“And?”
Her lips curve into a smile. “I have a job opportunity for you.”
2
Weston
“Dad, catch!”
I make a wild dive, over-exaggerating everything to humor my son. He throws the football, which only makes it a few feet before hitting the ground. I slide on the grass, making Jackson laugh.
“I won! I won!” Jackson chants, jumping up and down.
“Ouch!” Owen shouts from the patio. “Did you break something, old man?”
With a dramatic roll on the grass that makes Jackson laugh even more, I grab the football, pop up and throw it at my younger brother. He’s holding a beer in one hand and lazily reaches out with the other to catch it and misses. Luckily our sister, Quinn, is standing next to him and catches it before it crashes into the house.
“Seriously, guys?” She laughs and tosses the ball to Jackson. Shaking her head, she goes back to her fiancé, who’s holding their sleeping baby. Emma looks so small in Archer’s arms, reminding me of when Jackson was that little.
They really grow up so fast.
“Try to catch me!” Jackson shouts and takes off through the yard. I don’t know where this kid gets his energy from.
“How about Uncle Dean come and chase you around?” I ask loudly so both Jackson and Dean hear. Jackson loves the idea and runs over to Dean, grabbing his hand and pulling him off the bench. Logan steps out of the house, carrying two more beers. He hands one to me and cracks the top back on the other, and we both find a place to sit on the patio with the rest of our siblings.
It’s a rare afternoon when we’re all off together, and while my parents don’t usually have us over for a big dinner on a Tuesday, we couldn’t pass this up. It’s nice out for late September and might be one of the last times we can grill and eat outside before the cold sets in.
“How’s wedding planning?” I ask Quinn, watching my sister-in-law, Kara, out of the corner of my eye. She’s still harboring resentment toward Quinn for going into labor on her wedding day and has said more than once she doesn’t see the point of Quinn and Archer having a big wedding when they already have a kid.
It’s made for some awkward get-togethers, but hey…at least I’m not the only one with a wife not everyone in the family is crazy about. Though other than the stupid wedding drama, no one has an issue with Kara. She’s been good for Dean in a sense as well.
“Good. Disney makes things easy.” Quinn smiles and rests her hand on top of Archer’s. “I ran into Mr. Pickens today,” she starts. “And he thinks you should up your game. We all know you’ll win if we give this one-hundred percent.”
I shrug off her words and take a sip of beer, turning and watching Jackson run around the yard with Dean. All four of my mom’s dogs are following, barking and yipping and thinking Jackson is running around solely for them.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I say.
“So you do want to?” Logan asks.
“I guess.” I haven’t wanted to admit it to myself that yes, I’d fucking love to be Sheriff of our little county. I’ve been an Eastwood cop for years, and I always planned on moving up in the ranks. I officially threw my hat in the ring and am currently running for sheriff of our little county, but as we get closer and closer to the election, I’m feeling more and more inclined to drop out. It’s weird to get close to a long-time goal like this and want nothing more than to pull out. To stop trying before you fail, or worse, you win, and the results aren’t what you expected.
And I did expect this. Well, maybe not being sheriff, but being more than a run-of-the-mill cop in this small town. But then Daisy up and left when Jackson was just a baby, putting a screeching halt on all our plans. Jackson is—and always will be—my first priority. He comes before anyone else, even if that means passing up on what I used to call my dreams.
My dreams have changed, and all I want in life is to see him grow up, happy and healthy.
“Having a brother as a cop around here has gotten me out of a few jams,” Owen starts. “Having a brother who’s the Sheriff…now that could come in very handy.”
Quinn laughs. “Maybe you should just stay out of trouble.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Owen counters and finishes his beer. Out of the five of us, Owen has the biggest sense of adventure. Which is a nice way of saying he has a lot of growing up left to do.
“You’d be great at it,” Quinn goes on, being the voice of reason. “I know the crime rates around here aren’t staggering or anything, but being in a position of political power—no matter how small—can have a big impact on the community.”
Watching Jackson throw the football as hard as he can, I think back to when he was a newborn and I sat in the hospital room, talking to him as Daisy slept. I promised him the world, and so far, I’ve done a damn good job giving him everything he needs. But I’d love to be able to give him more.
“He’d be proud of you,” Quinn says softly, knowing exactly what to say to get under my skin, not that she does it to upset me. Like our mother, Quinn is freakishly perceptive when it comes to her family.
“I know,” I agree. “But…think about it…if I were the Sheriff, I’d be responsible for the whole county, not just Eastwood. It’s hard enough now trying to figure out who can watch Jackson when I’m at work.”
“You know I’m happy to help,” Mom says, listening to our conversation from inside the house. “Jackson is a great little helper when I’m at the office.”
“Thanks, Mom. But what if I’m called out in the middle of the night, or can’t make it to pick him up from school and you’re out on location for a job?” I look at Archer. “You get what it’s like being on call.”
Archer, who’s a surgeon at a nearby hospital, nods. “I couldn’t just leave either. But Quinn is there to watch Emma,” he adds almost guiltily.
“You need a hot nanny,” Logan and Owen say at the same time. They’re identical twins and do that quite often.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Archer says, earning a quizzical look from Quinn. “She doesn’t have to be hot, but I mean, that won’t hurt.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “I used to work with several people who had live-in nannies. That way they’re always there, which would solve the issue of being called out to a crime or whatever.”
“A live-in nanny?” I ask dubiously.
“We talked about this,” Quinn reminds me. And we did, several months ago. The only way for me to be the Sheriff around here requires having someone at home to watch Jackson, and while I agreed to it back then, I’m having second thoughts. “It sounds more pretentious than it is.” She tips her head toward Archer. “You know we’re willing and ready to contribute to our town by enabling you to be our Sheriff. Just say the word and we can move forward.”
I take a long drink of my beer, not answering, but not saying no either.
* * *
“I want absolutely nothing to do with this.” I put my arm around Jackson, who rests his head on my chest. I rake my fingers through his hair, dark and slightly wavy like mine, and hope I remember to take him to get a haircut this weekend. He needs it. Then again, so do I. I’ve grown used to having longer locks, and it’s one less thing to worry about. Maintaining a short cut requires too much work.
“I’ll handle it,” Quinn promises, nursing Emma with one hand while she opens her computer with the other. “Bethany from my old job swore by this site, and so did the CEO of our company.”
“Sounds expensive,” I grumble. Having invented and sold an app to Apple and then taking a high-paying position at a prestigious software company, Quinn has plenty of money. She cut back her hours of work now that she has Emma, but she’s engaged to a surgeon for fuck’s sake.
Quinn waves her hand in the air, dismissing me. “Think of this as us investing in our beloved community. Lots of people give big donations to the city, you know.”
“If I don’t like this, you’re dealing with it,” I go on. “Which m
eans firing the nanny.”
Quinn does a good job of ignoring me. In her defense, when we talked about this the first time, I was much more open to the idea. But that was because it was so far in the future I was able to not actually think about it. “Jackson is in school Tuesday and Thursday, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay.” She types away with impressive speed for someone one-handed, and a few minutes pass before she looks up, smiling. “I put up your profile and, in a day or two, we’ll get applications from nannies who are fitting.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll screen the applications—Owen made me promise I’ll let him help, which we both know means he’s going to pick the prettiest one.” She looks up from her computer with a hopeful smile. “Which really isn’t a bad thing. Who knows what could happen?”
“You too?” I ask dryly.
“What?” She shrugs, acting like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
If Jackson weren’t here cuddled up with me, I’d remind Quinn—again—that I’m technically still married. I haven’t seen Daisy in years, which means she hasn’t signed any divorce papers. I know I could push the issue, file something with the courts, and could be a single man in a few months. But what’s the point?
Daisy was my high school sweetheart. Yeah, we broke up and got back together several times over the years, and I know my deployment was hard on her, but if over a decade of dating wasn’t enough to see we weren’t right for each other, then nothing is. I’m done dating. Done with women.
I’ve gone back and forth on my feelings for Daisy since she left that morning. She put us all through the wringer, worrying about her physical and mental well-being. I scoured the county for her, leaving our newborn with my parents while I drove around in a panic looking for her.
Her sister hadn’t heard from her.
Her parents hadn’t seen her.
Something terrible had happened, I was sure of it.
And then I found out she was partying in Chicago with a group of friends she met online in some sort of chat room.
She told me she didn’t want to be tied down. Being a mom wasn’t her thing. She spent years living on a military base, away from friends and her family and felt like she deserved time to herself. She even thought I should give her credit for not cheating on me while I was overseas.
I spent the first year of Jackson’s life hating her. Cursing her name. Wishing I could forget everything related to her—except Jackson of course. She showed up on his first birthday, played the part of perfect mother for a few days, and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.
“All I’m saying is having a good-looking woman around might not be a bad thing.” Quinn readjusts Emma, who’s done nursing now and is pulling on Quinn’s hair, and closes her computer.
“I second that,” Logan says, coming into the living room. His eyes meet mine and he gives me a tiny nod, knowing how much I can’t fucking stand it when Mom and Quinn get on me about dating again. He sits next to Quinn and takes Emma from her arms, holding her up and making a silly face. “And while you’re feeling generous, Quinn, how about hiring a maid for me?”
“I think most of them prefer to be called house-cleaners now, and no. Owen’s capable of cleaning.”
Hearing his name, Owen rounds the corner. “Are you insinuating that I’m the messy one?”
“We all know you are, Uncle Owen,” Jackson quips and makes us all laugh. He pushes himself up and wiggles his way in between Logan and Quinn, cooing and talking like a baby to Emma.
“Ready to head home, buddy?” I ask Jackson, knowing he’s going to protest. We have about half an hour before we have to get home, and I’m buying my time to avoid a meltdown. We’ve gone back and forth a lot this week, and while my parents and Jackson enjoy the time they get to spend together, it would be nice to keep him home during the week, especially now that he’s in preschool.
Admitting I need help has never come easy for me, but I know deep down that this might be exactly what we need.
3
Scarlet
I pinch the bridge of my nose, gripping my phone so tight in my other hand I think it might break. I sink down on a creaky kitchen chair, looking at the bills laid out on the table. I’m behind on everything, like usual, and I don’t have enough to cover the bare minimum this time.
Trying to get Heather the best outcome possible, I skipped the public defender and hired a lawyer, who was able to cut her sentence in half. But the lawyer fees weren’t cheap, and I’ve been without TV or internet all month, making me go over on my data plan, but hey—that bill’s not due until next month. The next to go will be my electric and water, though not by choice.
And now I’m dealing with insurance, who randomly decided to stop covering several of Dad’s medications that he’s been taking for the last three years. I’ve been on the phone for over an hour, mostly on hold of course. I rest my head in my hands, zoning out as I continue to listen to crappy elevator music through the speakers on my phone.
Finally, I get through to a new person, whose accent is so thick I can hardly understand a word they’re saying. I argue some more, but in the end, there is nothing I can do. The insurance company no longer deems the blood pressure medication necessary and will no longer cover it.
I hang up and let my phone clatter to the table. The fall is cushioned by the million bills covering the surface. Seething, I close my eyes and clench my jaw. I want to beat someone up, preferably Steve at the insurance company who has as much empathy as a pile of dirt.
“I am so fucking sick of this,” I mutter. I’m sick of taking one step forward and two back. I’m tired of never having enough. I’m tired of everyone else’s shit always falling on my shoulders.
I want out.
Out of the ghetto. Out of poverty. Of working my ass off for measly tips and dealing with rude customers who see me as that trashy girl from the south side. I want to make a life for myself. I want to do better.
Picking pockets will only get me so far. I need to do something big, something like I used to do before, and get enough money to finally start the life I know I deserve. Picking my phone back up, I log onto a caregiver site. I have a profile on here, though it’s been a while since I used it.
Two years ago, I was a live-in nanny for a rich couple, looking after their entitled asshole children. Mostly I saw them off to school, spent the day hanging around the pool, and picked them up after school. I made sure they did their homework, but they each had separate tutors for their different subjects.
My biggest job while working there was constantly turning down advances from the children’s father. He was a decent-looking guy, ten years older than me and working the salt-and-pepper hair hard. He was funny, cultured, and totally infatuated with me. He started sending me gifts, which is how I acquired a few designer items.
Then the gifts turned into dinner dates, and after a night where he flew me to New York City on his private jet, I drank too many mini bottles of vodka and took things a little too far with him. I threw up before we actually had sex, but that night opened up a whole new window of opportunity for me, not that I’m exactly proud of it.
Afraid I’d tell his wife of what almost happened, he started giving me cash in exchange for my silence. I had photographic evidence of him shoving his tongue down my throat, after all. I quit working for his bratty-ass children and was able to live off hush-money for a good six months. Then he got caught cheating on his wife with someone else and she left him, so my silence wasn’t worth paying for anymore.
Not letting myself think about how deplorable I am, I make my account active again and update my resume a bit. I don’t think Mrs. Milton ever knew about me, and to be honest I don’t care if she did. She was an awful woman who didn’t deny marrying for money and openly admitted the only reason she had children was because she saw it as a way around the prenup.
Still, her name looks good as a reference. I’ll leave it. I spend a few
more minutes tweaking my resume, not exactly lying but making myself sound way better than I really am. I submit it to the site for review and answer a few questions to see if I can still pass a background check. Luckily for me, background checks don’t go into my family history.
* * *
“You make sure Jason does his homework, you hear?”
I press my lips into a thin line. “Dad, Jason isn’t in high school anymore. He’s in the Army now.”
Dad gives me a blank stare and tries to get out of his wheelchair. The new one is much more comfortable than the old one, but I guess I was overly optimistic that he’d keep his ass in this new chair better than the last. He’s too unsteady to be up walking on his own.
“And you tell your skank-ass whore of a mother to stop drinking my beer.”
“Mr. Cooper,” Corbin scolds as he comes around the corner. “Now I know your pretty little daughter didn’t take that nasty old bus and then walk two blocks in the rain to get her ass badgered by you.” Corbin stops in front of my dad’s wheelchair and pops his hip, holding out one hand.
Dad grumbles something I can’t discern but hefts back in his chair with a sigh. I mirror his actions, letting out a breath of frustration.
“He doesn’t mean it, you know that, right?” Corbin tells me, leaning against the wall.
“I know.”
“It can be hard to see family like this, but it’s the nature of the disease. Don’t take it personally.”
“I don’t,” I tell him, blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face. “He wasn’t very involved when I was a kid. It’s not like I have all these good memories of him to tarnish.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“I should have been there,” Dad says in a rare moment of clarity. “I should have been there for you and Heather and Jason. I should have made your mother get help. I’m…I’m sorry.”
Side Hustle: A Dawson Family Novel Page 2