Her Two Billionaires and a Baby

by Julia Kent

Page 1

  Chapter One

  The waitress's giant set of balls always threw her off.

  Jeddy's was one of those neighborhood holes in the wall that had probably been a breakfast joint since Laura's grandma was a kid. During the height of factory shift work it had been open twenty-four hours and, as a relic to the Industrial Age, had never stopped. Even as the fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked and the streets were empty in that surreal hour between 3 a. m. and 4 a. m. when everyone in the world is asleep and you're not, Jeddy's still had the cheap red vinyl bench seats, gummed-shut sugar containers and a few ancient men scratching their balls and chewing on a piece of something from 1983.

  And then there were the waitress's balls. Someone, years ago (since Laura and Josie were in college) had taken a cut-out cardboard life-size person, put a Jeddy's uniform on her, and attached a pair of those truck hitch plastic balls to it.

  It had, uh. . . stuck. So the waitress with balls greeted every customer with a smile, except that the cardboard cutout was actually Julian Sands from the old '80s movie, “The Warlock. ”

  The stuff of nightmares and cheap Netflix thrills. Everything about Jeddy's screamed old, forgotten, ratty and dated.

  Except the food.

  One of the owners had passed the restaurant on to a family member who had earned a degree at Le Cordon Bleu in Boston, and this had created as schizophrenic a restaurant as ever there was, for as Josie and Laura greeted the ball-bearing waitress, which involved giving her nuts a squeeze and saying “How you doin'?” in the best Joey Tribiani imitation, the aroma of the restaurant was strictly gourmet. Better than gourmet. Cheesy roadhouse Top Chef Gordon Ramsey Fucking Awesome gourmet.

  Chipotle maple sausage. Cinnamon caramel ricotta crepes. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake. You name it, Jeddy's had it, including honest-to-God real fried green tomatoes, but with a dill agave tarragon cream sauce for dipping instead of ketchup.

  All served on chipped, ancient industrial-grade restaurant wear by an old woman named Madge who'd been working the booths since 1948. And could still walk and talk faster than Josie on three espresso shots.

  “Whatcha want, Sweets?” Madge asked Laura, her breath the graveyard where old cigarettes and Chanel go to die. The woman had to be at least eighty but looked fifty – except for her mouth, where smoking lines were grooved so deeply her lips looked more like an elephant's puckered asshole than anything resembling human flesh.

  “Oh, let me see,” Laura said, amazed at how quickly she downshifted into comfort here. The glare of the overhead strip lights and the cracked vinyl held together with duct tape didn't faze her. Madge's bags under her eyes, though, were mesmerizing, with caked-up foundation in the creases. Who knew undereye circles could have wrinkles in them that would hold enough makeup to cover a small community theater's needs?

  China blue eyes reminded her of Mike, and when Madge started tapping her stylus on her ordering tablet, the incongruity hit her.

  “You guys use a wireless ordering system?” She pointed to the smartphone-like device in Madge's hand.

  “No. This is a chisel and a chunk of marble. Grog back there deciphers it all with hand puppets and grunts. Now what are you two eating? I've got work to do. ”

  Josie craned her neck around, surveying the nearly-empty joint. “It sure is hopping. ”

  Madge smirked. “The silverware don't roll itself. ” Those eyes. Mike. A pang of despair hit her – hard. His hands on her. Dylan's tongue on her.

  Josie shot Laura a skeptical look and turned to Madge. “What are your specials?”

  “At 4 a. m. you get the fryer and the desserts. And maybe a limp salad. Jeff ain't here now to cook the good stuff. ”

  “Do you have coconut shrimp with that aioli?” Laura perked up. Despair faded a notch.

  “Yep. ”

  “Two of those, an order of chipotle maple saus – you got that tonight?” Madge nodded, not looking at them, hand flying with the stylus. “With cheesy potato pancakes. One piece of Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake and a giant peppermint hot fudge sundae,” Josie declared.

  “And drinks?”

  “Just water,” Laura replied.

  “Watching yer weight, huh?” Madge snickered, walking away. Fortunately for Laura, she'd looked at Josie when she said it. The last thing she needed right now was a comment on her weight. Eating comfort food – even at 4 a. m. – no, especially at 4 a. m. – was exactly what she needed.

  “What about coffee?” Josie asked.

  “I'm not making you any. ”

  “Hah. I'll order some after we pig out. ” Each booth had an old-fashioned jukebox attached to it. “You have a quarter?” Josie begged.

  Laura fished one out of a pocket. Josie slipped it in as Laura wondered how they got away with still just charging a quarter. She remembered long car trips to visit her relatives in Ohio and stopping at the L&K Diners, the jukeboxes identical, a burgundy red she only saw in ancient Italian restaurants and rest stops in the Midwest.

  Back then a quarter got two songs. Now, one. Josie punched some buttons, fingers more accustomed to glass phone screens than analog squares, and soon Gloria Gaynor crooned.

  Laura groaned.

  “First I was afraid! I was petrified,” Josie sang, using her rolled silverware as a microphone. Seriously? The song was bad enough. Josie's tone-deaf performance would be worse.

  “Kept thinking I could never live without them by my side. . . ”

  Them?

  “Stop it,” she hissed, whacking Josie's forearm. The fork slid out and shot across the room, hitting a table leg. Madge strode by without missing a beat, picked it up, and threw a clean one on the table in front of Josie, her stride completely fluid.

  “And then Thor and Superman, they came to me in the same bed, and now I'm half dead, ooooooh now I am half dead!” Josie wriggled and thrust her neck out as if singing, her voice a cross between an eight-year-old's earnest choir attempts and something out of Killer Karaoke.

  “You have the music ability of William Hung. ” And the stage presence.

  “I will menage! I will menage!” As Josie parodied the familiar chorus, Laura lunged across the table and clamped her hand over Josie's mouth. That was quite enough.

  “No brawling,” Madge chided as she used a bissel to sweep the tattered carpet a few tables away. “Don't make me call the bouncer. ” She hooked her thumb over at the old homeless man sucking on a cup of coffee. He looked up and grinned, two teeth total in his mouth, eyebrows shooting up to a bald pate and creased, greasy hand waving. The girls laughed and Laura settled back down in place.

  “You are such an asshole. ”

  “But you love me. ”

  “Well, now you're buying. ”

  “No way. ” Laura reached for the triangle game with pegs. All the writing had worn off long ago, and the wood was a solid block – this was an old stand-by that had probably been original to the place when it opened. The pegs were worn down and the colors faded, but the premise was the same: get down to one peg.

  Laura played. Three pegs.

  Josie played. Three pegs. “Doo doo doo doo,” she teased, like music from a creepy movie. “The universe it telling you something. ” Laura snatched the damn game out of Josie's hands as Gloria Gaynor went into her second verse.

  Just then, Madge appeared with the potato pancakes and a huge, steaming pile of coconut shrimp. Three cruets of aioli and she and Josie dug in before Madge could croak out with “Anything else?”

  “Mmmmmmmm,” Josie groaned, her mouth nibbling on the end of a fried shrimp the size of her hand. “Uh, yeah. ” Brow furrowed, she caught Laura
's eye. “Did we forget the fried green tomatoes?”

  Before Laura could reply, Madge said, “Got it,” striding off.

  “We are going to be so full,” Laura said, using the side of her fork to cut a pancake.

  “Is that a complaint?” Josie opened her mouth and panted, trying not to burn her tongue.

  “Nope. Can't you wait until it cools down?” She pointed at Josie's mouth.

  “Nope. ” The two sat in silence, the only sound now their masticating, jaws working furiously on dissembling the amazing tastes before them. It was a relief for Laura; too many hands, too many mouths on her, too many feelings that didn't have a home. Eating was easy. Order delicious food. Have it delivered. Open mouth. Enjoy. Repeat ad nauseum.

  Food was always there for her. It never changed. Hot fudge was hot fudge. Butter crunch ice cream just was. Coconut shrimp were steadfast and tasty, filling time, her belly, and whatever aching hole was in her that needed to be sated.

  Cheesy potato pancakes didn't send out confusing signals. Cookies didn't judge her. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake would serve her, would be at her disposal, would meet her needs.

  With no expectations.

  Screw Dylan and Mike. Fuck them.

  Fuck them in the eye.

  At the thought, she punctuated the air with her fork, imagining poking them with it. Josie looked up from her plate, mouth stuffed now with the cooled-down shrimp.

  “You conducting a symphony?”

  “Fork you. ”

  “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” wafted through the restaurant, a group of college kids snarking on the old tune and torturing poor Madge with half-drunk requests. She'd probably served their parents. Maybe even their grandparents. Laura rolled her eyes and dug in, her turn at coconut shrimp heaven.

  “Ahhhh,” she moaned. Josie's impatience made more sense now. Each bite was like something out of a food porn movie, like Coconutty Clit Lovers with Clam Sauce or – no, scratch that. She had just grossed herself out. Did she make that joke aloud? If not, why was Josie staring at her like that?

  “Coconutty what?” Josie gagged, her face in a confused snarl. Laura could feel her cheeks turn a hot red as she felt the room spin a bit, overwhelmed by what she now realized was nearly twenty-four hours of being awake, the most intense sexual experience of her life just a few hours behind her, and Madge's lined face twisted into a pantomime of smoking, her fingers against those leathered lips and sucking away at an imaginary cigarette.

  Her thousand-mile stare bore through Laura, who pulled her eyes away to look down and see the last coconut shrimp on the plate. Grabbing it, she shoved the entire thing greedily into her mouth, only to hear Josie's confusion shift to a self-righteous howl.

  “Hhhheeeeyyyy! No fair! What the hell is wrong with you?” Josie's sulking face was an after-thought for Laura, who right now felt like an animal in the woods, all instinct and no thought.

  “Nothing,” Laura muttered. What the hell was wrong with her? “It's just – this is soooooo good. ” She ate the tail and all, the breading and the crunchy outer shell making her gag.

  “Coconutty. . . Laura, you need some sleep. ”

  Madge turned and nearly ran into the kitchen, then emerged with a still-sizzling plate of friend green tomatoes and more cruets filled with sauce from heaven.

  Palm outstretched, Laura flicked her wrist toward Josie, the gesture meant to allow her friend first dibs on the tomatoes. Appeased, Josie dug in, playing hot potato with the breaded delight. “Hot! Hot! Hot!”

  Chipotle maple sausage appeared out of nowhere, followed by an enormous piece of green cake smothered in hot fudge and peanut butter sauce, sprinkled with pistachios and surrounded by two huge scoops of vanilla ice cream coated with a crunchy brown sugar sauce.