Chapter 8 James
James
Josh
Yo, bro. It’s been a week. How long are you gonna ignore my calls and texts?
For as long as possible, little brother, I think to myself, slipping my phone back into my pocket after reading Josh’s latest text. We share our locations, so I’m lucky that he hasn’t hunted me down at the hospital yet.
It isn’t just Josh who’s been trying to reach me.
The whole band has been barraging me with texts and calls since I dropped them that photo of me in the hospital with Georgie and Weston.
Thus far, I’ve avoided speaking to anyone, and I’m hoping to buy myself a few more days of silence.
But Josh is getting more insistent. Guilt eats at me for leaving him, and everyone else, hanging.
I’m the type of person you can count on to be there, so for me to disappear is out of character.
I understand their curiosity and their concern, but I don’t want their interference.
However, sending them the photo during Hayes’ engagement party? Not my best move. Hell, it probably ranks up there as one of my dumbest, only behind pretending to be married to a stranger. But I had to tell them something to explain my absence.
I hate lying, and now I’m stuck in a fucking whopper of a lie.
Once I went along with the lies, I trapped myself. I had to stick to the story, at least until Georgie and Weston were discharged from the hospital.
But the more I’ve gotten to know Georgie and Weston, the less trapped I feel. Somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t want to leave them. What started as a gut-deep, reflexive desire to protect a vulnerable woman and her child has transformed into something more.
How much more, I’m not sure yet.
I’ve spent my life playing it safe and avoiding serious romantic entanglements only to find myself embroiled in the messiest, most fucked up entanglement of my life.
And I’m not even getting laid.
Though I’d like to be. Georgie represents an irresistible combination of sweet innocence wrapped up in an alluringly sensual package.
She’s sexy without intending to be, which is driving me crazy.
After years of dating and sleeping with the women who show up to our concerts all dolled up in heavy makeup and slutty clothes that leave little to the imagination, Georgie is the opposite.
Wearing the pajamas I bought her, without a lick of makeup on her face, and with her hair brushed into a simple ponytail, she shouldn’t be sexy, but she fucking is.
Every time she crosses her arms, inadvertently pushing her glorious tits together, I want to bite my fist and groan because I can’t stop myself from fantasizing about all the things I could do with those breasts.
Or when she wears shorts and I can ogle her legs.
They’re tanned and thick, but muscular, and I think they’d feel amazing locked around my waist, squeezing and holding me in place as I fuck her.
Or when she purses her plump, pink lips together and I wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my dick.
But as physically attracted to her as I am, and I have been ever since she first flashed those tear-filled baby blues in my direction, it’s her needy, neglected innocence that speaks to something in my soul.
The terror in her eyes yesterday was palpable when she whispered, “I thought you weren’t coming back.
” Georgie needs me to take care of her, and being needed in that way fills a void I hadn’t realized existed inside me.
And now here we are, a week after meeting on the side of a highway, preparing to go home together.
Patsy is on shift again, and she marches into the hospital room with a smile on her face and papers in her hand.
“Alright, here are your discharge papers. Weston should get checked out by his pediatrician within the next few days to make sure that he’s gaining weight. Oh, and don’t forget to get the birth registration form filed so you can apply for Weston’s birth certificate, too.”
“Of course, Patsy. Once we get his middle name figured out, we’ll submit the forms.”
Patsy hands the stack of papers to me since Georgie has Weston in her arms. “Do you have a car seat? I can’t officially discharge Weston until I check his car seat.”
Georgie’s eyes grow wide, but before she can say anything, I jump in. “It’s already in the car.”
“It would be great if you could bring it up. Hospital protocol and all.”
As I slip out the door, I hear the women talking, discussing breastfeeding and sleep schedules. When I re-enter the room a few minutes later, car seat in hand, they’re still talking, but now they’ve moved onto bath time and the best formulas on the market.
I hand over the car seat, and Patsy shows Georgie how to get Weston buckled into it properly. Over Patsy’s head, Georgie shoots a grateful look and mouths the words thank you in my direction.
I just nod. What else was I gonna do?
It’s my lie that started this whole debacle, but I believe it’s for the best. While I’ve spent the last week ducking calls and dodging texts from my friends and family, Georgie’s phone hasn’t rung once. Not one communication from anyone.
What would Georgie have done and where would she have gone if I hadn’t come with her to the hospital and offered her a place to stay?
I sure as hell don’t know, and I don’t think Georgie does either.
When Georgie moves to pick up the car seat, Patsy stops her. “Honey, let your husband get the baby. You need to continue taking it easy. Recovering from a C-section and a concussion is no joke.”
Georgie stiffens at Patsy’s words. It’s almost imperceptible, but after spending the last week with her, I’ve learned some of Georgie’s tells. I’m not sure if her reaction is due to Patsy referring to me as her husband or if it’s because she resents being dependent on someone else.
Given the situation we’re in, she needs to get used to both of those things.
I loop the baby carrier over my forearm as Georgie follows me, harrumphing.
When we get outside and wave goodbye to Patsy, Georgie stands on the curb, looking unsure. “You don’t have to do this, James,” she starts, nibbling her bottom lip. “It’s okay. I can figure something else out.”
“Already got this plan figured out, Georgie,” I say, swinging Weston’s car seat into the backseat of the sleek black Chevy Tahoe, clipping it into place like the woman at the baby store taught me to do.
When I open the door for Georgie, she slides in, looking around the interior of the SUV. “Jeez, you keep your car clean, James. It looks brand new.”
That’s because it is.
I just bought it yesterday when I realized that none of my vintage cars would safely accommodate a car seat.
But I don’t say that to Georgie. She balked when I bought her pajamas.
I can’t imagine she’d be comfortable knowing I just dropped $85,000 on a new car to transport her son across state lines.
My eyes flit to the rearview mirror, watching Georgie.
“You good back there?” I ask as I flip my blinker to exit the highway.
Georgie tried sitting in the passenger seat next to me, but Weston wasn’t having it.
After a few minutes of crying, she hopped into the back seat so she could comfort him more easily.
Turning her head to meet my gaze, she nods with a muffled yawn. “Yeah, it’s just… kind of crazy that they let us leave the hospital with a baby, you know? What if I do something wrong?”
“A manual or more training would be nice.” It feels unavoidable that we’ll make mistakes along the way, but it really is setting in now that Georgie and I are responsible for keeping Weston alive.
I’ve never even had a pet before. Can I keep a human being alive?
“Thanks for being our chauffeur.” Georgie pauses before quietly adding, “And for everything else. I promise we won’t stay any longer than four months, James.”
“Don’t worry about timelines, Georgie.”
Turning onto the street that leads into my Nashville neighborhood, my nerves grow the closer we get to my home.
My home, which will become our home for the time being.
Georgie twitches in the backseat, so I know I’m not alone in my anxiety.
This plan, which seemed insane in the hospital, now seems outlandish and impossible.
But necessary, given Georgie’s situation.
“This is a really nice neighborhood,” Georgie murmurs.
My house sits on the outskirts of the city, in an upper-middle-class area. The selling point of the neighborhood wasn’t the houses; it was the land. Each home comes with acreage, and mine has an oversized detached workshop tucked behind it. It’s secluded and private, perfect for me and my needs.
While it’s nice, it’s not that nice. Still, for someone who’s been bouncing between fleabag motels, my place probably feels like the Ritz.
When I steer the car up the driveway, Weston really starts squawking. Poor little guy is probably hungry.
Hopping out of the SUV, I open the door to the backseat and help Georgie climb out.
She’s not complaining about being in pain, but I’ve noticed how gingerly she moves, wincing occasionally.
I release the latch on the car seat and carry Weston to the front door, where an assortment of boxes awaits me.
“Damn, James. You have an online shopping addiction?”
“Hardly,” I scoff. Vintage cars are my only vice. “Come on, I’ll show you to the guest bedroom where you can feed Weston while I unload the car.”
Yesterday afternoon, while Georgie and Weston were napping and after I’d finished my errands, I swung by the tow yard to transfer the contents of Georgie’s truck into the back of the SUV. While I was there, I also arranged to get her truck towed to my workshop.
Not sure what she wants to do with everything that was in her truck, but I didn’t want her to worry about it in case there was something important amidst the boxes.
After I finish unloading, I bring in the packages from the front porch, depositing them in the living room.
I flip on the television, put it on one of the sports channels, and start slitting open boxes so I can assemble things.
I don’t remember having much as a kid, but according to the websites now, babies need a shit ton of stuff.
This is the sort of chore I enjoy. Putting things together just makes sense in my brain, probably why I enjoy rebuilding cars so much. By the time Georgie wanders into the living room half an hour later, I’m almost done assembling the wooden crib.
She gasps, stopping short.
“Where’s Weston?” I ask.
“He’s napping.” She motions toward the pile of boxes and debris. “You bought a crib.”
“Yeah.”
When I bought my house, I hired a decorator to furnish it, specifying that I wanted the space to feel masculine and comfortable, leaning into the traditional architecture of the home.
I didn’t want a house that was slick and modern.
I wanted a place that felt like a home, not a sterile office building.
My decorator fulfilled my vision, which she called Grandpa’s cottagecore.
Don’t know what the fuck that is, but the style fits me to a T.
So, when I online-shopped for cribs, I went searching for warm wood tones in an antique-style and I found this one. I hope Georgie likes it.
“It’s beautiful, James,” she murmurs, drawing her fingers along the top rail. Turning her head, she gestures toward the other boxes. “What’s in all those boxes?”
“What the websites said a baby needs,” I lift one shoulder, trying to remember everything I bought.
It felt like I added just about everything the baby store had to offer into my online shopping cart.
“Mattress for the crib, baby swing, diaper changing pad and covers, diapers, diaper cream, bottles, play mat, stroller...”
“James,” Georgie sputters, looking uncomfortable.
I motion toward the pile of unopened boxes. “Why don’t you start opening those? Whatever needs to be assembled, I’ll do it once I finish the crib.”
“Umm, James?” She points to the crib. “How are you going to get the crib into the room?”
I frown. “If I can’t manage it myself, I’ll make my little brother help me carry it in. He’ll be over as soon as he figures out I’m back in town.”
“No, I mean…” She trails off, her lips curving up, like she finds something funny. “I think it’s too wide to fit through the doorway.”
“Shit on a shingle,” I say, realizing she might be right.
Then, the doorbell rings, sending an echoing sound throughout the house.
Georgie and I wince as we hear Weston’s surprised little cry.
“Fucking numbnuts,” I mutter. “Sorry about that. I’ll tell Josh to calm his tits and not ring the doorbell next time.
He should know better since we have a newborn, the fucking idiot. ”
“Shit on a shingle? Numbnuts? Calm his tits?” Georgie smiles. “I’m not sure if that was the longest string of words you’ve said since we met, but it was certainly the most colorful.”
“Not like you’re a chatty Cathy either.”
Georgie toggles her head around like she disagrees with me, and I wonder how much of the real Georgie she shows me.
In the hospital, there were plenty of moments of levity when Georgie laughed or cracked a joke, but most of the time, she was quiet and timid. I don’t blame her one bit for being guarded.
My offer to pretend to be married was a curveball no one saw coming. Me included.
Before I can think about that any longer, her smile droops. ”Does your brother know the truth? What should I say? How should I act?”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about Josh. I’ll handle him. You need to go get Weston.”
Based on how well Weston’s cries reverberate through the house, the baby monitor I bought could probably be returned.
Stalking swiftly to the front door before Josh has time to press the doorbell again, I swing open the door to find Josh on my front porch.
Along with Rowdy, Bailey, Hayes, Annabelle, and Charlotte.
“Well, it’s a fucking family reunion,” I huff with a low chuckle.
I should’ve known better than to think they’d give me more time.
Give us more time. I’d hoped Georgie and I would be able to get settled and into a routine before my band family invited themselves into our lives.
If Georgie and I are going to sell our relationship to my closest friends and family, we need to be comfortable with one another.
And we aren’t there yet.