Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

Tommy and I are lying in bed, drifting, not so much toward sleep as simply drifting, two lovers in a rowboat, floating on a windless lake. My cheek is against his chest, while my hand lies farther down, nestled against his penis—for comfort, not for sex. His eyes are half lidded, but I know he’s awake.

“She was genuinely happy about me adopting her,” he murmurs.

“I think ecstatic is the word.”

Silence.

“Never thought a child would be so happy to have me as a father.”

I lift my cheek onto my hand so I can see his face. “Seriously?”

“I don’t mean it like that. It’s not that I thought of myself as unworthy or anything. It’s just … to have her not only say yes but to be so happy about it …” He sighs. “I can’t explain it.”

I smile and lie my head back on his chest. “I think I understand.”

“I did a lot of reading tonight about babies,” he says. “Ordered some books.” He clears his throat, perhaps a little self-conscious. “I want to understand everything.”

“The books help. Up to the birth. After that, we’re on our own.”

“I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, by the way.”

My hand pauses in its slow caress of his lower belly. “Really?”

“Yep. I know most guys want a son, and that would be fine, but I honestly don’t care. I just want a healthy child that we raise together.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to get punished for being too happy.” I don’t mean to say it. The words come of their own accord.

He strokes my hair. “I understand.”

I snuggle into him, finding comfort in him speaking those two simple words and no others. He didn’t try to reassure me or pooh-pooh my fears.

We drift again, and I feel him slip away. Tommy usually falls asleep before I do, just as he wakes before I wake. His breathing is slow and steady, and I feel the reassuring beat of his heart against my ear.

I reach down and run a hand over my belly.

Are you in there, whoever you are? No arms, no legs, just a lump of cells, I guess, but I’m going to talk to you a little, anyway. I want you to know that I’m going to take care of you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you or take you away from me. I have a new rule, baby. Do you want to know what it is?

My stomach gurgles, and I take this as an acquiescence.

Anyone who comes after me or my family personally? They don’t get to go to jail after doing that. Not anymore. The price for that is death, pure and simple. Okay, baby?

No gurgle this time, but that’s okay, because I’m drifting differently now too. My eyes are heavy, and I close them and drift off, one hand on the place where my child grows, the other on the man who helped to make it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“I’ve set up some software that lets you log in to our computer,” Leo says. “You’ll be able to watch what we’re doing as though you were the user. That’s how you can follow along with the chats and so on. I’ve also got a webcam on so we can talk over the microphone.”

Leo and Alan have taken their places in “Robert Long’s” apartment. Marjorie is ensconced in the house as Cynthia.

“Cynthia’s not working yet,” Callie had briefed us. “Since we needed the cover-up and running so quickly, I decided that we would go a similar direction with the ex-Mrs. Long as we did with Robert. She’s trying to decide what to do with her life. In the meantime, she’ll go to the gym, get her hair done, read, all those activities the well-kept woman engages in.”

I peer at the image on my own computer. “It’s like being right there,” I say, impressed.

“This technology has come a long way,” Leo agrees. “You should be able to read everything as we type it. I’ll be keeping logs as well, so you can catch up on anything you miss, as needed.”

“Have you registered with the website yet?” I ask.

Alan’s voice comes through the microphone. It’s odd to be having conversations while staring at a monitor. “Yep: Hurting2105. Hurting 1 through 2104 were taken.”

“That’s a lot of pain.”

“Or whining,” Alan says. “Anyway, we’re ready to get started.”

“Go ahead.”

Law-enforcement undercover work is not that exciting, unless you’re a narcotics officer. Most of it is not about the moment of the criminal act but the day-to-day living that surrounds your cover identity. You have to eat, and sleep, and make bank deposits, and pay bills. You have to see movies and decide between popcorn and licorice. You have to buy toilet paper. All of it done under the assumption that every move you make is being watched. You play your part and hope that the moment of action comes.

I watch as Leo surfs to the beamanagain website.

“Should I log in to chat?” he asks.

“Take it slow,” Alan counsels. “Let’s see what’s happening on the forums first. What’s the hot topic of the day?”

Leo navigates to the General Discussion section of the forums. “This is a new one,” he says.

I lean forward, squinting a little to read what he’s talking about.

“You’ll need to use the software connection if you want to follow the chat,” Leo says. “But you should just read the forums yourself, in your own browser, since everyone reads at different speeds.”

“Good point,” I allow.

I open the other browser window and get myself onto the website. I navigate to the forum. The top posting Leo had pointed out is entitled More housework, better sex?

“That sounds interesting,” I murmur.

I click on the topic and begin to read.

A recent study found that when men and women feel the housework is divided evenly, the couple’s sex life is better. The study noted that it wasn’t important that the housework was factually divided evenly. Only that the parties involved felt that it was. Discuss.

The next posting:

PUH-leeeze. Who did that study? A woman, right?

LOL.

The next, from the poster who started the thread:

Heh. Yeah, I thought the same, but it turns out the study was done by a man.

The responses continue.

Well, hell, I’ll vacuum if it will get my knob polished. Small price to pay.

Another poster jokes:

Fine, but I don’t do windows unless my salad gets tossed.

Ick. That’s gay. You want your turdhole polished, go find a fag forum.

Up yours!

The original poster steps in again, attempting to mediate.

Guys. We fight enough with women. Let’s not use this site to fight with each other. Back on topic, please.

I read through the back-and-forth of the thread. Much of it is harmless banter, some of it is more thoughtful. There is only the occasional venomous remark.

The cunt I live with wouldn’t fuck me if I hired a live-in maid.

Or perhaps the most disturbing:

All I know is she won’t have sex with me and hasn’t for four years. I’ve tried everything. I finally had enough of her shit. The other day I jacked off into her shampoo bottle. Then I went and got her a hamburger and added some “extra mayo” of my own. I almost laughed when I asked her how it was and she said, “It’s delicious!” She’s gonna swallow my cum and have it running down her face whether she likes it or not.

“I’m going to post a response,” Leo says. “Something I read yesterday would be appropriate here, and it would start to fill out my profile and give me some credibility with other members of the site.”

“Go ahead,” Alan says, “but let me read it before you post it.”

I peruse other threads as he types. A few minutes pass.