by Katie Ford
But right. I’m here on a mission, not to scope out real estate. So taking a deep breath, I trudge to the door, trying to summon the courage to knock. Oh god, there’s no turning back if I do. Should I? Maybe this was all a bad idea.
But again, Marsha’s words ring in my ears. You think you’re the only one? Try again, comes her screechy voice.
And in slow-motion, my hand raises, knuckles tapping against the wood. There’s no sound for a couple minutes, but then some shuffling comes from inside. I can literally feel someone staring at me through the peephole, an unseeing eye.
The door swings open, and I don’t move, just staring. Because the girl before me is Heather Mastricci from Facebook, sure. But she’s also not. Because this female is bony, skeletal almost. She looks like she’s wasted away and I wonder if I’ve stumbled upon a drug addict, it’s that bad. Her skin is pale and waxy, and long, dirty blonde hair hangs in chunks around her face, stringy and unwashed. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud because why would the Morgan boys want someone so used up?
Or maybe she looks used because of them ….
My nervous stammer breaks the silence.
“Hi. Um, are you, um, Heather? By any chance?”
The blonde squints my way, shielding her eyes against bright sunlight. Is she a hermit? It’s like she hasn’t been outdoors in weeks, if not months.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “And you are?”
“I’m Macy,” is my hurried reply. “I, um, wondered if I could talk to you about something. Like the Morgan brothers?” My voice ends on a hopeful note, the question dangling in the air.
And that gets a reaction from the corpse in front of me. Her eyes widen, big blue orbs in her thin face, before stepping aside to let me into her house. We make our way to a living room, and my stomach sinks with every step. I could leave now, without asking even one question. I can close my eyes and live in happy oblivion, with no problems whatsoever.
But it’s impossible. Because signs of the men are all over this place, from the dark wood to the strong, simple lines of the furnishings. Even the artwork reminds me of them, sensuous and complicated.
Suddenly, understanding strikes my brain like lightning. This place is nice. Too nice. The boys must be paying for it, forking over rent every month.
And it’s like Heather knows why I’m here. She seats herself on a pristine white couch before squinting at me blearily.
“You said you had some questions about the Morgan brothers?” come her raspy words.
Right. She doesn’t even ask who I am. It’s like she knows.
“I do. I, um, wondered what your relationship was to them? Or with them?” My voice stumbles. “If you don’t mind sharing, that is,” comes my murmur on a small, humble note.
She shakes her head, eyes blazing with memory, almost too bright if you ask me.
“I don’t mind,” she says slowly. “I used to work for their company, Morgan Enterprises. Specifically, I was an assistant to the twins, Will and Tim. It was an awesome job because they’re the creative minds behind the company. And as a new graduate, it was amazing to be their personal assistant.”
I cut in then.
“But you don’t work there anymore?”
Heather swallows heavily, looking down.
“No,” she says, staring at her hands, bony fingers gripping each other tight. “It was a crazy situation because maybe three months into the job, the twins swept me off my feet. It’s hard to resist you know,” she said in a low voice, unable to meet my eyes. “They’re incredible men, handsome, rich, powerful, the whole shebang. So I kind of lost it,” she says, shrugging those frail shoulders. “Blame it on being young and naive, but I started an affair with my bosses.”
I couldn’t look away then, absolutely transfixed by her tale. Heather definitely wasn’t shy about sharing with a stranger, but then again, maybe she hadn’t had a chance to interact with a human in a long while.
“And then?” prompted my voice. “And then?”
“And then Will and Tim introduced me to their brothers,” she said, a faraway look coming into those blue eyes. “And I fell head over heels for the Morgans, my heart theirs.”
Everything inside me turns to acid as the words drop. I have to look away to keep tears from burning in my eyes.
But Heather’s in her own world and speaks again.
“I should be embarrassed to admit it, but I liked being with them. With all of them. I was never very sexually adventurous. I wasn’t a virgin by any means, but my past was vanilla, you know? It was all high school boys who had no idea what they were doing. These guys on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting out a small, bitter laugh. “They sure do.”
We lock gazes and I can see Heather knows who I am, and why I’m here.
“I was in thrall to them,” she says. “Utterly enchanted. I’d have done anything for the Morgans because they promised me so much. Jump off a bridge? Yes sir. Bear a child? How many? Give up everything? Not a second too soon. I loved them so much and was willing to transform myself into whatever they needed.”
The words are stuck in my throat, but I force them out.
“So what happened?” The question comes out in a croak.
“What do you think happened? I couldn’t get pregnant,” she answers bitterly, bowing that head. Her face is hidden but a telltale wet spot splatters on her hand, the tear dissolving. “We tried and tried so many times. I wanted it. They wanted it. And I was only eighteen! But some things just aren’t meant to be,” she said, voice breaking. “Who knew I was infertile? Me, with spunk streaming out of me night and day.”
I can barely breathe, lungs tight.
“And then what happened?” comes my choked query. For some reason, this is the most important part of all. The hardest and yet the most difficult because how they treated Heather is indicative of how they’ll treat me.
The blonde doesn’t mince her words.
“They got impatient, what else? We tried everything,” she says, her words in a rush now, spilling like a fountain. “I quit my job because maybe it was work stress keeping me from getting pregnant. So there I was on my back for basically three months straight, legs spread, praying and praying. But when you’re nervous and worried, the sex isn’t as good. So they were frustrated, I was frustrated and we were all trying to relax. But how can you relax when you want something this bad? And every time my period came, it was like another iron door clanging shut.”
I stare at her as she recounts the tale, emotions warring on that thin, twisted face. Heather’s angry and discouraged and sad all at once, a woman folding in on herself. She stops talking for a minute, eyes faraway again.
“When it still didn’t happen, the Morgans sent me to a specialist. We tried all kind of treatments and pills and procedures but nothing took. And on my twentieth birthday, that’s when the nail in the coffin came. They took me to a nice dinner and told me it wasn’t going to work.”
“What wasn’t going to work?” I ask tremulously.
“Us,” she answers flatly. “Our relationship. They said they’d get me a place to live, put money in the bank for me. They promised I’d be set for life. They wished me luck. Can you believe it? After everything we went through, all I got was a pat on the back, and a ‘take care.’” Her tone turns bitter then.
“So this,” I said, taking a deep breath and gesturing to the surroundings. The furnishings, the house, all of it. “This is courtesy of the Morgans?”
“Yes. But they were done with me. Just gone from my life. It was like I ceased to exist, vanished into thin air. And me? I was left alone and confused and fucked up from all of the medical procedures and injections, all the poking and prodding. I shouldn’t have still wanted them, but I did, like a junkie going cold turkey.”
“How long ago was that?”
She chews her bottom lip, thinking for a moment.
“Maybe eighteen months? I’m not sure
. I’ve been depressed, if you can’t tell,” she says bitterly, flipping a string of straw-like hair behind her back. “I gave everything to those men, and for what? They left me when I was of no use anymore. But I guess that’s how it works huh? When your time’s up, peace out, sayonara.”
“I’m sure it’s not like that,” come my quiet words. “I’m sure it’s not.”
She shakes her head.
“No, you don’t know. It is. And I’m still here, rotting in place, waiting.”
Oh god, no.
“Because they might come around again?” come my timorous words.
Heather nods, another tear falling down her hollow cheek. “I thought they might. But they don’t come. They don’t want me anymore. I’m used up and done for.”
I duck my head, ashamed for the way she was treated.
“I’m really sorry,” comes my mumble. “I had no idea.”
“Really?” she asks, her face a snarl of frustration. “You didn’t think maybe they’d tried this out with someone else? Or many someones, for that matter? I mean, you think they just came up with this bright idea yesterday?”
Her words are like a slap in the face.
“No,” I stammer. “I – I just assumed they’d had other women in their lives. It didn’t seem relevant, though. At the time. It was all in the past.”
Heather glares at me with disgust.
“Yeah, it’s easy to pretend, isn’t it?” she asks bitterly. But then those blue eyes seize mine, burning with ice fire. “Between all of the medical procedures and weight loss, I’m not anyone they would consider anymore. But you,” she spits, looking me up and down, “you’re just what they like. Youthful, curvy, healthy. You have that long hair and big ass. Your tits probably hang like pendulums when they fuck you from behind. They probably love those wide, baby-making hips. Oh yeah, I can see why they like you, all ripe and ready, bursting with fertility.”
“Um, um …,” comes my stammer. But no words come out. Instead, I ask to use the restroom and disappear down the hall, locking myself in privacy.
Oh god, oh god. What’s going on? Inside, I stare blindly in the mirror and hyperventilate, trying to get my bearings. What the hell? First, Heather is clearly bat-shit crazy. But is it her fault? The Morgans used her up until she’s just a shell of a human.
And then they left her when she couldn’t give them what they wanted. I’m sick with the realization. The Morgans swooped in and took advantage of a young girl the same way they did to me. And now she’s lost to the world, angry and bitter and hideous. Ruined. And here I am, caught in the swamp, too dumb to get myself out. If I don’t produce, will I end up like this too?
The question echoes in my mind, ramifications horrendous. Because Heather’s story doesn’t speak well of the men I love, and I can’t move, frozen in place.
But I have to. Hiding in this bathroom forever is not an option. So working hard, I try to breathe normally, a deep breath in, then out. Tears sting my eyes and my body aches with tension.
But again, I have to come out. So hand trembling, I fumble with the doorknob before making my way back to the living room. But Heather’s not there. There’s a tinkling sound, and jerking my head, I see her in the kitchen, looking blankly out the window. She turns slowly, as if coming out of a trance, then blinks and turns off the faucet, emptying a glass into the sink.
Her eyes sharpen with recognition.
“I used to be young and fresh like you,” she bites out. “Beautiful. I was gorgeous and they couldn’t take their eyes off me. Couldn’t stop touching me, kissing me, fucking me. And I can be beautiful again. I can give them pleasure,” she says, lips pressed together so tight they’re almost white. “But they won’t want me because I can’t give them a baby.”
Her voice breaks harshly, painful to hear. And I don’t know what to say, hands gesturing futilely as my mouth opens, no words coming out.
But Heather’s on a roll, staring at my poochy midsection now.
“You’ll overflow with life soon,” come her slow words. “They’ll want you even more. They’ll shower you with clothes, a car, whatever you want. But mark my words. If you can’t give them an heir, then you’re nothing more than trash. Look at me,” she spits, gesturing to her wasted form. “Look how they threw me out when I couldn’t perform.”
My hand claps over my mouth to keep from crying.
Heather leans back against the kitchen counter, folding skinny arms over a nonexistent chest. “I won’t have to work another day in my life. I’ve got this place. I’ve got a full bank account. A nice car. Someone who cleans for me once a week. But I can’t get out of bed most mornings. It hurts. Have you ever walked around with a plastic bag over your head? That’s what it’s like to be me,” she says fiercely, eyes glaring. “I can’t breathe most days, can’t even take a deep breath.”
I have to help her somehow. Holding my hands out, my voice starts.
“I’ll talk to them,” come my rushed words. “I’m sure the Morgans don’t know, there’s an explanation for all this – “
But the woman cuts me off.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” come her clear, enunciated words, chock full of poison. “You heard me. Go fuck yourself.”
And whirling on my heel, I turn and run out of the house, muffled sobs bursting from my chest.
Oh god, oh god, how did this happen? I don’t know what to think, hurling myself into the car, sitting slumped in the driver’s seat. But at the same time, there’s an unmistakable truth to Heather’s words. Because she said the Morgans would give me everything, and they have. This Mercedes. The fantastic apartment. The professional-grade cookware.
But what if I don’t produce? What if I can’t get pregnant? Is it the door for me then? Have I been reduced to nothing but a womb?
And a sob tears through my chest again, so painful that I bend over double, clutching my stomach. Oh god, oh god. I’ve been so stupid.
Because I get it now. The Morgans are master businessmen and master manipulators. This plan of theirs, to share one woman and sire one heir, is a key part of their business operation. If I can’t provide them that, I’ll be out on my ass just like Heather Mastricci.
It’s disturbingly ruthless, Machiavellian to the max. Because children are human beings, and yet for them, an heir is also a wealth management tool. Can I live with that? Can I accept my role as a fertility goddess, a means to an end in this master plan? After all, the Morgans had it spelled out to a tee. Find a hot, horny chick to bear a child, one able to accommodate their endless sexual appetites.
So what do I do now? The dilemma wrecks my mind. On the one hand, I’ve already missed two periods, and that never happens, my monthly flow comes like clockwork. So I must be pregnant already, right?
But on the other, there are doubts raging through my mind, a wild cacophony that makes it difficult to think. Because maybe I’m nothing but a tool in their life plan. Maybe the Morgans even have a powerpoint presentation laying it all out, and my role’s set forth on slides sixteen and seventeen. Oh god, oh god. Am I okay with that? Am I okay being nothing more than a vessel, used for my womb? Because it’s not too late. There are still options … or so I hope.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Macy
Blasting the water, I step into the shower stall, letting the spray pelt me. Oh god. Closing my eyes, I rest my forehead against the cool tile, praying for peace. Because what should I do? After that encounter with Heather, everything’s mixed up and muddled, with no clear path forwards.
On the one hand, the way the Morgans treated that girl was wrong. I don’t care what they told her or what they bought her. No cars, condos or cash is worth the devastation that Heather exhibited. How could they do that? Making the woman feel so good, only to drop her the minute she couldn’t produce. That’s not love or caring. That’s manipulation, pure and simple.
But my case isn’t so clear. Because I may already be pregnant, so where does that leave me? Should I pack my bags to dis
appear into the ether? Should I run home to Marsha and Jim, my parents’ disapproval a cold glare freezing me each day? Or should I stay here, and try and work things out?
When the boys trickle in for the evening, they find me curled up in front of a romantic comedy, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe, shoving a fifth slice of pizza in my face. I hate to tell them but they are not getting anywhere past this terrycloth barrier tonight. And once I finish with this pizza, I’ve got a date with Ben & Jerry’s.
Sam eyes me suspiciously. Smith is more direct.
“What’s wrong honey?” comes his low growl, blue eyes trailing over my bod. “What’s going on?”
Matt, always more communicative, rephrases the question. “Tell us, baby girl. What’s with the Little Caesars? You never eat that stuff, fast food isn’t your thing. Did something happen today?”
I give them the side-eye, seven giants staring down at me wearing masks ranging from medium-concern to outright annoyance. The annoyance is Smith, who’s probably wondering what’s for dinner.
But I don’t want to face them just now.
“There’s pizza for you in the oven,” come my choked words, hoping to distract them.
But there’s no distraction. Matt lowers that massive form next to me on the couch, as Trent sits on my other side, taking a small palm in his giant fist.
“Talk to us,” Matt growls persuasively. “Tell us what’s going on.”
Trent is just as insistent.
“Now,” he rumbles, eyes direct. “Now, honey.”
There’s no avoiding the issue. If not now, then when? And given that there’s probably a baby already, I can’t put it off forever. So taking a deep breath, the words come.
“I met Heather Mastricci today,” I say slowly. “It was a shock, to say the least.”
Silence from the seven men. Blue eyes gaze at me, shuttered and expressionless.
“What?” I ask. “Why, was it wrong to talk to her?”
Matt shrugs carelessly.
“Not wrong,” he rumbles, face calm. “But that’s a surprise. How’d you get the idea?”