Chapter 8 #2
The logic of it is simple, almost laughably so: For women who want a lifetime of luxury, my sperm is currency.
Every ejaculation is a possible heir, a potential lawsuit, a vector for eighteen years of child support and Sunday visitation.
There’s not a trust in the world that can out-lawyer a vindictive ex with a DNA test and a copy of my tax return.
I’ve had my share—more than my share—of women who thought they’d found a shortcut to a lifetime of passive income.
Some were brazen: “Oops, I forgot my pills!” Some played the long con, waited until I was just drunk enough to think it was a good idea.
I paid them off with sapphires, with condos, with untraceable wires, but the one thing I couldn’t buy back was my own DNA.
So I learned. I set limits. I made it a point of pride to keep my legacy under lock and key.
If a woman wanted something from me, she had to beg for it—and even then, I’d finish where it couldn’t possibly matter.
On her tits, on her tongue, most often in her ass, because there’s a kind of psychological beauty in watching a good girl surrender that final inch of herself.
In the stories, that’s where the devil gets you: one tiny, filthy compromise at the end of a list of good intentions.
Which is why, as I watch Andie across the table, I know I’m fucked.
She’s not like the other women, who were Machiavellian schemers.
She doesn’t even know what Machiavellian means, most likely.
She sits there, blue dress riding high on her thighs, hair wild and untamed, her face as naked as the first day of summer, and I want to ruin her all over again.
I’m suddenly conscious of our size difference, how small she looks across the table.
She’s tucked her hair behind both ears, but it won’t stay, strands falling into her face and making her look younger, messier, more real.
It would be so easy for me to completely ruin her … and that’s exactly what I plan to do.
We both reach for our coffees at the same time, then both pull back, smiling in a way that’s more grimace than grin.
“So,” I say.
“So,” she echoes. She stares at the little spoon beside her saucer, then looks up, determined. “Do we do this the normal way? Or just, you know, pretend last week was a weird dream?”
I laugh. “Whatever makes you comfortable. I’m adaptable.”
She considers. “Normal, then. For now.”
We start with the basics, pretending we’re people who don’t already know the shape of each other’s shadows.
I give her my name, full and unabridged.
“Thomas Moreland,” I say, watching her for a reaction.
“I’m on the Board of Visitors here. I used to go to Century, but I graduated years ago.
Now I run a little company that eats other companies for breakfast.”
Her eyes go wide, but then she recovers and giggles a little. “That’s a yummy breakfast. I’m Andie,” she says, and I can tell she’s weighing whether to give me her last name. She doesn’t, and I respect it. “I’m a senior. English major. Probably going to need a fifth year, though.”
“Work-study?” I guess, and she nods.
“I do catering as my work-study. Plus I live in the dorms, so it ends up being a lot.” She pauses, then adds, “But not as bad as some. There’s a girl down the hall juggling three jobs and organic chemistry. I just serve canapés to rich people.”
“Rich people can be the worst,” I say, and she laughs. It’s a good sound, a little rough, like gravel under sugar. I want to make her do it again.
She sips her coffee, eyes darting to my hands, then back to my face. “So what brings you to this part of campus? Other than the world’s worst espresso?”
I shrug. “I have a soft spot for lost causes. This café, for instance. It’ll be bankrupt by December, but I like the vibe.”
She grins, and for a second I think she’s going to call me on my bullshit, but then she just says, “You must get bored of all the fancy stuff.”
“Anything can get boring when it’s all the same. I like things that surprise me.” I let my voice go low, deliberate. “You surprised me.”
Her cheeks flush, and she picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. “You surprised me, too. I mean—” She glances up, eyes wide. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugs, shoulders curling in. “Not this, I guess. Not…” Her voice fades, but her eyes linger on my mouth, and I know what she’s thinking. I know, because I’m thinking it too.
There’s a silence, but it’s not hostile. It’s heavy, like a thunderhead.
I decide to burst it. “Look, I should say this up front: I know who you are. I heard someone call your name at the fundraiser. It stuck in my head.”
She blinks, startled. “You did?”
“Hard to forget a name like Andie for a woman.” I say it with a little smile, just enough to let her know it’s meant as a compliment.
She blushes again, but this time it’s not embarrassment. It’s something else. Pride, maybe. Or defiance.
I keep going. “Full disclosure, I did some snooping. I wanted to see you again, so I looked up your name on the catering staff list, and I figured out your contact info. That’s how I got your number,” I rasp, holding my hands up.
“Yes, I stalked you sweetheart. I used my position of power to get information about you.”
She sets her cup down, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. She looks straight at me, blue eyes so clear I can see my own reflection in them.
“I figured that’s what happened. But I wanted to see you, too,” she says, soft but certain. “But I have to tell you something. Before this goes any further.”
My gut tightens, but I nod. “Go ahead.”
She draws in a breath, steadying herself. “Actually, we know someone in common.”
I pause. “Who?”
Andie takes a deep breath and then looks into my eyes. “Stella. Your daughter. I know she’s at Century. I live down the hall from her. Plus, well, Stella knows.”
A cold sweat prickles at the back of my neck. “She knows about what? About us?” My voice is lower now, almost a growl.
Andie nods, once. “Yes.”
“How?”
Andie swallows, the elegant curve of her throat distracting me for a second. “"Well, I told her, sort of. There was a photo.”
My mouth goes dry. “Right.”
Andie bites her lip, then forces herself to say it. “Yes, you remember. I took a picture of you. After, um, the time in the library. I showed it to my friends, including Stella. I didn’t know she was your daughter but then she freaked out when she saw it, and everything came to light.”
There’s a long silence. I stare at the table, fingers tight around the coffee cup. For a moment, I want to smash something. But then, as the logic sorts itself, I find myself laughing. At the absurdity. At the inevitability.
“Well,” I say. “At least Stella didn’t walk in on us en flagrante.” I look at Andie, and she’s laughing too, both of us helpless against the tidal wave of what-the-fuck.
I sober for a moment.
“Did Stella see my you-know-what?” I ask off-handedly. “If I recall, you got a picture of my tool in that photo.”
Andie bites her lips and smiles, cheeks going rosy.
“Yes, and she looked like she was going to puke,” Andie says. “I’ve never seen anyone go so green, so fast.”
I snort.
“I’m sure she’ll recover. Or she’ll need therapy. Maybe both.” The laughter feels good. It burns off the shame, the anxiety, leaves only a raw, open honesty.
We sit there, both of us lighter, the moment charged but no longer dangerous. Our hands inch closer on the table, fingers almost touching.
I relax for the first time all day. “So,” I say, “now that we’ve crossed every possible line, what do you want to do?”
Andie looks at me, eyes dancing. “I want to keep talking. I want to know more about you. The real you. Not the guy who sits on the Board, not the guy in the suit.”
I nod. “Fair enough. But I want the same from you. I want to know who you are, Andie. No filters.”
She grins, a real one this time. “Deal.”
We both reach for our coffees, and this time, our fingers touch. The shock is real, a jolt that travels up my arm and settles in my chest.
For the first time, I feel like I’m meeting her for real.
And I like it.
We linger at the little table, the world outside the steamed-up windows slowly fading as dusk moves in.
The lamps above us throw golden halos across Andie’s skin, and for the first time in my life, I want to memorize everything about this beautiful woman.
I lean in, elbows on the table, hands steepled, and watch her talk.
It’s not the way she looks, although that’s lethal enough. It’s the way her voice cracks a little when she’s earnest, or the way she keeps pushing her hair behind her ears and then gives up, letting it fall wild around her face. She’s nervous, but she’s too stubborn to let it show for long.
I ask about her classes, her major, and she tells me she’s in English, but it’s a mistake. “All the jobs are melting away,” she says, making a sad pout with her lips. “Turns out the world doesn’t need more people who can recite Sylvia Plath at a party.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But it could use more people who understand it.”
She stares at me, suspicious, then grins. “You’re good. You’re really good.”
I shrug, letting it slide. “What do you want to do? When your time at Century is all over.”
She looks away, thinking. “I want to write. Not stories, not fiction. I want to write things that last. Like, an article so sharp it makes people angry, or a line that gets quoted in a high school yearbook in three decades.”
“That’s possible,” I say. “You’ve got the intelligence for it. The will, too.”
She laughs, almost spits out her coffee. “You got all that from being intimate with me?”
I grin and shake my head. “I got it from watching you walk away afterwards.”
For a moment, she’s silent, and in that silence I feel the charge building again, the kind of static that would set fire to dry grass.
She breaks it. “What about you? What’s your story, Thomas? Or can I call you Tom?”
“Sure, Tom works. But there’s not much to tell,” I say, even though there’s too much. “I run a company. It’s a prediction market—a way for people to bet on the future. I like the odds. They’re clean. Math doesn’t lie to you.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a capitalist prophet. How original.”
“Guilty,” I say, and for once I don’t try to hide it. “But I didn’t come here to pitch you.”
“Then why did you come?” Her eyes are steady, and I realize she’s not asking to be polite.
I look at her, really look, and try to say what I mean. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Andie.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I want to lean across the table, drag her mouth to mine. Instead, I force myself to sit back, let her make the next move.
She thinks about it, then says, “You scare me a little.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I’m not sure if I want you to stop thinking about me. Or if I want you to never think about me again.”
I nod. “The same for me.”
She smiles, slow and sly. “Then we’re even.”
The crowd in the café thins. The redhead packs up her MacBook, the girls in sweatshirts leave with their blonde hair bouncing, and the staff starts wiping down counters, looking at us like we’re the last dogs left in the kennel.
I pay, leaving enough tip to make the barista’s night. We step into the vestibule, and the air outside has the cold bite of late winter trying to stage a comeback.
We stand there, two feet apart, neither of us quite ready to walk away.
I reach for the door, then stop. “Would you want to do this again? The right way, I mean? No more hook-ups in the back row of the theater, or in the library during a black tie event?”
Andie smiles coyly.
“But I loved the theater.”
I chuckle.
“We could go back.”
She laughs too, and the musical peal rings in my ears. She looks up at me, all defiance gone. “Yes,” she says, voice steady. “I do want to do this again.”
I nod, pulse hammering. “Then I’ll call you. Or text, if you’d rather.”
“Call,” she says. “Texting is for children.”
A laugh bursts out of me, real and raw. “You got it.”
With that, Andie smiles one last time and walks out, down the sidewalk, hair haloed by the orange streetlights, and for a long minute I watch her go, feeling the shape of her name in my mouth.
I stand there, hand still on the door, and think: this is how it starts. Not with a bang, but with a slow, perfect burn.
I want to say I’ll take it slow. I want to believe I can outwit my own instincts.
But the truth is, I’m already plotting every possible future with her in it.
And I’ve never been more certain that I’ll win.