marble.
“Is there a reason this man has no clothes on?” Coach snapped, and I shrugged.
“I have a hat,” Buick pointed out then dusted off his long brown hair and scruffy beard. “Why is the little one upset?”
“I don’t know,” I said, bouncing, and patting her tiny back.
“Colorado, we must call Child Services. None of us are capable childcare providers and the baby has to be checked out by a doctor,” Mark said, his gaze locked on the bright pink sombrero atop Buick’s head as he spoke.
I shook my head. Why I was so fiercely fighting this was a mystery. I’d never even thought of kids aside from they were righteously funny, and maybe someday, when I was a grown-up, I’d want a few. There was some sort of connection to the mewling baby in my arms, though. Something intangible but vibrant. Yet, looking around my home and the men gathered in it, I knew deep down that Westman-Reid was right. This tiny person did need to be with someone with experience with babies. That could be me. Right?
“I want her back. If the blood tests says I’m her father, I want her back.”
Everyone gaped. Even Buick, and he was a hard one to stun.
“Colorado,” Coach replied in that placating way people spoke to you when they thought you were about to make a monumentally stupid decision. “Your life…”
“Can be changed. Will be changed. I will not have my kid in the system for a moment longer than needed. I’ll petition whoever I need to petition. Sonia Sotomayor! I’ll plead my case to her or send her papers or whatever it takes. This baby comes home to me when they prove I’m the father. Promise me that she comes back to me or I’m packing up my shit and hers and crossing the border. I’ll do it. I’ll be in Tijuana before you can work up a good spit.”
“We can’t make that promise,” Coach replied.
“Then I’m headed to Mexico,” I tossed out.
Madeline’s brow dropped to my bare shoulder. Was she asleep? Oh my God, did she trust me enough to sleep in my arms?
“Colorado, stop being a spoiled child.” Vlad broke into the standoff. “You are not father material. A father—”
“Do not lecture me about what a father is! I know what a father is and isn’t!” I snarled, cradling a petite, sleepy girl to me as my head spun.
“A good father does what is right for his child. He puts their needs above his own,” Vlad whispered just as my spine hit the doorway. Motherfucking Russian and his icy straightforward shit. “We will do what we can to help you keep the child if she is yours. But now you must do what is right and legal. Show the world there is more to you than it thinks.”
I drew in a shaky breath then with great reservation, handed the sleeping baby to Mark Westman-Reid. He nodded, cradled Madeline, and padded off into the kitchen. I slid down the wall. Vlad patted my shoulder. Coach resumed talking to whoever he was connected to, airport people I guessed, and Mark could be heard giving directions to some suit from the team legal department. I’d have to hire a lawyer. Maybe my agent, the useless dreck, could find me one.
Buick sat beside me. “Dude, I’m sorry but don’t despair. The sun always warms the coldest heart, right? You wrote that for ‘Long Night into a Rose Day,’ remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, B.” It was one of our best songs, destined to be a number one hit according to Black Crack Records. I couldn’t seem to work up one shiny shit about the songs, the contract, or the playoffs. All I could dwell on was that I’d handed an innocent into the hands of the system. And poor Madeline didn’t have a grandmother to rescue her like I’d had. She was all alone now. But not for long. God as my fucking judge, I would get her back somehow. Even if she weren’t mine, I’d adopt her. No child should suffer the lifelong hurt of knowing their parents didn’t want them caused.
“It’ll all turn out sunny, C-Man.” He hugged me, got up, walked to his drum set, dumped the koi to the floor, and jogged off with his dripping Pearl floor tom and a clattering cymbal stand. Vlad scooped the fish into a vase and charged out of the wide open patio door to find the pond. And there I sat, in my jeans and a pilfered kimono, until Child Services showed up to take my kid away. I had to give props to Coach and Mark. They whipped the house into shape in no time, calling my cleaning service in then paying them double for their time. My ass was still on the floor when two social workers showed up three hours after the initial call to DCS AZ had been made.
There was all kind of talk among the grown-ups, and I listened half-heartedly, my gaze steady on Madeline as she slumbered away in her carrier-tote thing.
“… a blood test as soon as we get back,” I caught Coach saying.
I stood. Everyone looked at