Page 41 of The Southern Thirst Trap

“Whatdofour-year-oldslike?”I muse aloud to Javi when we finish up for the day.

I can’t stop thinking about the boy, Hendricks, and what he may be like. I may never know if Harlowe gets her way. It’s Friday and business is shutting down for the weekend, despite the PR hell that still looms over Olympus like the plumes of smoke from war campfires. We have teams working overtime to rebound our stock prices and fix the Pegasus mess, but it’s slow going, so I’ve had time to think. Too much time.

“I only know my nieces and nephews, man. I don't know if they're normal or not. I guess they like watching YouTube and anything created to market their favorite cartoons. Are we branching out into children’s toys or something?”

I shake my head absently, still wondering if he’s a cool little kid, or a total shit. Some kids just are, nothing the parents can do about it. I laugh to myself and feel Javi eyeing me in concern.

“No, we’re not adding anything for kids to the Olympus umbrella. I was thinking that some kids are just jerks. I was wondering what mine would be like.”

“Little psychos, I bet. Jumping down flights of stairs in towel capes, pretending to fly. Or launching themselves off the slide at max speed and knocking kids over. You’re too much of an adrenaline junkie to have a kid be mild-mannered or chill. You deserve a kid that gives you regular heart attacks with their antics to make up for the shit you’ve put me through.”

I laugh and start gathering my things to leave. “You ever think about settling down and having kids?”

“All the time. I want a big family someday. I’m one of five, you know. Mymadreis a firecracker. You ever get achanclathrown at you, or is that just us Latin families?” he asks, wincing with the memory.

“My mother chased me with a fried chicken drumstick once when I broke her favorite Waterford Crystal vase practicing my standing backflip in the dining room. Not a sandal, but it was the closest thing at hand, and she ended up throwing it at me as I ran up the stairs.”

“White people are weird, man,” he says, shaking his head and preceding me into the elevator. “Are you thinking about kids because of Harlowe?” I look over at him quickly, but his face is open, and he seems to be genuinely curious.

“Yeah. I don’t know if I’ll be any good with kids. What if he hates me? That is, if Harlowe ever lets me close enough for him to hate me. But I don't know the first thing about kids, and I think I’m going to fuck this up if I do get the chance.”

“Be interested in him. Kids want to show you their shit—drawings, toys, dumb dances they do that make no sense. They just want you to give them attention. You don’t have to do anything special.” He claps me on the back when we exit into the garage. “You’ll be a good dad. I even think you’ll make a good husband someday, if you ever decide to put the bachelor life behind you.”

I bark out a laugh. “You think?” I shake my head as I reach my car. “You have absolutely no grounds to make that assumption. But thank you,” I add after a pause. I nod my goodbye and climb into the car.

Put the bachelor life behind me… well, I have to start sometime, and apparently, it’s what Olympus needs more than anything right now, so I may as well try. My drive home is short, and I look around my palatial penthouse of gleaming surfaces, white marble floors, surrounded by glass and metal walls that give me a clear view of downtown Atlanta. I shuck off my jacket and tie and settle myself in the pristine living room. Nothing about this space says kids or a family. I dial Harlowe, surprised the call connects after a few rings.

“Hello…” her throaty voice answers, and a shiver travels the length of my spine with that one cautious word.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask, settling back into the plush leather seat with more confidence than I should have given the recipient of my call. She can see past my booty call language better than anyone, but I’m not really versed in a better tactic.

“Really, Zander? I’ve already seen you more in the last few weeks than I have in five years. What do you want?”

“You, Lowe.”

She sighs heavily and says without much heat, “Liar. You never want what you’ve already had, so tell me the truth. Why are you so persistent now?”

“I want another chance. I may not have changed enough to make up for what I did to you, but I’m willing to be what I need to be now, and that’s a father.” I can’t promise her I will be perfect, or that I’ve changed my ways entirely, but I’m telling her the truth; that need may supersede want for the first time in my life.

She’s silent for so long I wonder if she’s hung up on me, but finally, she responds. “I’m about to film a new recipe for my channel. Hendricks is out with my mom, but they’ll be back before dinnertime. It’s really boring, just me talking to a camera and resetting a bunch of times when I fuck up. There will be lots of food at the end. You could…” she pauses, blowing out a breath and making me wait like it’s Christmas morning and I’m about to tear into a gift, “…come over?”

I’m off the sofa and grabbing my jacket before her words trail off. “Fuck yes. I’m on my way.”

The drive feels ridiculously long, and with every second that ticks by feels like I’m losing out on my opportunity. When I pull up to her house it feels different. I was angry, selfish, and looking for answers the last two times I tried this. Today, I was invited, which changes everything.

Harlowe answers the door wearing a white tank top and blue shorts with a soft bow that ties around her waist, emphasizing the narrow place my hands could rest above the swell of her wide hips and the long legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair is down around her shoulders, darker than it was when I could freely run my fingers through the thick lengths that fell around me when she was on top, riding me. The visual hits me out of nowhere and I nearly groan from the need that flares to life, wanting her again.

But she’s all business, waving me inside and padding barefoot back to the kitchen that has been transformed into a mini studio. She has a camera on a tripod with an LCD screen behind the island, another camera angled down above her workstation, and two lights arranged on either side illuminating her workspace, which is neatly set up with bowls of ingredients at hand. She has pots and dishes stacked to the side, out of the frame, and a remote that she picks up and waves at me.

“You have to be quiet when I’m recording, and don’t laugh at me or make me laugh. This is serious, Zander, even if you don’t think it’s as worthwhile as your business ventures because I’m not making millions.”

I palm my chest and give her a look of astonishment. “I’m quite aware of the seriousness with which you take your job. I’ve been catching up on your videos, so I know how you do your thing. I’m a foodie now, you know.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don't care what you are. I have to get this last dish filmed and photographed before this video is done. I mean, I’ll have eight hours of editing to do after it’s filmed. Between the uploading process, the caption writing, and the stills for social media, it will all take even more time. Basically, my weekend is fucked.”

I hold up my hands in surrender to her busy schedule and motion for her to get to it, while I take a seat at a barstool at one end of the island, far from her camera set up. I stare at the veined marble and all I can see is the image of her lying in the middle of it, surrounded by snacks, her tits barely contained as the sunlight cut across her, that she posted to Instagram. Her fucking caption about bad girls swallowing you whole fists me in the gut, and I nearly groan with longing again. I look up, wanting to grab her by the chin and fuck her mouth, reminding myself just how good that feels right now.

After several attempts to talk about her dessert dish to her recording camera, she looks over at me and frowns, her brow drawing down in a way that is just adorable when I know she’s actually frustrated.

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