Free The Fraud by Brad Parks

check in on my unborn child and future wife.
    When I met Tina Thompson nine years earlier, she was the nightside assignment editor and I was interviewing for a job at the Eagle-Examiner. Through some unusual circumstances, we ended up working together on a story that resulted in the resignation of a powerful state senator.
    I wish I could report that my initial attraction to her came when I stared deep into her eyes and my soul recognized its own mate. Alas, I’m not a Hallmark card writer. I’m a guy. So mostly what drew me to her was that she was smoking hot. It was only slightly later that I discovered she was also feisty and fun, smart and—I know this makes me something of a newspaper nerd—incredibly good at her job. What can I say? Competence is sexy.
    I’m also drawn to challenging women, and in that regard I really hit the jackpot with Tina. She’s like the LSATs, MCATs, and GMATs all rolled into one.
    I would have thought that nine years after our first meeting, she would be wearing my ring on her finger, not telling me to keep it stowed in my pocket. But at least so far, events had conspired against that.
    For a number of years, back when we were both unpregnant, she wanted me to be the father of her baby—but nothing else. I kept pressing for an arrangement that involved more than just insemination. She refused, citing the demands of her job and a history of wrecked relationships. We dated other people, even as she continued to press for procreation.
    Eventually, she gave up on the idea of parenthood with me or anyone else, declaring that motherhood had passed her by. Then a seemingly innocent dinner at her house, along with the unintentionally sloppy administration of her birth control pills, wound up with her getting pregnant. I was still debating whether I should someday tell the kid he owed his existence to a leg massage that got out of hand.
    Since then, we have returned to our historic roles. I keep pressing for a committed relationship. She keeps putting me off. I realize this sort of makes me the girl in this whole scenario. Yet I’m secure in my manhood and have not let her hesitance deter me from thinking we’ll eventually be together. The way I see it, I beat out roughly thirty million other guys on the night I was conceived. I’ve had a winning attitude ever since.
    Tina had just returned from the eleven o’clock story meeting and was still trying to find a comfortable position in her desk chair when I appeared in her doorway.
    “Hey, how are you feeling?” I asked.
    “You already asked me that today. I told you, you only get to ask once per each twenty-four-hour period.”
    “No, I asked how C-3PO was feeling,” I corrected her. “Your well-being is still unexplored territory.”
    “Well, I’m fine, thank you.”
    “Can I get you anything? Water? Juice? A nonprocessed food snack?”
    “No. Stop being nice.”
    Much as certain indigenous groups believe having their picture taken will rob them of their spirit, Tina acted as if accepting help from a man would imperil hers. It should be stated she was a firstborn child.
    “Want to do Indian take-out at my place and then have a sleepover?” I asked. “You can inspect the crib and make sure it holds together.”
    “Can’t. I’m putting the paper to bed tonight.”
    Tina was one of our three managing editors, along with Rich Eberhardt and Chuck Looper. They rotated responsibility for the paper’s production. On a normal night, when no major news was breaking, it involved staying until ten or so and then being on call thereafter. It didn’t lend itself to romantic dinners.
    “I thought it was Eberhardt’s turn tonight.”
    “Yeah, and then he got a vicious case of food poisoning. He’s on the shelf for today.”
    “And Looper is—”
    “Golfing in Arizona, I think. Brodie has volunteered to help pick up the slack until Looper gets back from vacation and Eberhardt is back on his feet, but I’m on tonight and I can’t ask