32. Derrick
32
DERRICK
I t had been nearly a week, and I couldn't shake the images of Rachel from my mind. The sensuality of her touch, her lips wrapped around my cock, the softness of her mouth on mine. She consumed most of my waking thoughts, and it was driving me crazy.
The clothes I wore that day smelled like her, and I had slept with that shirt every night, breathing in her scent. How fucking pathetic was that? One blow job and I had fallen harder.
The one crazy positive in all this was my cock behaved and I had a mind-altering orgasm. I didn't know if I was cured, but my cock certainly had no problem getting hard the second I thought of Rachel's lips stretched wide around it.
I mentally shook the image out of my head because right then was not the time. After Lulu's visit to the office, I spent the rest of the week digging up everything I could find on her birth mom, and we’d made a plan to meet up tonight and go over what we'd both discovered so far.
I was hunched over my laptop in my living room on the couch, trying desperately to keep this professional, but it was becoming more of a challenge to be this close to her and not touch her.
It was late, and we'd already been working for three hours, surrounded by stacks of documents and old yearbooks from her mother's alma mater.
Rachel sat next to me, her eyes fixed on the screen, but her thoughts seemed far away. She was wearing an oversized hoodie that covered her cutoffs, and despite everything, it was hard to focus with so much leg showing.
"Nothing in the hospital records," I muttered, forcing my gaze back to my screen.
Rachel sighed, tucking a strand of her black hair behind her ear. I had never seen her with her natural hair color. It was endearing and strange all at once.
"We're missing something," she said. "Where would my bio mom and dad have met so young? School? Church? Extracurricular activities?"
"School makes sense," I said, stretching my arms above my head. "Lulu said your mom was in a lot of academic clubs and choir, right?"
Rachel nodded, pulling out one of the old yearbooks. "Let's look again."
We flipped through the pages, searching for any clue that we may have missed that would lead us to her dad. The yearbook was a time capsule filled with smiling faces and memories frozen in time. But there weren't any big giveaways, like her mom with her arm around some boy.
Once in a while, Rachel paused on a page, studying her teenage mom, tracing her finger over Jessica's face or arm. I wanted to ask what she was thinking, but she wasn't offering so I didn't pry.
"There's probably a school Facebook page," Rachel said, her eyes lighting up. "Maybe we can find more pictures from their year."
We dove into the school's Facebook account, scrolling through albums from the years she attended the school. It was tedious work, but Rachel was determined. Finally, we came across a picture that caught her attention.
"Here. She was in French Club," Rachel said, pointing to Jessica with six other people. She sat next to a White guy with a lopsided smile and shaggy blond hair. "Could it be him?"
We squinted, but there was nothing in his features that looked familiar.
"I don't think so," Rachel said.
We continued to the next yearbook, Jessica's junior year, when she would've been pregnant with Rachel. As if by instinct, Rachel flipped to the junior/senior prom. There were lots of smiling faces and couples laughing into the camera, but I was searching in the foreground.
"Look," I said, pointing to a girl who looked like Jessica leaning close to a boy at a table in the background. "Is that her?"
Rachel held the page close to her face. "I think so. Who's that kid?"
He had short brown hair that was styled in a fauxhawk. We flipped back to the class photos and immediately found him, the unique hairstyle a giveaway.
Rachel pulled the book closer to her face, studying his features. His mouth and chin looked strikingly similar to Rachel's. She covered his eyes and nose with her hand, and the resemblance was uncanny.
"What's his name?"
Rachel leaned closer, squinting. "Bradley DeLacey. That's an unusual name. It might help us find him online."
A quick search on LinkedIn brought up his profile. He was a banker right here in Manhattan.
"Do you think that's him?" Rachel asked, a touch of fear in her wide gaze. "What should we do?" I ignored the little flip in my gut by her use of we. "I can't just be like ‘Hey, dude, I think you might be my dad.’"
I pulled the computer onto my lap. "I have an idea." I opened my inbox in LinkedIn and typed a message.
Hi Bradley, I'm Derrick Jacques, the CEO of Dreamary Media Corp. I'd like to discuss a potential business opportunity and possible interview on one of our podcasts. Can we set up a meeting?
"Good?" I asked. Rachel nodded and I hit send.
To our surprise, he responded almost immediately. Rachel gripped my arm, her fingers digging into my skin as we read it together.
Hi, Derrick. I'm familiar with your company. I followed your recent acquisition by NOW Media. Impressive. I can meet tomorrow at 10 a.m. at your offices. Does that work? Best, Brad
Rachel looked dazed, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Is this really happening?"
"Yes," I said. "Are you okay?"
Rachel looked at me, her gaze full of panic. She hopped up and started pacing, her hands fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt. It was like she was a windup toy that someone cranked too tight and now she was vibrating around the room with excess energy.
"What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he rejects me?" Rachel said, and I could practically see her mind whirling with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
I watched her from the couch, concerned. "Rachel, you're going to wear a hole in my rug."
She stopped and threw her hands up. "I can't help it! What if he doesn't want anything to do with me? What if he doesn't remember my mom?"
I stood up and crossed to her in two strides. "Hey, hey," I said softly, pulling her into my arms. "It's going to be okay."
Immediately she relaxed into my chest, resting her head on my shoulder.
"What if he hates me?" she asked softly.
"He won't hate you," I murmured, stroking her back. "You're incredible, Rachel. If he's half as smart as you, he'll see that."
She looked up at me, her face an inch from mine. "I don't know."
"I know," I said. My hand reached up and cupped her face, my thumb stroking her jawline.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyelids fluttering shut. Her head tilted foreward and her lips brushed mine, asking for more.
I stiffened, afraid to do this again because I knew she was just asking for a moment. And I didn’t want a moment. I wanted every second or every damn day with this woman.