Whispers in the Night by Brandon Massey

and the keys to my ride and got ghost, but before I could make it out the front door, that little bugger had run up on me again. He even beat me to the door.
    â€œWhat the—How’d you do that?”
    He had the nerve to grab my shirttail and try to yank me down.
    â€œI said , can I call you Daddy ?” He poked his bottom lip out with an attitude, like I owed him an answer.
    I leaned down to his level. I removed my shirttail from his sticky little peanut butter grip and looked down at my brand-new white Sean John button-up shirt. Brown sticky stains were smeared all over it. Damn it . I looked into those big old magnifier eyes of his.
    â€œLook here, you little peanut-butter-smelling, magnifier-eyed, big-headed little skunk. The only thing you can call me is Mr. Invisible Man ’cause you ain’t never gonna see me again. Peace out!”
    I walked out and slammed the door behind me. He opened the door and hollered at my back. “You coming back tonight? I got checkers. You like checkers?”
    I kept walking, didn’t look back. I walked to the curb where I’d parked my ride. I got in, started it up, and shook my head. I couldn’t believe this shit. I’d kicked it with that girl for two whole months. She never said nothing about no kid. Sometimes we’d kick it at my condo, but most times we hung at her house since her neighbors weren’t as close and we could get loud. I’d never seen a toy, a bicycle, a pair of Spider-man briefs—nothing that would clue me in that she had a kid.
    I drove back to my place, still shaking my head. Her body was tight, too. Old girl could bounce a basketball off her abs. No stretch marks. Nothing.
    I got home, jumped in the shower, and kept thinking. She didn’t act like a mother, neither. She never had to get home early. Never said a thing about finding a babysitter. I’d call her, she’d say what’s up? I’d say let’s go and we’d roll to the beach, a movie, dinner, a club. We even did two weekends in Vegas at a moment’s notice. I didn’t get it. How could she have a kid right under my nose the whole time and I not know it?
    I got out the shower and kept thinking about it. The sex. Whoa! No way could she be somebody’s mother. Nobody’s “mama” was supposed to do it like that. Old girl was a freak.
    Naked and wet, I picked up the phone and called her. “You lying. That ain’t your child.”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œYou made me think you didn’t have one. You deceived me,” I said, self-righteously indignant.
    â€œYou deceived me, too.”
    â€œI ain’t lied about nothing.”
    â€œYou said you could last a whole hour.”
    â€œShut up.” I hung up the phone. This was serious and she was trying to change the subject.
    I didn’t have time for this. I got dressed, checked my suit, and slipped my Rolex on my wrist. I rushed out the door. I had things to do. I was Chris “Crisp Dollar” Duckett, owner and CEO of the premier Los Angeles music promotion company, not to mention bachelor extraordinaire. Hard, lean, and mean, that’s how I did things. Ask anybody. They’d tell you. And don’t believe that lie about not lasting an hour. The girl was out of her mind. She lost track of time. Believe that.
    I had a meeting with Nelly’s people that morning. I was making power moves, shaking it up and baking things, and as usual, things were going my way . . . until my secretary beeped in.
    I pushed the intercom button. “What’s up? You know I’m in a meeting.”
    â€œYes, but, Mr. Ducket, I think you need to come out to the lobby.”
    â€œI don’t need—” I calmed myself. “This had better be important.” I got up and apologized to the people in my office. “Excuse me for a sec.”
    I stepped outside my office, walked down the hall, and opened the lobby door. My secretary