Tied(7)

“I love you, Kate. And I trust you. I trust us. We talk about things—I don’t just react now. So I’m not gonna screw this up. Not this weekend; not ever again.”

Oh, irony. You ugly bitch.

Kate’s hand covers mine. She stares into my eyes, looking for truth or sincerity or I don’t know what. Whatever it is, she finds it. Because she smiles. And kisses me softly. “I believe you.”

Then she pulls back and asks, “Would you feel better if I tell Dee to cancel any stripper plans she may have made for us?”

Yes.

“No.”

Hell yes.

“Well . . . maybe.”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

“No. No. I want you to have fun with the girls. You know, do what ganders do.”

See? If that’s not evidence of f*cking growth, I don’t know what the hell is. Besides, male strippers aren’t that big a deal. Because most of them are aspiring dancers. And we all know what that means. . . .

Anyway, no girl wants to bang a guy in a banana hammock. I don’t care if you’re built like a brick shithouse and hung like a freaking horse—if you’re wearing a man-thong? You look like a tool.

As we sit up, Kate tells me, “Watching a greased-up guy shaking his ass is not really my idea of fun, Drew.” She wiggles her eyebrows my way. “Now, you greased up and dancing, on the other hand, that sounds like a good time.”

This is why I love her.

“You’re the perfect woman.”

I pull her in for a kiss—longer than the last one. But just as our tongues come out to play, a small voice chirps out from the monitor.

“Mummy? Daaaddy? Up-o. Up-o.”

I pull back. “The beast has risen. You shower first, I’ll get him.”

“Okay.”

I slide on a pair of sweats as Kate pulls some clothes from the drawer.

“Daaddy! Mummy! Up-o. Up-o. Up-o!”

My son is not a big fan of patience. Wonder where he gets that from?

“Oh, and Drew?”

I turn toward Kate. “Yeah?”

“My grandmother used to say, ‘Look with your eyes, not with your hands.’ When you’re at that strip bar? Make sure you do that.”

I nod. “Got it, boss.” I stride forward and grab her chin, freeing her lip from her teeth’s grip. Then I kiss it better—making her just a little dazed and confused. “Stop f*cking worrying. We’re gonna have a great time with our friends this weekend. Nothing bad is gonna happen. I promise.”

Famous last words, right? How’s that for a jinx? Idiot.

I spin her back around and slap both cheeks with one hand. “Now get that ass in the shower before I decide to tap it again.”

Kate laughs, ’cause she thinks I’m kidding. Only—

“Daaadddyyy! Up-o! Up-o!”

Right. Duty calls. Kate heads for the bathroom, and I go to spring James from his cage.



So that’s how it started. Everything was awesome. We were talking. Laughing. Communicating.

Fucking.

It was like a fairy tale, for Christ’s sake.

Did you ever notice how fairy tales all start off great? The beautiful princess, the happy kingdom? Then it all turns to shit. One minute Hansel’s feeling no pain, chomping on a window made of sugar, and the next minute some old hag is trying to shove his ass in an oven.

For any of you out there who still think I’m an unworthy, self-absorbed douche? I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy this.

A lot.





Chapter 2


James’s room is dim. The shades are drawn and the only illumination comes from a Buzz Lightyear night-light in the corner. It’s the mother of all boy’s rooms. Yellow and green? No thanks. The walls are navy and cream, the furniture dark cherrywood. A toddler-size basketball net is against one wall, and a full-size train table against the other. A comfy rocking chair is stationed between two arched windows, with a well-worn copy of Goodnight Moon lying in wait on the seat. Framed pictures of family—and the new Yankee Stadium—hang on the walls. A Metallica poster is taped to the back of the door.

I wanted it front and center but Kate shot me down.

James’s big, dark eyes light up when I walk in. He’s the perfect mini-me—his nose, his chin, his black hair that sticks up at all angles.

“Morning, buddy.”

He holds on to the rail of his crib and bounces like a cotton-clad chimpanzee.

His words are carefully pronounced, with stresses on the consonants. Kind of like a robot. “Hel-lo, Dad-dee.”

So f*cking cute.

I pick him up, hold him high, and nibble on his belly, making him shriek. Then I bring him back down and give him a squeeze. His head turns and rests on my shoulder, and his breath tickles my neck. I kiss his hair again—just because I can.

I’ll never understand those guys who refuse to hug and kiss their kids—particularly their male kids. Coldhearted pricks, if you ask me. The idea that too much affection can make a boy soft is a big steaming pile of crap.

If you want your kid to be confident—secure? You have to give them a good foundation—set the right example. Take my old man, for instance. I grew up knowing he was fully capable of kicking my ass whenever I stepped out of line. Which he did. Frequently. But he also showed me every day that he had my back. That he loved me, was proud of everything I did or tried to do. James is gonna grow up the exact same way.