Finally Finn (Los Rancheros #4)

by Brandace Morrow

  Finally Finn

  Finding Sadie Serial

  Of the Los Rancheros Series

  Book 3.3

  Copyright

  Finally Finn © Copyright 2015 by Brandace Morrow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, printed, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy in any capacity of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events, occurrences, places, or business establishments is purely coincidental. The characters and story line are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover design by Najla Qamber Design

  http://najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Design

  http://www.inkstainformatting.com

  Editing by Mad Sparks Editing

  https://www.madsparkediting.wordpress.com

  Chapter 1

  “I hate you.

  “I want to take tweezers and pull all of the hair from your balls.

  “Don’t think I’m doing this for you, you lying bastard.

  “A pox upon your taint, Finnigan Brennick!

  “You are the biggest douche nugget I have ever met, and I’ve met a fuck ton, asshole.”

  I’m yelling my rage in the overlarge cab of the monster truck I’m driving when my phone rings. I answer, but don’t say anything.

  “Sadie?” Speaking of assholes.

  I sniff in disdain and say as neutrally as possible, “Finnigan.”

  “So it’s going to be like that, huh? Okay, did you have any trouble with the car?” Batty asks. I think about the Mercedes that I left in the ditch by his driveway. Stick shifts are harder to drive than I ever thought possible.

  “Nope,” I lie. He’s quiet, like he doesn’t believe me.

  “Well, that’s good, then,” he says skeptically. He definitely doesn’t believe me.

  “Your destination is on the right,” the GPS’s automated voice says loudly.

  “Listen, babe, I’m—”

  “I have to go,” I cut him off. I am in no mood to hear terms of endearment. I disconnect the call with one hand and turn the wheel with the other to enter the school.

  “Fuck!” I yell as I hit the curb. Almost immediately after, I’m in the longest line possible and my nerves catch up to me. I cover my mouth with a shaking hand and close my eyes as kids start exiting the building.

  I’m not the nurturing mother type. I’m not even responsible enough to take care of myself most days. What was Batty thinking? The answer is obvious: I was the only choice, the last choice.

  I try not to let that add to my growing mass of hurt he’s inflicted in the last hour. But, fuck. Would he have ever told me about his life? Did he keep us separated to protect them against my flakiness? Brashness? Is he worried I’ll be a bad influence now? Is he regretting his decision?

  A car honking blasts me out of my thoughts. I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. I don’t have time for doubts; it’s done. I wave at the impatient car behind me and move forward. I scan kids nervously. They seem to know whose car they belong to. My eyes hungrily look from face to face, searching for a resemblance to Batty. I don’t know how old these kids are, what they look like, or what I will do if they take one look at me and run.

  A teacher makes eye contact with me and I try to smile maternally. I have no idea what that looks like, but she doesn’t call the cops so I continue to take shuddered breaths.

  She does, however, gesture behind her to a line of kids. I’m frozen as I watch two little people branch off. Then the back door of the truck is opening.

  One body then two clambers into the backseat, heading to the car seat thing behind me. The first one is almost in the seat when she lifts her eyes to mine. It’s her turn to freeze.

  “You’re not my grandpa.” I shake my head.

  “No,” I say faintly. The other turns to me after sitting in her seat and reaching for the seatbelt.

  “Who are you?” I lick my lips and clear my throat.

  “I’m Sadie. Your dad had an emergency and asked me to pick you up.” The first one squints her eyes.

  “But Daddy doesn’t pick us up. Grandpa does.” Shit.

  “Right,” I agree quickly. “I think they’re together.” The car behind me honks again.

  “Shit.”

  “Ooo,” the second one says. The first one quickly hushes her. I watch number one put her finger up to her lips to silently tell her to be quiet, like I just kidnapped them and they don’t know if I’ll lash out. I take a deep breath. Am I hyperventilating? Possibly.

  “What’re your names?” I ask in a voice sweet enough to make the Popper in me want to puke.

  The second one answers immediately. “Bridgette.”

  “Bridgette!” the second one yells. Bridgette isn’t fazed, though. She points at number one.

  “She’s Hannah.” Hannah gasps.

  “How old are you?” I ask them.

  “Six.” Bridgette again. Hannah looks like she’s about to faint.

  “What’s wrong, Hannah?” I ask.

  “We aren’t supposed to talk to strangers,” she says with crossed arms.

  “That’s really smart. Do you want me to call your dad so he can tell you it’s okay to be with me? I wouldn’t want you to go with a stranger, either.”

  Hannah nods her head and Bridgette calls her a baby.

  I hit the curb again leaving the school as I try to get the phone from the cup holder that’s a million miles away in the huge truck. The girls gasp. I hit redial for Batty and pass the phone behind me.

  “Where are you? Where’s Grandpa? He is? Why? For how long? You promise? No. No. You pinky promise? She’s driving and we don’t even have our seatbelts on.”

  I gasp. “What the hell?!”

  “And she says bad words.” She sniffs as I pull into a shopping center and slam the car into park. I turn in the seat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t buckled?”

  “She’s yelling at me,” Hannah reports oh so helpfully.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumble as I fight with the truck to find the door handle. Why are they practically down at the bottom of the door? I jump down and walk around to Bridgette’s side. She smiles as I take the buckle from her and latch it with a click. Her wild brown curls smell like bubblegum and it calms me enough to brave the other door.

  I almost flinch at the scowl this one is giving me. Observations one and two are that they’re absolutely gorgeous, and complete opposites in personality. Even though they’re identical, I can’t imagine one being mistaken for the other. Observation number three? Hannah is going to make every second of my time in her presence a living hell. She kind of reminds me of me.

  I’m so fucked.

  Chapter 2

  The fact that she doesn’t bite me gives me enough balls to climb back into a closed space with her. “Here,” she says.

  I reach back a hand blindly and swallow, telling myself I’m being completely irrational to fear a six-year-old child. My phone hits my hand hard. When I look down, I can see the call is still connected. I drive silently and put the phone to my ear. Batty must hear me breathing because he starts talking.

  “Listen, please. Don’t hang up.” He sighs. “The girls have us wrapped around their finger and they know it. I know, and appreciate that this isn’t going to b
e easy for you. Just please don’t stuff them in a closet, okay?” Now I sigh. He sounds so stressed out, I almost feel bad.

  “Where are you going?” Hannah demands. I look around, but no, I’m still on the main street about to turn into Los Rancheros.

  “Going to your house,” I tell her, my level of nice almost on fumes. I’m hoping to coast for the rest of the day.

  “We have ballet after school on Mondays. You have to take us to ballet!”

  “Shit,” Batty says in my ear. “I forgot about the extracurricular stuff. Listen, I’ll call the instructors to let them know the girls won’t be coming. Don’t worry about that stuff.” I watch the girls in the rearview mirror and notice Bridgette’s shoulders slump.

  “Oh no. They can’t miss ballet. I’ve got this.” I hang up then realize I have no idea where I’m supposed to go. “Do you know where the dance studio is?”

  “No,” comes the chorus from the back.

  “Do you know what it’s called? I can Google it.”

  “No.” Again.

  Bridgette offers, “Our teacher’s name is Madam Phoebe.”

  “Thanks, honey,” I say, rubbing the headache at my temples. At the gate, I turn toward the Farmer’s Market instead of going into the neighborhood. When I find a parking space, I text Batty.

  Sadie: Text me the address.

  Seconds later, my phone vibrates.

  Batty: LOL 2154 Ledonna Drive. Thank you, Sadie.

  The phone goes back into the cup holder and we’re once again on our way.

  ~

  Ballet is the most boring thing I have ever been witness to in my life. I’ll never get that hour back. The seconds on the clock could not go any slower. I should be happy to get them out of my hair for a while, but they’re still right there. I sit in a chair with other moms talking about soccer and gymnastics, and all I can do is cross my fingers, toes, legs and arms hoping they aren’t enrolled in them too.

  When we finally exit the studio and head to the truck that’s parked horizontally taking up three parking spaces, because no way was I getting it in between the normal lines like a normal car, the kids are hungry.

  “Okay, we’ll go back to the house. I’ll make you something.”

  “No. We have to go to the Farmer’s Market to get dinner. That’s what we’re supposed to do.” When is bedtime again? Is 4:30 too early? Off to the market we go. At least I know where that is. You can’t miss the six-foot letters spelling it out if you tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. I doubt they would have an artery clogging anything inside of the whole non-GMO, organic warehouse.

  I park in the back.

  When we get in the doors, the kids take off. It’s crowded with people getting off of work, and I struggle to make my eyes go in two different directions as they split.

  “Hey!” I yell too loudly, causing several people to turn and give me judgmental eyes. I grab one tutu and march to the other one. “You can’t leave me. We stay together,” I tell them. Even Bridgette is giving me angry eyes and both of them have their arms crossed and lips out. Maybe that worked on their daddy but all I need is to lose them a few hours into this gig. “We’ll go down the aisles and figure out what to have, okay? Just hold hands or something.”

  They don’t. They do stay close, though, so I don’t push it. God is giving me a break because the wine is on the first aisle. I may snub my nose at rabbit food and whatever else they sell here, but this is an answer to my prayers. My phone rings.

  “Sadie.”

  “Finnigan.”

  “How did it go? Where are you at?”

  “Farmer’s Market.”

  “Are you getting hives from being there yet?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “No, I just found the goat cheese. Everything is fine.”

  “You mean the wine? Don’t get the moonshine, whatever you do.”

  “There’s moonshine here?” Batty laughs and I wish I could appreciate it, but I think if he was in front of me, I might strangle him. “Listen, I think electronics are banned in Pleasantville. I’ll have to call you back.” I hang up to him chuckling in my ear. I don’t need to be softening in the middle of battle.

  I grab three bottles as fast as possible, then follow the girls to places where the vendors seem to know them. They won’t stop long enough for me to pull up a recipe on my phone so we end up with a mishmash of green and red things I have no idea how to prepare.

  Finally, at the end of hell, there is a light. It’s shining on the most beautiful chocolate cake I’ve ever seen. I don’t even care that it’s gluten whatever. It comes home with us, along with Italian sodas for everyone.

  Once we’re through the gate and to Batty’s personal gate, it’s another round.

  “What’s the code?”

  “You don’t know it? How did you get my grandpa’s truck?” Guess who asks that. I turn around.

  “If you think I memorized all of those numbers on the first try, you’re crazy. Please tell me the code.” I’m satisfied that only the last part is said between clenched teeth.

  “I’ll tell you, Aunt Sadie,” Bridgette offers. I startle at the familial tie, unsure if I will ever be ready for that.

  “Thanks, doll.” When we’re through the gates and into the land of a thousand lakes, the sun is setting. I park outside of the garage, not at all sure how the mammoth vehicle ever fit in such a small space, and after passing the Benz on the way in, I’m not about to try it. I don’t know how I’m going to fix that before Batty springs me of this place.

  Once the truck is off, the kids are gone, with doors open and everything. I slowly gather more than a few pounds of groceries and close the doors before moving into the house.

  Setting the bags down on the cluttered counter, I ask, “Do you usually watch TV or read in your room now or what?”

  Hannah climbs onto a barstool at the same counter and puts her backpack down roughly. “We have homework.”

  “What? In kindergarten?” That earns me a glare.

  “We’re in first grade.” I raise my eyebrows and hold my hands out. I’ve insulted an upperclassman.

  “Sorry.” I look around the space and can’t fathom what I’m supposed to do first. Cook? Clean? Should I take my shoes off first? Thank Christ I’m not pregnant. I shudder at the thought and make the cross over my chest.

  I decide not to jinx it and keep my heels on. My feet are on fire, but no way in hell. There’s something sticky that looks like jelly in the corner next to the fridge so I decide that the most efficient thing will be to start dinner and clean while it cooks. I can do that.

  Turns out, I cannot do that because first grader’s aren’t that great at reading. The girls have a million questions about every single problem on their worksheets. The pot of corn over overflows and sets off the smoke detectors. The girls scream with hands over their ears as I wave at the stupid thing with an oven mitt until it shuts up.

  I’m worried about over cooking the chicken and take it out to find it’s still raw. I guess you have to push the bake button, set the temperature, and then press the damn button again.

  Wine? I don’t have time for wine, because when the kids see that food is out, they get excited. Then when it goes back into the oven, they lose their shit.

  Tears, wailing, and heads literally rolling on shoulders come next. I wait, gripping the counter with wide eyes to see if they actually rotate all the way around on their necks. I would not be surprised.

  I open the freezer in a vain attempt at finding ice cream or popsicles, something, anything. There, like a treasure that it is, is a frozen, non-GMO, organic, gluten-free pepperoni pizza. I sigh and hold it to my chest. I may cry.

  “Why are you hugging a pizza?” Medusa asks. I turn slowly, having gotten my fifth wind.

  “Dinner.” I hold it up and glare at her, daring her to say anything.

  Wisely, she doesn’t. “Can I have some milk?”

  Now that I know how to work the oven, it’s time to disinfect. I ge
t the girls a glass of milk as they finally pack up their homework. I put the carafe back in the coffee maker, then pull it back out to look inside. Dirty. I open the dishwasher. Clean.

  “Minions! Come unload the dishwasher, please.”

  “What?” Bridgette asks, the look on her face making my ray of hope blink out.

  “You two are old enough to unload the dishwasher. If you can’t reach something, I’ll help.”

  Hannah crosses her arms. Fucking great. “We don’t unload the dishwasher.”

  “You don’t have chores at all?” When I was their age, I was cleaning our whole damn trailer by myself while my dad sat in the recliner. I think about Batty working all day long and an old man in charge of the house. Yeah, no wonder.

  “I don’t know where things go. This kitchen has to be cleaned before we eat.”

  “It’s not dirty.”

  “Oh yes. It is.” I laugh incredulously and point to the jelly. “What is that?”

  Bridgette shrugs her skinny shoulders. “I was hungry last night.”

  “Okay. Well, if you drop jelly you grab a paper towel and clean it up.” I tear one off, wet it in the sink and hand it to her. She stares at it before bending in her tutu to smear the stickiness over the rest of the tile.

  “Okay, never mind. I’ll do this. You help you sister with the dishes.”

  It’s slow progress but they do it. By the time they’re done, the pizza is ready, it takes them so long. I clear off the dining room table and make them wait while I wipe it down.

  “We usually eat in the living room.”

  “Too bad. You’re sitting at the table.” I haven’t even seen that room yet.

  They eat in blissful silence while I do dishes, mop and wipe counters. Finally it’s time.

  “Do you know if your dad has a wine opener?” They shrug with mouths open, chewing like cows. I shudder and turn my back. “Never mind.”

  I’m about to go into the garage for a screwdriver to get the damn bottle open before I find it in the junk drawer behind another clutter of shit. I absolutely know what I’m doing when the kids go to school tomorrow. I close my eyes on the first taste of bliss and think about school. Holy school is what it is.