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    Baby Blitz
    Baby Blitz
    Baby Blitz
    Ebook210 pages3 hours

    Baby Blitz

    By Cristina Grenier and Sasha Smith

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    About this ebook

    After an earth-shaking one-night stand, rising singing starlet, Barbara Harrison, discovers she's pregnant. About the same time, she is signed to a breakthrough contract and moves to Los Angeles. Rather than track down the father of her baby, fearing that he may take the child from her, Barbara keeps her son's father's identity a closely-guarded secret. 

    A powerful football player, Justin Bowman has no idea that he has a son somewhere in LA, until a chance meeting in the same little dive where they first met five years prior brings him and Barbara back together again. This time, however, another one-night stand develops into a romance that neither one can deny. Still, Barbara is afraid to reveal to Justin that her son is also his, until a trip to the emergency room confirms what Justin had been suspecting all along.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMonster Media LLC
    Release dateApr 2, 2019
    ISBN9781386468929
    Baby Blitz

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      Book preview

      Baby Blitz - Cristina Grenier

      CRISTINA GRENIER PRESENTS

      BABY BLITZ

      Sasha Smith

      Want to receive a FREE copy of this

      full length BWWM Romance by bestselling author Cristina Grenier?

      Click the cover below.

      Chapter 1: The Contract

      Disgusted – a word far from what I truly feel.

      Sweaty and stinking with alcohol, bodies rammed my weak and tired petite figure.

      Did you see him? Jamie, a waitress, asked her friend. Oh wow, I wish I could get him to notice me. She eyed a tall figure from the corner of the place as she swirled the tequila that filled her glass.

      I was in the pub I work every weekend. Men, women, and even teenagers occupied the almost fully packed place. I couldn’t say I was the reason why, but I knew they were here to hear some good music.

      I looked at the center of the club and saw a number of people dancing with the heavily mixed music. Bodies gyrated and moved, matching the booming beat and glittering disco lights. On the bar counter where booze freely flowed were intimate couples – kissing, touching, and making out.

      My head pounded.

      I still had more or less merely an hour to go to get some rest. Entertainment industry was supposed to be fun and exciting. But I was starting to think that it wasn’t really meant for me. I’ve been working my rear off for years to get noticed by music producers. And unfortunately, I have never been able to catch the eye of any of them.

      I used to believe that I was gifted with a good sense in music. Writing songs and producing music was my forte. And I have always dreamed of being a recording artist.

      But nobody noticed me.

      Quitting had crossed my mind a lot of times. But it wasn’t really easy. When I didn’t have anything to do, I would always find myself plucking my guitar and writing lyrics. I didn’t understand why companies turned down all of my song demos when people loved it. Was it because my music was the old school kind?

      My thoughts were distracted when a bulky figure bumped me, making me grip the strap of my guitar tighter. My knees wobbled because aside from the fact that I was dizzy, I was hungry. I had just gotten off from my part-time job at the nearest convenience store.

      The figure was a man about six feet two, towering over my five feet and eight inches height. Watch it, lady, he said, leaning closer to my ears, as he assisted me to regain my balance.

      Thanks, I mumbled breathlessly. I have never felt so much intimidation in my entire life, until now.

      Edging around the looming bodies, I felt beats of sweat trickling from my chest as I tugged the hem of my white V-neck shirt. It wasn’t the best choice of clothing for a body-packed room, but it’s what I’m comfortable with. And I was there to perform music—not to flaunt my goods.

      I walked past the reeking crowd and marched my way straight to the tiny room at the back of the pub. A thirty-minute nap would be great.

      I heard my stomach growling when I stopped right in front of the door of my tiny dressing room. I was hungry. But I’m sure my stomach could wait. I needed time to rest my eyes and brain.

      Placing my guitar in one corner, I turned the light switch on. The black leather upholstered couch was begging for me to lie down. I slammed my body against the soft lounge, pressing my eyes closed. The booming music has faded and all I could hear was a light beat—it was just a blur actually—which was great.

      I have never found peace that way.

      Heaving a series of deep breaths, I squirmed on top of the couch, trying to find the perfect position to get myself a good rest. After almost twenty-four hours of being awake, I got to reward myself with a thirty-minute nap. Why did I have to work non-stop again?

      Ah, yes. It was because I have a non-existent family to support me and my expenses. I needed to make a living to fill my always-growling stomach. I just hoped one day, I’d never have to worry about food and bills anymore.

      My solitude didn’t last long when I heard a couple of heavy knocks on the door. Mike, the pub manager, popped his head inside the room.

      Barbie, honey, he spoke. I told him a lot of times not to call me that but here we are. I could see his purplish hair from my position. My feet were parallel to the door.

      What? I asked irritatingly. There goes my thirty-minute rest—down the drain.

      Somebody wants to see you, he responded.

      He was biting his bottom lip. Mike was a proud member of the third sex. And I loved him for that—not many people could openly embrace what they really are. But the current situation makes me want to strangle his precious neck to keep him away from my room of solidarity.

      Who? I questioned grumpily, raising a brow.

      Instead of giving me a name, Mike responded with a shrug before shutting the door. I felt my nose flaring up with annoyance after a couple of seconds. What was that all about? He was just going to disturb me because of someone he didn’t even know?

      I got up and checked myself in front of the large mirror. At least, I didn’t look much of a disaster. My mocha-colored skin looked a bit oily but it didn’t change the fact that I looked decent for a black woman who plays the guitar. I checked my watch, wincing. My performance started at ten and it was already nine thirty-five.

      I wasn’t expecting a guest—not that I have someone to visit me. But that someone better greet me with good news. I practiced the fake smile on my reflection a couple of times before leaving my tiny room quietly, welcomed by the eardrum-breaking musical beats.

      I so hate it when they play that techno-mixed song.

      I searched for Mike, but he was nowhere to be found in that congested hall. I maneuvered toward the bar, where the barkeep, Jack, passed me a can of beer. He was a friend since I couldn’t remember when.

      Hey, he smiled, revealing his chipped front tooth. I have always wanted to tell him that he looked better with his mouth shut. But I knew it would be very rude. So … never mind that.

      Hi, I replied, frowning. I opened the canned beer and looked around before leaning against the bar. I never liked sitting on high chairs. Mike said someone’s looking for me. Do you have any idea who it was?

      I looked at Jack. He was wiping a shot glass and gestured at the man to the far left side of the bar counter. Yes, that’s him, he reaffirmed, shrugging.

      Thanks.

      I studied the stranger before approaching him. He was about in his late forties, wearing formal attire with his black tux and red tie. His hair was gray which I presumed to be blonde during his younger days and he looked really clean – professional. And he looked bored …

      Hi, I’m Barbara Harrison, I greeted the older man with a smile on my face. Were you looking for me?

      The man tilted his head and gave me a not very welcoming look, wanting me to wince.

      Hi, he stood up and extended his arm for a handshake, I’m Barry Schwimmer.

      With that, I felt my feet freeze. Did I hear him right? Barry Schwimmer? The Barry Schwimmer?

      Shaking my head, I tried to compose myself. I had to stay calm. Wow, I mumbled, feeling totally stunned—and lost for words. How was I supposed to react now that a man from the biggest recording company in the world came to visit me?

      Stay calm?

      Yeah. Tell me.

      Can we talk somewhere quiet?

      Y-Yeah, sure.

      Leading the way, we left the pub. I decided to bring him to the nearest café for a more peaceful ambiance. It was actually a pleasure for me to leave the noisy place—couldn’t be happier.

      After getting us iced coffee, I settled at the table where Mr. Schwimmer was waiting. I felt like my knees were growing soft each minute. The air around me has gone thinner, making it hard to breathe. My emotion was a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

      I was thrilled, too.

      Let me get this straight, the man spoke the moment I sat across him. I came all the way from Los Angeles to give you an offer.

      I halted; I stopped breathing.

      What did he say?

      Excuse me?

      He smiled at me before tapping my left shoulder. I’m here to offer you a recording contract.

      Come again? I asked, blinking. I knew I sounded stupid. But I wanted to make sure I wasn’t hearing things.

      Honey, you’re not dreaming, Mr. Schwimmer chuckled. I have heard all of your song demos. And I loved it! I love your music!

      But something was not right. Every year for five years, I have sent my demos to his company but I didn’t get any call—not even once.

      I thought I was rejected. I have sent CD’s every year. And I have never received a call from any of your agents, I said, biting my lip. I just hope he wouldn’t take it negatively. I just wanted to confirm he was serious.

      Mr. Schwimmer paused.

      I hoped that wouldn’t be an issue, he shook his head. That is the reason why I came here personally. Those people don’t know what real music is. I know they realize you’re good. But they’re just worried about their talents. You know what business is, he explained.

      He’s got a point. Maybe, he felt really sorry for rejecting me over half a decade. And it’s not really common to be scouted by the Barry Schwimmer. He was like a saint in the music industry. And everyone under his label has paved their way in the music world.

      For the first time in a very long time, I had seen a spark of hope. Fate made a progress in helping me achieve my dreams—at the most unexpected time.

      I-I don’t know what to say, I stuttered. Reality was starting to sink in on me. I just couldn’t believe what’s happening. And it wasn’t a dream or illusion—it was for real.

      I know and I totally understand, Mr. Schwimmer pulled out a card from his wallet before standing up. Call me when you’ve made up your mind. I’ll be expecting an answer tomorrow.

      Barry Schwimmer left after giving me his calling card. I felt a little bit stupid for not accepting his proposal and doing business with him right away. But working for a label was another story. It was different from what I had gotten used to.

      I needed to make sure I picked the proper decision. It was vital … and real.

      I was still floating on cloud nine when I marched my way back to the pub, simultaneously sipping from the to-go iced coffee. What’s there to think about? I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for ages!

      Reaching the entrance of the pub, I came to a conclusion. I would call Mr. Schwimmer after I put on my performance tonight. I would take another step to achieve my dreams and live a happier and better life.

      It was nine fifty-five. The place had quieted down. People have settled into their seats, waiting for the acoustic session I always have every week. I was not star-popular, but patrons knew who Barbara Harrison was. And they love to request my original songs for their dates, friends and family.

      People loved me.

      And the world was next …

      I finished my set list proudly, watching the smiles on the crowd’s faces. They were delighted with my performance, so was I. Sitting there on the mini stage, I tried to remember the last time I was able to appreciate the expression of my audience. Ah, it has been so long.

      But tonight was different.

      One more please. A guy, wearing a pair of thick eyeglasses shouted. He was sitting with his friends at the far left side table near the stage.

      Come on, Barbie, shouted a woman who was with her family.

      I felt overwhelmed hearing the chorused cheering of the people. I never experienced what it was like to be loved by a family or a friend. But seeing people loving what I do was just too much. At this turning point of my life, I realized that if it weren’t for these people, I would have given up dreaming a long time ago. And if weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have written a single song.

      They were my inspiration.

      Patrons knew that I wasn’t the kind to extend my performance. But they would try to persuade me every single time. And tonight would be the first win against them. I just felt so good that I couldn’t decline.

      I puckered up my lips, watching the crowd before speaking on the microphone. Do you want more? I asked cheerfully.

      Yes! they chorused.

      With that, I strummed the strings of my guitar a few times, giving the band behind me an idea of the next song I’m going play. The crowd clapped their hands in victory.

      I decided to enjoy the last few hours of my life being an indie performer. Because tomorrow would be different …

      Chapter 2: The Meeting

      Good going, Jack commented when I parked myself by the bar after my performance.

      Most of the crowd left while others continued partying. Teenagers danced and grooved with the hip-hop music, and it disturbed me when I found myself enjoying its beat—my head slightly banging.

      Give me a beer, I said, averting my eyes from Jack’s scrutiny. We have been friends for a long time and I knew he could tell something was up when I extended my performance earlier.

      Sure.

      My brown eyes scanned the room as I edged closer to the counter, waiting for my can of beer. My orbs of vision landed on the tall figure at the corner of the pub. He was alone with his bottle of champagne.

      Pfft. A grown up man with champagne. What a wuss!

      Here’s your beer. So, what’s up? he asked, leaning from the other side of the bar counter. He was like my best friend so I didn’t mind telling him everything about myself. But this thing’s different. I wanted to surprise him.

      Nothing, I responded, shaking my head, opening the lid of my can.

      I took another look of the stranger at the corner when girls passing me by—teenagers—squealed. They were totally head over heels for him. Why couldn’t they just approach the man and talk with him? It was the same person Jamie,

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