1. Kip

1

KIP

“ S o, Kipper, you gonna tell us about that chick at the bar or what?” Teller arches an eyebrow mischievously at me. “From what I saw, she had tits to brag about.”

It’s honestly a shock to me that Teller was home tonight…since when does he pass on the opportunity of following a chick home?

I sit perched on a worn barstool in the living room of our townhouse, slightly lightheaded from all the beer but with no plans of stopping anytime soon. If there’s anything my childhood taught me; it’s how to hold my alcohol. My fingers wrap around the chilled beer bottle as I lift it to my lips, savoring the smooth sensation as I take my third swig. The couch creaks under the weight of Clay while Teller lounges in the armchair, his long legs dangling over the side.

I chuckle and lean back, riding the buzz of the alcohol. “Nah, man, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Pshh, gentleman, my ass!” Clay scoffs playfully. “Since when have you ever been one to pass up bragging about your conquests?”

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Hey now, I’m turning over a new leaf. Trying to keep an air of mystery, ya know?”

They both burst out laughing and I can’t help but join in. I take another drink with a grin on my lips. He’s right. I’ve got a huge mouth.

“Sure, you are buddy!” Teller teases. “Don’t leave us hanging. Tell us what happened,” and I can’t help but to indulge.

“She was something else in that tight little dress.” Thinking about her has me starting to come alive beneath the belt. I lean back on the barstool, balancing precariously as I gesture with my near-empty bottle. “I’m telling’ ya, guys, I could’ve had her eating out of the palm of my hand.” The words come out a bit more slurred than I intend, but I press on, determined to sell my story. “But you know me, always leave ‘em wanting more.”

Clay raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Is that so? Sounds more like she left you high and dry, buddy.”

I clutch my chest in mock offense, nearly toppling off the stool in the process. “Be fucking serious, Clay. What woman is able to resist all of this?” I take another swig, the cool liquid soothing my bruised ego. “I’ll have you know I’m a master of the art of seduction.”

Teller snorts, his usually stoic face cracking into a grin. “More like a master of delusion, Kip.”

I flip him the bird, but I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up from my chest. “Laugh it up, assholes. Just wait ’til next time. I’ll have her begging for more.”

A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts, the sound echoing through the room.

“I got it,” I say, pushing myself up from the barstool. The room sways slightly as I stand, the beer making its presence known. I steady myself with a hand on the counter, then make my way to the door.

“Bet it’s that chick from the bar,” I call over my shoulder, my words slurring slightly. “She couldn’t resist my charm after all.”

Clay rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Sure, Kip. And I’m the Queen of England.”

I flip him off again, then turn back to the door. What if it really is her? What if she’s here to take me up on my offer, to let me show her just how good I can make her feel? I yank the door open, a cocky grin already spreading across my face. But the smile dies on my lips as I take in the sight before me.

There’s no one there.

I blink, confusion washing over me like a cold shower. I poke my head out, glancing left and right, but there’s nobody. “What the hell?” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck. Maybe I’m drunker than I thought.

Or maybe this is some kind of prank, a joke at my expense. Whatever. I’m too drunk for this.

I’m about to slam the door shut and head back inside when a soft sound catches my attention. It’s barely audible over the noise from the living room, but it’s there all the same.

A cry.

My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. There, tucked against the wall beside the front door, is a sight that makes my blood run cold.

A car seat. And inside, a tiny, squirming bundle, its face scrunched up in distress.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Clay, Teller, get out here. Now.”

I kneel down, my hands shaking as I unbuckle the straps, revealing a little girl who can’t be more than six months old. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wet with tears, but thankfully, she’s dressed warmly in a pink onesie and matching hat.

Beside the carrier, I spot a diaper bag, its bright colors a stark contrast to the drab ground. And there, tucked into the side pocket, is a folded piece of paper.

With shaking hands, I pluck it out, my heart hammering against my ribs. I unfold it slowly, my eyes scanning the words scrawled across the page.

Dear Kip, Clay, and Teller,

I never thought I’d find myself writing this letter, but life has taken unexpected turns, and I’m afraid I can no longer care for this beautiful little girl.

You all know me, and I know this will come as a shock to be doing something like this. I still think fondly of the night we all spent together, but the reality is that I am overwhelmed, broke, and unable to provide the love and care this baby deserves.

This little girl is yours—each of you has a piece of her. I hope that one of you can embrace the role of being her father. I’ve left a few essentials with her in the bag, hoping it can serve as a guide in the days ahead as you figure out what to do.

I truly wish I could be the mother she needs, but I know that’s not possible right now and maybe I never will. I hope you understand my decision and do right by her.

Please take care of her. She’s a wonderful child who you will fall in love with easily, given the chance. She deserves a wonderful life filled with joy and laughter and I know you guys can give her that.

With all my heart,

Sydney

The note slips from my fingers, fluttering to the ground like a wounded bird. I stare at the baby, my mind reeling. One of us is the father? How is that even possible? I mean I know how it’s possible, but…

Sharing women isn’t a foreign concept to us, we’ve done it a couple of times, but I can’t even remember the name…Sydney?

How many nights have I spent at the bar, patrolling for women? How many women had I slept with, unable to remember their names and what they looked like?

It’s finally coming back to bite me in the butt.

“Fuck,” I breathe, running a hand through my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The baby’s cries grow louder, more urgent, and I feel a surge of helplessness wash over me. I’m not ready for this. I can’t be a father.

But as I look down at the tiny, scrunched-up face, I feel something unexpected. A flicker of protectiveness, a fierce desire to keep this child safe.

I take a deep breath, then reach for the carrier and the letter, my hands still shaking. I lift it carefully, cradling it against my chest.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell the baby, even though I’m not sure it will be.

“Kip, what’s taking you so long?” Teller asks, Clay close behind him, before the both of them freeze, shock written all along their features.

“What the hell?” Clay breathes, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight of me holding a baby.

Teller blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Is that...a kid?”

I nod, my throat tight. “Found her on the doorstep. Along with this.” I hold out the letter with my free hand, the crinkled paper trembling slightly.

Clay reaches for it, his brows furrowed in confusion. As he scans the contents, his face drains of color. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “One of us is the father?”

Teller snatches the letter, his eyes darting back and forth as he reads. “This can’t be real,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “It’s got to be some kind of joke.”

I shake my head, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. “I don’t think it is.”

A heavy silence falls over us as reality sinks in. The baby squirms, letting out a soft cry, and I instinctively bounce her gently, my hand patting her back.

Clay and Teller exchange a glance, a mix of fear and uncertainty in their eyes. I can see the same questions swirling in their minds that have been plaguing me since I found the baby.

What do we do now? How do we handle this? And most importantly, which one of us is the father?

I look down at the tiny face nestled against my chest, and all of my fears and uncertainties dim as she looks up at me. Her hand touches my chest, looking for stability, and I feel something in me growing.

I’m not going to just walk away and leave this little girl alone. We’ll figure it out.

We don’t have much of a choice.