A Baby Maybe Read online

  A Baby Maybe

  Genna Donaghy

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is intended for adults (18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adults situations. Please do not read this book if you are under the age of 18. All sexually active characters are 18+.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 by Genna Donaghy

  Contents

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also by Genna Donaghy

  Summary

  Fifteen years ago, the flu killed every woman on Earth. With no babies born in nearly a generation, society is falling apart. Now, there's hope. An experimental medical procedure may allow males to carry a fetus to term.

  All Wyatt wants is to be a male mother, but entering the repopulation program requires that he give up everything: His home, his job, and possibly his life.

  Wyatt is sure he's prepared for anything, until he meets his handsome doctor, who happens to be the genetic donor to his fetus. Wyatt's putting his life on the line to bring life into the world, but he never expected to fall in love with the father of his baby.

  Chapter One

  "Order up for Grayson!" Wyatt called as he set a freshly brewed soy white mocha on the counter.

  It was six o’clock on a Sunday morning, and as usual, Wyatt was feeling the heady mix of being equal parts exhausted and in the zone. He'd been brewing and dealing sweet, sweet caffeine since four in the morning. It came with the territory.

  Outside, the sun was rising on a fabulous Seattle-gray day and the trickle of weekend regulars had increased to a steady stream.

  "You said Grayson, right? That will be me," said a baritone voice.

  Automatically, Wyatt pushed the white mocha across the counter. Then he looked up into a pair of amber brown eyes and froze. The man wasn't a regular. Wyatt knew he would have remembered seeing him before. He was tall, with olive shaded skin and dark brown hair, which was styled to keep the curls out of his face. He also had dark bruises under both eyes, as if he had been the one making drinks since god-awful o'clock in the morning.

  Wyatt realized he was staring. "Do you want a straw? For your coffee?" he stuttered.

  The customer, Grayson, smiled with white, even teeth. "No thanks." He took the coffee and turned away.

  Wyatt stared after him, feeling bludgeoned. Then he shook himself. What was wrong with him? He saw hot guys every day. That was one of the benefits of working a customer facing job. He needed to pull himself together.

  As if on cue, the other barista, Clint, pushed a newly made drink his way. Wyatt didn't need to look at the name on the cup—the shot of cherry flavoring he could smell told him exactly whose drink this was.

  "Camille! Your turn!" he called.

  Camille sashayed up to the counter. Red lipstick, red dress which was tight in all the right places, kitten heels and the best boobs money could buy. Camille was a stunner, and she knew it.

  Sure enough, more than a few pairs of eyes followed as she swayed up to the counter. Wyatt kept half an eye out for trouble, but didn't sense any obvious aggression. He was protective, but knew Camille could take care of herself.

  There were other people scattered here and there in the coffee house who imitated what women used to look like, but Camille was flawless.

  Surgery, and a hell of a morning routine, made her the woman she was on the outside instead of the male body she had been originally born into. The male body, ironically, that had saved her life.

  "Thanks, honey," Camille said in a silky voice. Taking the cup delicately with fingers sporting red lacquer nails, she took a sip and sighed dramatically. "That's the stuff. You always make it just the way I like."

  "Thank Clint," Wyatt said, tossing a teasing look over his shoulder. Sure enough, Clint had obviously heard and was blushing red. He had one hell of a crush, but would never admit it.

  "Thank you, Clint," Camille said somehow putting innuendo into those words. She winked obviously at Wyatt and then turned to rejoin her morning date.

  Wyatt turned back to the bar and grabbed a blender to help wash it out before the next wave of customers came in. He caught Clint's eye and grinned.

  "Shut up," Clint grumbled.

  "I didn't say anything."

  "No, but your shit-eating grin's enough. I'm not taking her out."

  "Then let her take you out, instead."

  Clint shook his head. Then, before Wyatt could add anything, Clint nodded to the TV. "Your news is on."

  Wyatt whipped around, grabbed the remote control, and turned up the volume to the hanging TV closest to the counter. The national morning news was airing its normal morning segment of the Lottery, and he never missed it if he could help it.

  Since the Lottery Birthing Program (or LPB for short) had been officially announced a year ago, media coverage had been steadily growing. Now, with the final date almost upon them, coverage had reached a fever pitch.

  The lead anchor was chatting about the finishing touches being made to the compound where the Lucky Fifty men would be housed. The compound had been equipped with the finest medical machines and staff. Yesterday, every news station was abuzz with a special exposé on the spa services included inside.

  Today, the day before the Lottery, they were doing a final showing of the nursery which would hold the babies. The first generation born after the XX Flu.

  The Lucky Fifty. Literally, men who would be one-in-a-million as there were only fifty million people left in the United States.

  Maybe Wyatt was fooling himself, but he was feeling lucky about his chances.

  "Huh. By my count, it looks like they've set up fifty cradles," said a voice to the side. Wyatt tore his eyes from the TV to see that Grayson the hottie had joined him at the counter. Grayson's eyes, too, were glued to the program. "I guess they're feeling optimistic that every one of the pregnancies will be viable. And no twins."

  Honestly, Wyatt hadn't thought about that. "I guess so," he replied. "It must mean they believe they found a method that will work this time."

  Grayson's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "No one wants egg on their face." He looked sideways at Wyatt. "You know, it's going to be a long shot."

  Wyatt didn't ask how Grayson had known he had put his name in to be a pregnant father. He had probably seen the look on Wyatt's face as he watched the news. He had never made it a secret that he was emotionally invested. "I like to think I have better odds than that. Much of the population is over forty years old, which puts them above the cut-off. I'm only thirty."

  Officially, no one left alive was under the cut-off date. The last viable baby was born over fifteen years ago, and the Lottery officials allowed the youngest of the population to join if they wanted. It had been a controversial decision, but as the President pointed out, the world was looking at the total extinction of the human race within a generation. So if a teenager wanted to try to get pregnant, they'd let him.
"And some guys will be out for criminal records, or can't pass a drug test."

  "Do you really think they'll take a barista?"

  The question should have been insulting, but something about the gentle way Grayson asked felt genuine and honest.

  Wyatt met his eyes. "Yes. I'm more expendable than a surgeon or a rocket scientist." And what remained of the world needed both to continue on. Wyatt was happy to contribute by offering himself as breeding stock. "What about you? You're the right age."

  "I am, and no, I didn't put my name in." Grayson smiled but didn't offer any explanation as to why. "So I guess that'll give you a little more chance."

  "I guess so."

  He stuck out his hand. "I'm Grayson."

  "I know." Wyatt pointed to the cup were his own handwriting spelled out the name.

  Grayson chuckled.

  "I haven't seen you around here before," Wyatt said. "Seattle isn't that big of a town." Not anymore. Before the XX Flu, it had been bursting at the seams. He had memories of clogged traffic, and his mom and dad complaining about housing prices. Now, there were more empty buildings than there were people to fill them.

  "Just visiting. From Chicago, actually." Grayson waved a hand flippantly in the air. "I just needed to get away from it all for a bit."

  Wyatt hesitated. He usually wasn't so forward. A lot of people resented gay men nowadays, as if they hadn't lost just as much when every person with a double X chromosome had died. But the kindness in Grayson's eyes suggested that he wouldn't be offended.

  "Well, if you need a guide, I'd be happy to show you around after my shift is over." Specifically my house. "Nothing like seeing the sites like a real local."

  Grayson smile turned regretful. "Unfortunately, I have too much on my plate. It's... sort of a working vacation." Then he reached over the counter to snag an extra napkin for his coffee. He nodded to the TV. The news station had returned back to the gushing anchorman. "Good luck tomorrow with the Lottery," his eyes flicked to the name tag pinned on his apron, "Wyatt. I'll be rooting for you."

  Then he turned, soy white mocha still in hand, and walked out the door.

  Wyatt sighed. More new customers were coming in, and Clint was throwing him dirty looks for loitering by the TV. It looked like his break was over.

  Quickly, Wyatt adjusted his apron and got back to work.

  Chapter Two

  His shift done for the day, Wyatt returned back to his empty, lonely townhouse.

  He knew from the moment that he stepped inside the living room and felt the way the air was colder there than outside that the electricity was out again. Not his fault. He'd paid the bill.

  The city's utility company tried to keep up, but there weren't enough living bodies to maintain the infrastructure. Retirement had been suspended nationwide, but injuries on aging backs, shoulders, and knees took more and more skilled workers out of the field. It wasn't like there was a crop of new people to replace them.

  But this wasn't anything that Wyatt wasn't used too. He made his way down the hall by feel and headed for one of the kitchen drawers. A supply of candlesticks was inside along with a flashlight and its precious batteries. They still made batteries nowadays, but they were more expensive than cups of coffee.

  Lighting the candle, Wyatt walked back to the living room.

  Normally he didn't spend much time in the townhouse. It was too empty, and reminded him of everything he had lost. More than once, he'd been on the verge of giving up on the building completely and moving into the apartments turned into dorms closer to the city. The bulk of Seattle's population lived there nowadays. He was one of the few people left in his block.

  Back when he was a kid, before the XX Flu struck, his parents couldn't afford anything more than this small townhouse for their entire family. Now, with the population a fraction of what it once was, Wyatt could have shared a fancy penthouse downtown if he wanted.

  In some ways moving would be a relief. He didn't believe in ghosts, but the memories of his family pressed down on him sometimes in his childhood home.

  Like now.

  Closing his eyes, Wyatt took in a deep breath through his nose to recenter himself. Wow, his thoughts were dark today. Anticipation for the Lottery must have him more on edge than he realized.

  Feeling pensive and reflective, he went up the stairs into the area of the townhouse he normally shunned: The upper portion which had belonged to his family.

  Wyatt passed by a framed photo of his parent's wedding set lovingly on a wall, turned a corner, and walked down the hall to the small bedroom at the end.

  His sister's room was the same as it had always been. Wyatt stood in the doorway and looked at the bed where she had coughed out her life fifteen years ago, hands holding to Wyatt and her dad. His chest tightened. He missed her: She would've been twenty-eight now––maybe married with kids of her own. If the Flu hadn't killed her and Mom, Wyatt might be an uncle.

  Tomorrow, if the Lottery officials called his name, he might be a mother.

  Chapter Three

  Wyatt was so nervous the next morning, he didn't have an appetite. The bite of dry toast he tried to choke down seemed to stick halfway to his stomach. Giving up, he went to work.

  His nerves didn't abate at all. The coffee shop was abuzz with excitement from the moment the doors opened. Every media outlet had been talking the Lottery up on every social media app and website. Not to mention the state-sponsored channels had pretty much been dedicated to the Lottery 24/7.

  Clint seemed less than concerned, glaring dourly as always. Then again, he was never awake until he was well into his second espresso.

  Many regulars wished Wyatt luck. With chagrin, he guessed that word of his entry and high hopes had spread around. Camille even gave him a kiss on the cheek for good luck.

  "Did you enter?" he asked, fighting and failing to hold down a blush. He didn't have the crush on her that Clint did, but Camille was the type of person who oozed sexuality in every breath she took.

  "No, Honey. Hormone treatments disqualified me."

  Wyatt felt a pang of worry for her. Hormones were risky business. If someone feminized their body on a biological level, the XX Flu would rear up and strike that person down.

  How the scientists planned to get around this huge barrier to make men pregnant was beyond him. Judging from scathing commentary, it was beyond many other scientists outside the Lottery program, too. Apparently, whatever method they'd figured out was a top state secret.

  "Honey?" Camile asked, frowning delicately.

  Wyatt realized he'd drifted off. He smiled in apology. "Sorry. I guess I'm a little scattered this morning."

  "Aw, no need to be nervous, Darling. You'll be fine. You want this so much..." She flicked her fingers in the air. "Why, it just has to be you."

  Camille was definitely getting her next shot of cherry flavoring on the house. "I hope so," Wyatt said.

  Clint was starting to give Wyatt looks, so Wyatt hurried back to work.

  The shift dragged on. Fast one moment, achingly slow in the next. The last fifteen minutes were agony. Wyatt didn't turn up the TV until the Lottery was ready to begin, but people had taken up spots all through the coffee shop, jostling for the best seats to watch. Apparently, this was going to be a viewing event.

  At last, Clint snagged a bottle of syrup out of Wyatt's trembling hands. "Go on," he said and nodded to a space marked 'reserved' in Clint's handwriting at the fake fireplace with a great view of the overhead TV set. "I can man the counter alone for awhile."

  He'd saved him a spot? And Wyatt thought Clint didn't care. "Thank you," Wyatt breathed. Lifting his green apron over his head, he hurried around the bar. People made room. Phillip, who worked as an accountant and liked his coffee double-black, clapped Wyatt encouragingly on the shoulder.

  The TV screen was locked on a shot of the White House press room. Every breath around Wyatt caught as the President himself walked out. He was a stately man, with white hair and lines of care
etched into his face. Then again, he was the leader of a dying country.

  He approached the podium and stood with his hands on either side, gazing out at the camera for a moment as if collecting himself.

  "This is a big day," he said. "Not only for my fellow Americans, but what is left of the world. Today, we draw the names of fifty brave volunteers. The mothers of our new generation, and possibly the saviors of the human race as we know it."

  Despite himself, Wyatt sucked in a breath. Whether he was picked or not, he felt very proud for at least having tried.

  Please let it be me. Please, please...

  "Our nation has been very generous—I can't say I am surprised." The President smiled wryly. "I know this isn't news to many of you, our media has been very good with explaining the process, but please allow me to do so one last time: Volunteer applications have poured in from our four remaining city-states: New York, Chicago, Austin, and Seattle, as well as our outlying farming communities. Over the last few months, these applications have been vetted for accuracy. Those many, many applications deemed acceptable were then placed into a pool. The names have been randomly drawn by computer."

  "With that said, the selected fifty will be placed up on the screen along with the last four digits of their social security number, in the case of duplicate names. If you are chosen, a representative from the Lottery will shortly be in contact using the information you provided within the next few hours."

  The President leaned back. "Believe me when I say there was an abundance of qualified applicants. If you are one of the many unchosen, please take heart. If this trial is as successful as we hope, more Lotteries will be held and on a larger scale. We have a lot of work to do to rebuild our society."