The Ring

By Tim Ayer

Rogan Orlando, a boxer from an old, wealthy Texas family, is juggling the competing demands of Olympic competition, college and just living his life. Its a stressful life, one filled with expectations, pain, and responsibility, one from which even a competitor at his level needs the occasional distraction.

Her name was Melissa.

A pretty, lustful, brunette, she wrangled a low-level support staff job in the Olympic Village, just so she could be closer to the athletes she craves. For Rogan, she is just what he needed to blow off a little steam. A week later, Rogan leaves Atlantaand his pretty little Olympic flingbehind. A few weeks after that, she shows up at his home in Lubbock with a bit of news. She came all the way to Texas to congratulate himon the impending birth of their child.

Stunned, he then learns that the mother of his child is a pragmatic young woman who isnt really interested in motherhood. She gives him a choice: raise the child on his own, or she will abort it and be out of his life as if it never happened.

A college student and nationally ranked boxer, Rogan barely has time to sleep as it is. He knows he doesnt have time for fatherhood, but he also has strong feelings about family and what is right.

He decided that this innocent child, while unplanned, is not unwanted.

He invites Mel to live with him as they await the birth, both tentative about the future. Will their baby draw them together or force them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491756928

Tim Ayer

Tim Ayer, a graduate of Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts, is a world traveler, polylinguist, and inveterate reader.

Book preview

Prologue

Rogan Orlando was spending his evening in unaccustomed relaxation. He was usually either studying for his college courses or training for his next competition. But now, after knocking out his chief regional rival in a practice bout, he was sprawled in his favorite chair in his apartment in Lubbock, Texas.

He was not inclined to get up when the doorbell rang. His college buddies, who mostly lived on campus, rarely visited, but he occasionally received visits from his family—immediate and extended, they were all around the country and occasionally came through the city—and business associates, although both categories usually called first.

On the other hand, they may have called―his answering machine hadn’t been unloaded for two days.

With a groan—Tommy Riggs had hammered his ribs before going down for the count—the six-foot, light-heavyweight boxer heaved out of the low, comfortable chair and made his way to the front door. He ignored the peephole in the door and opened it.

Hi, Rogan, a pretty brunette said from the steps.

He paused barely a second before he swung the door shut.

After a moment, the doorbell rang again. He opened it.

The girl was still there. Don’t close the door again, Rogan, she said. You’ll never forgive yourself if you do.

I doubt it. What would you do to me?

"It’s not what I’ll do to you that should concern you. You have something else to worry about now."

Rogan frowned.

You’re a family man.

His eyebrows rose. Melissa wasn’t the type to threaten. She wasn’t violent. Besides, she had left him. You’re threatening my family?

She pursed her mouth. That hadn’t come out right. Not in the way you think. She gestured with her hand. Invite me in?

Rogan stepped aside in wordless invitation. He feared few things, and Melissa wasn’t one of them. If he decided not to listen to whatever she had to say, he could always pitch her out again. She didn’t weigh more than about 130 pounds soaking wet and fully dressed.

Okay, I’m listening, he said when she perched on the edge of the sofa.

Melissa Carlton suppressed a wince. The red-haired boxer was not using the gallant southern manners she had once enjoyed. His voice was uninflected, cool, and disinterested. She much preferred the fond tones she had heard so often during their short relationship. There was no offer of refreshment, no inquiry after her health—pleasantries of conversation with which he would greet even a stranger.

I was not threatening your parents or your sister, Rogan. In fact, I wasn’t really threatening. But you have a decision to make that will impact all your family. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and said, Rogan, I’m carrying your child.

She had come to him when he was in Atlanta, competing in the XXVI Olympiad. Faced with hot competition from the powerful Cuban team, he ate, practiced, slept, and fought in the strict regimen his trainer/coach had devised. He was dedicated and focused; he had been working toward that moment from the time he joined his first Golden Gloves program when he was ten.

Despite his coach’s supervision and his own dedication, he had crossed paths with Melissa. The teenager was a sports groupie; since her days as a high school cheerleader, she had followed her chosen college teams and the Atlanta pro sports teams with dedication. When the Olympics brought hundreds of superb young athletes to Atlanta, Melissa was in seventh heaven. She wrangled a low-level service job in the support services industry that kept Olympic Village and the various competitive venues running, and she maneuvered to meet the athletes. Since she was one of the attendants who kept the swimming pools clean and chlorinated, she could easily meet the swimmers who were working out and training in the facility at all hours.

When she met swimmer Billy Austin, she liked his lean, muscled looks. She convinced him that a horny young Texan screwing a horny young woman was not only not a sin but also quite the right thing to do. Billy’s prowess in bed gave Melissa convincing evidence of the rightness of a theory that she had been working on.

Billy offered further evidence, as provided by his friend and fellow Texan, Rogan Orlando. He introduced the two near the swim venue.

Hi, I’m Melissa, she said, thrusting her hand at him.

He took her small, neat hand in his, carefully. He was just coming from a session with his trainer, and he was at peak conditioning. He had to be careful not to break things. I’m Rogan.

Billy tells me you’re a friend of his? She turned slightly and strolled away, looking at Rogan, who followed, and she ignored Billy. She was done with him. She had perfected the process of walking away.

Billy took the hint and did not follow.

I like to think so, Rogan said. What is she up to?

He was helping me with a little project of mine, she said. I have this theory, you see. I figure that guys like you—and Billy—you know, athletes?

Rogan nodded. Yes, he understood the concept of athletes.

Well, I figure they spend all this time and energy developing muscles and endurance and stuff. And I noticed with the high-school guys at home that the jocks have—well, they were, like, hung, and the geeks, they weren’t—most of them.

Rogan did not comment on this observation.

What do you think? she asked.

I never noticed, he said.

You willing to help? Give a hand, like?

You want my hand? he asked slyly.

They were in a secluded spot near the swimming arena. She turned to face him. Not your hand. She reached out and palmed his manhood. It was a solid mass of flesh in her hand, gaining size and turgidity rapidly. This.

He took her wrist and lifted the hand away. It was just too tempting. Why?

She glared at him. I just told you.

I mean, why me?

You’re a hunk. You’re built. If I’m right, you’re hung. I want to find out.

After a brief silence, Rogan softly asked, How?

Jeez! How do you think? I want to bang you, dude!

Ah. Well, you know what they say about sex before a game.

That’s bull, guy. I can’t believe they’re still handing that stuff out. She huffed a breath in exasperation. There is no evidence that having sex before a game affects your performance. In fact, when pro teams are on road trips, they’ve shown that the stress of going without does more damage than getting a piece.

Yeah, they have, Rogan said with quiet amusement. So what is this, a college physiology research project?

Get real. I’m not in college.

He looked her up and down.

Okay, so I’m the right age, but I’m not the right rich. No, this is just my own hook. I’m, like, curious.

You’re, like, horny.

That, too, she agreed without blushing.

Rogan reached out and gently placed his large hands on her hips. Without visible effort, he lifted her the few inches needed to bring them eye to eye. Well, pint-size, you’re on.

They found a private place, and Melissa discovered that Rogan, indeed, had the equipment that she had anticipated. And, even more rewarding, he took the time and care to use it in the most exciting way.

Chapter One

Melissa had dropped her bombshell but was meeting singularly little reaction. That was not what she had expected. The revelation her doctor had handed her a few days ago had floored her. She was only nineteen, and while she considered herself a woman, not a girl, she agreed with society that she was too young to be a wife and mother. She had too much of her youth left before she settled down to the responsibilities of adult life. She wasn’t ready for that.

Well? she asked a little peevishly as the silence stretched.

You’ll forgive me for thinking that perhaps your assignment of paternity is a bit questionable.

Melissa sighed. You know very well I wasn’t a virgin when I met you. However, I don’t expect you to just take my word for it. I know that you are responsible, but I have no objections to proving it to you. A DNA test on the fetus will prove you’re the father. She paused. "It is yours, Rogan. I know, and you can have it proven."

You told me you were on the Pill.

I was, she said. Dammit, Rogan, I didn’t set out to trap you. I am not trapping you. I didn’t want to get pregnant. But I am. I’m carrying your child. Now you have a decision to make. I’m willing to carry this child to term for you—to carry and deliver this child, your son or daughter—and turn it over to you. Or I will abort it. It’s your choice.

Rogan, leaning against a table in his living room, tipped his head back as if seeking help from on high. Jeez, hon, that’s not a decision of a moment. That’s gonna take some thinking about.

I understand that. There are some considerations to be factored in, of course.

Of course. What about you, though? How do you feel?

I can’t afford to have feelings about this. I’m just an incubator. I’m giving the child up. I’m not ready to be a mommy, Rogan, she said, a hint of desperation coming into her voice. I’m only nineteen, for God’s sake. Physically, I’m a woman―obviously. But in my mind, I’m still too young for this.

"You can afford to have feelings, hon. It’s your child, too. You’re committing nine months of your life to it, if we decide to go through with it. He paused. Are you Catholic?"

Baptist. That is, I was raised Baptist. I haven’t been to church in … well, it’s been a while. This isn’t based on religion.

Then what do you base it on?

You. Who you are.

Beg your pardon?

One thing I learned about you while we were together is that you have a deep sense of family. You pointed them out to me in the stands once, remember? Your parents never missed a bout. Your sister didn’t either. Melissa remembered the beautiful girl with hair the color of burgundy wine who had sat with his parents. She placed her hand on her belly, which was still flat. This child is the next generation of your family. Your son or daughter. If I’m reading you right, that’s important to you. I’m willing to give that to you—but I don’t want to be part of it.

Yes, he admitted slowly, that is important to me. And, I have an instinctive, inbred Catholic aversion to abortion. I was raised Catholic—secular Catholic, at least. I had First Communion and sometimes attend Mass on High Holy Days. Like you, however, I haven’t been in a while.

I don’t think you ever went while we were together, she said. You never mentioned making time for confession or Mass or anything.

No. I didn’t relish the idea of confessing to a celibate man what you and I were doing, he replied, a slight grin softening his firm mouth.

She gave a wide grin. Yeah, it was pretty far from celibacy, wasn’t it? Then, more soberly, she added, I’d expect most Texas Catholics to be Hispanic. You’re a redhead.

The Orlandos—my family of them, at least—are Irish by way of Spain and Cuba. We emigrated from Cuba to Louisiana when that part of the country was Spanish, then to Texas when it was still a Mexican province.

Oh, yeah. You mentioned that you were part of the Three Hundred.

In 1821, Missourian Stephen Austin had carried out his late father’s plan of settling a large party of Anglo settlers in the eastern part of what was then newly-free Mexico’s border province of Texas. Those original settlers, three hundred families of them, were the seeds that sprouted into the rebels who had risen in revolution against their Mexican masters in 1835 and established—and ruled—the Republic of Texas after the Battle of San Jacinto the next year. The Three Hundred, as they were known, had controlled the economic, political, and social life of Texas for generations, and some of them were still active and influential in those circles.

Yeah. There have been Orlandos in Texas for close to two hundred years. I’d like that to continue, and I expect to do my part. He sighed. However, like you, I didn’t expect to do it quite so early. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. I’m not ready to take care of a kid, either. Jeez, Melissa, I’m studying engineering, training for boxing, and building up to heavyweight class! I can’t take care of a kid!

I’m only about a month along, Rogan. School will be mostly over before I deliver in May or so.

He glanced at her. How has it been for you, by the way?

She shrugged. Only a little bit of morning sickness. I nearly missed noticing it, since I’ve been eating a lot of Tex-Mex food recently—until I found out. She rubbed her belly again. Morning-after heartburn and mild morning sickness are easy to confuse. Then I missed my period. I’ve been regular as clockwork since I was thirteen, so I checked with my doctor. The results came back three days ago.

And what are you doing otherwise?

She shrugged. Dating. Working. Going to college.

Working at what?

I was at the Natural Life Exercise Center downtown.

Appropriate, he said. So, where are you living?

With two other girls, east of downtown. Cilla is a full-time student at Emory, and Rena is a dental hygienist who really carries the other two of us. She pays the rent, I do the electricity, and Cilla does the phone and cable. We all buy the food.

That can’t last. I mean, that’s fine for a trio of single girls, but―

That brings us to another consideration. If I carry this child to term for you, you need to support the cost of the effort. I mean, the medical expenses, and all, and―

Of course, Rogan said.

Surprised, Melissa cocked her head. She had expected some argument from him. He might have good prospects in the future—she never heard of a poor sports star, and the guy had been in the Olympics, after all—but he was a college student, which was one of the poorest professions.

I’m not going to try to skin you, Rogan. Her prepared arguments ran off her tongue automatically, even though Rogan wasn’t arguing.

I know you won’t, he said.

It’s only fair, you know.

He nodded. I know.

A silence stretched.

So, how do we handle it?

First, we decide what we’re going to handle. The paternity test. Melissa, why are you so sure that he’s mine?

She drooped her head. I just am, that’s all.

Feels right? Timing?

She lifted her head and glared at him. If you must know, bonehead, it’s because I haven’t been with anybody since you!

Rogan’s eyebrows shot up so far they threatened to skid off the top of his head.

Without further comment, Melissa returned to the couch and sat down again. She folded her hands and gave her attention to Rogan.

He frowned as a new thought occurred. Mel, you said you were on the Pill. Do you still have any?

She looked confused. Well, sure. My doctor gave me a three-month prescription, and I got it filled at this drugstore that does it on the cheap, which I need. When I showed up pregnant, my doctor told me to stop taking them, so I still have a half wheel.

Can I have it, please?

She began to dig in her purse. Why?

Rogan explained, No drug is perfect, but the Pill is supposed to be pretty close, over 90 percent effective. You got pregnant anyway. I want to know if that was the luck of the draw, or if there’s something wrong here.

Mel gave him the half-wheel of pills, and said, What’re you going to do with it?

Send it for testing, he said. Dr. Madison at the Judson in Houston is the gynecologist that my sister has been seeing. I’ll give him the pills and see if he can take you on as a patient. If not, I’ll get his recommendation. Once you come under his care, he can arrange for whatever paternity tests are appropriate.

He’s a guy doctor? Melissa asked.

He’s a male gynecologist, if that’s what you mean.

Can I have a lady doctor instead?

You got a problem with a guy doc? Rogan asked.

She shrugged. I’d just feel more comfortable with a lady. I mean, she’s gone through it before. No guy in the world has. I’d just be more comfortable talking about that kind of stuff with a woman.

Considering Melissa’s sexual history, this surprised Rogan considerably.

Okay, I’ll get a recommendation. You’ll need a place to live. How soon do you want to move out?

I thought I’d continue working for another month at least—if I don’t get sick.

I thought you said you were okay?

I am now. If it doesn’t get worse, I’ll be okay.

Okay. How about you move out at the end of the month? Give the roommates a chance to rearrange their finances. Where do you want to move?

You’re living here in Lubbock, right?

Yeah. This is where Texas Tech is, after all.

I want to be within reach of you—in case there’s trouble. Melissa cast a glance at the second of three doors leading off the central living room of the apartment.

No way in hell. Rogan bit off the words with icy precision.

I didn’t say anything!

Rogan ground his teeth. You want to stay here?

Well, not in Houston. Not if you’re in Lubbock. That’s, jeez, about five hundred miles away. And Atlanta is even farther.

Houston is 460 miles. And about a second by telephone.

"I’d be among strangers. Hostile strangers."

My second bedroom is my weight room.

Okay.

I need peace and quiet when I’m studying.

I don’t doubt it.

Rogan scrubbed his face with his hands, teeth gritted.

Melissa sat on the couch quietly, hands between her knees. She looked demure and submissive, but Rogan knew she was neither.

Melissa, if you stay here, we’ll be right back where we were.

I know.

The situation isn’t the same.

I know.

Rogan was ready to scream. Melissa, we can’t. I’ll be in your bed in a week.

Okay.

You’re carrying a baby! Rogan howled.

Oh! Melissa gasped. Jeez, Rogan, that won’t make a difference for at least three months! And we can keep making love for another couple of months after that, if we’re careful. Some people even say it’s better when you’re pregnant. I can’t speak from experience, of course.

Really? Rogan asked.

"Yeah. I’m not taking the Pill any more, after all. The Pill kind of dries a girl out, you know, so it’s easier when we’re pregnant. The term is lubricious. And I won’t be having any periods."

Rogan shook his head. He was getting off the track. You can stay anyplace in the city.

Get off it, Rogan! You’re a BMOC, but you’re a college kid. And I’m a dirt-poor street sweeper’s daughter. The Belmont Arms is definitely out. Besides, I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be, or any roommate I’d rather have, than you.

She got off the couch and sauntered over to where Rogan was leaning against the wall. She walked her fingers up the front of his T-shirt. We were pretty hot stuff a month ago, guy. I thought we got along okay.

Rogan was getting hard. So why did you leave?

Time to move on, she said. She shot him a winsome smile from under her lashes.

God, thought Rogan. She has all the moves. Mata Hari could take lessons. But even knowing that this Lolita was exercising her well-honed feminine wiles on him, he responded with a wash of male hormones. Remembering what life had been like a month earlier, when Melissa had been his girlfriend and sex partner, gave him a painful hard-on. Temptress she was, but she delivered on her unspoken promises in bed. As a lover, she had been one of the best he had ever had—and he was no more a virgin than she was.

Okay, okay. I’ll clean out the weights.

Not unless you’d really prefer it that way.

Rogan looked at her.

I didn’t use a second bedroom the last time, she pointed out quietly, her face lifted, her lips barely an inch from his.

Rogan sighed.

You still have that outrageous big California King you mentioned, don’t you?

He nodded.

Then why don’t you leave the weights where they are for another few months?

Rogan answered with the kiss her ripe lips were begging for.

Chapter Two

Melissa Carlton had first been seduced by, and had given her virginity to, her high school boyfriend—a wide receiver on the football team—during her sophomore year. Since then, she had had the chance to compare the dimensions of several samples of male equipment, and she had come to the conclusion that athletes were the best hung. There seemed to be a correlation between overall musculature and the development of that one muscle in particular.

Melissa had no hang-ups about the pros and cons of promiscuity, and she screwed as many male athletes in Olympic Village as she could. Rogan