Page 100 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“She’snotyour baby,” I remind him. “And I call bullshit. It’s not like you’re looking to settle down and start a family.”

I scan him up and down the same way he did to me a few seconds ago. Leather jacket. Gages in both ears. A piercing above his left brow. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to him. And a wicked smirk permanently etched onto his lips. The guy screams parties, sex, drugs, and rock and roll louder than the freaking Ramones. But right now, he’s frowning. And his carefree, I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anything persona is absent too.

It’s terrifying.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” I demand.

He twists the stud piercing above his brow as his tongue darts out between his lips as if he’s debating something, though I have no clue what it is.

“Tell me,” I order.

“I may have run into a little problem.”

“What problem?”

“One I think you can help me with.”

“I’m not helping you anymore.” I shake my head and take a step back, about to slam the door in his face when his hand smacks against it.

With a dry laugh, he tells me, “I don’t want sex this time.”

I scoff, my grip tightening around the edge of the door to prevent me from slapping him. “Whatdoyou want?”

“Your help with a little problem I have with my dad.”

His dad. As in the infamous Donny Hayes. Singer. Guitarist. And cash cow for his son. Dove mentioned he’d cut Marty off, but I have no idea what this has to do with me or how he thinks I’ll be able to help him.

It’s official. The guy’s delusional.

“Look, Marty.” I sigh. “I can’t help y––”

“Your kid can.”

“What?” I flinch back, then step onto the front porch, my mama bear clawing to give the guy in front of me a piece of my mind. Using me is one thing. But using Penny? Not a chance in hell will I let him get away with it.

Marty scoots back a few inches, and I close the door behind me, putting a physical barrier between him and my baby girl, who’s sound asleep in her crib upstairs.

Dropping my voice low, every single cell in my body buzzing with adrenaline, I whisper, “Don’t youdaretalk about using my kid.”

His mouth curves up in the corner as he leans closer, unintimidated even though I’m seconds from kneeing him in the balls.

“You never know,” he returns, shoving his hands into his pockets and shrugging innocently. “She could beourkid.”

“I already told you––”

“About the paternity test.” He rolls his eyes, obviously doubting me. “Yeah. I know.”

“She isn’t yours.”

“Even if it’s the truth––which I think is a load of shit, by the way––my dad doesn’t know, does he?”

I tilt my head to one side, my gaze narrowing. “Why would he believe you?”

“Because you’re going to convince him she is.”

With a light laugh, I ask, “And why do you think I’d be willing to go along with your scam?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Jos––”

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