Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (Hautboy Series Book 3)

by Anne Berkeley

  “Puh-pul,” said a tiny voice beside Tate. “Her is puh-pul.”

  “Cool, right?” Tate asked him. Levy—I had to assume—blushed and hid his face in Tate’s side. A second later, he braved a peek and smiled, his cheeks dimpling on either side.

  “Figures,” Emelia muttered. “I don’t know what I ever did, but he likes everyone except me. Doesn’t matter how many cookies I give him.”

  “That’s not true,” Tate objected. “Is it, Mini Cooper? You love Em, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  I stifled a smile. Kids didn’t have filters. They just said whatever came to mind, even if the truth hurt. They didn’t know any better.

  Em said something to Levy in Italian—that I assumed was a bad word—and scowled. “No more cookies for you.”

  “Uh huh!” Levy argued with vehemence, while using Tate as a shield.

  “You’ll see.” She looked at him from under her lashes, her eyes narrowed.

  “My cookies!”

  “I baked ‘em. That makes ‘em mine.”

  “No,” Levy insisted, shaking his head. Em went back to stirring her pot. Really, she was hiding a smile. Her affection for Levy was clear.

  “Let’s go,” said Tate, “They’ll argue like this until one of them gives in.”

  “Me,” said Em. “It’s always me.”

  Grinning, I followed Tate out of the kitchen. “That door there leads to the pool house,” Tate said, pointing over his shoulder as we walked in the opposite direction. “That’s where security stays. And Jaxon. He stays out there too.”

  “Where would I stay?”

  “Guest bedroom directly across from the master. Levy’s room is next door. My father stays in the boathouse. With the band coming in and out, the place is bustling during the day, but it’s quiet at night. You’ll have the house to yourself.”

  “Security is on premises through the night?”

  “Yes, Marshall will be here at all times. The others will travel with us Wednesday to Moses Lake for the concert. This entire place is wired, including the grounds. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I like to be prepared in case of an emergency. For that I need to be familiar with the residence.”

  “There’re coms in all the major rooms. You’ll see them on the right of each door. On the inside of the panel, you’ll find call lists. For nine-one-one, you just hit the red button.” He stopped inside the living room and flipped open the panel. “It’s fairly simple. You press the button for the intended receiver, and then the call button. Hold it in to talk. Release to hear the response.”

  “Easy enough.”

  “Honestly, I’ve never used them. Carter thinks they’re for requesting Grey Poupon or radioing the Bat Cave.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Yeah, that’s Carter.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t need to use them either. How has she been feeling? Anymore contractions?”

  “None, but it’s been relatively quiet. With me going out on the road, and the court date next week, I’m afraid of what the stress will do to her.”

  “Oh, did they catch who hacked your tablet?”

  “No, this involves something else.”

  I suddenly understood the reason for the confidentiality agreement. Word of mouth wasn’t enough to curb guests and employees from passing on personal matters to friends and media. He needed to threaten them where it hurt, their wallets. The resulting lawsuit of leaking personal information would outweigh the measly amount the tabloids would pay them. That seemingly innocuous slip could cause them financial ruin. For someone that made minimum wage cleaning his house or walking his dog, that sheet of paper was incentive to keep their mouths sealed.

  “Expectations?” I prompted, changing the subject.

  “Keep Coop sane and healthy. Make sure the kid doesn’t do anything dangerous. My father likes to take him to the park and stuff, but if the weather isn’t accommodating, he can get a little rambunctious. He has a hard time keeping up with him. Other than that, keep the house tidy after him. Nothing major. We have a cleaning service. Just make sure the floors are clear of toys when they come in to vacuum, and that the dirty clothes are in the hampers so they know what to wash.”

  “Salary?”

  “I’ll match what you were making at the hospital, and cover your healthcare costs while you’re employed here.”

  “Concerns?”

  “As I said on the phone, I’d like you to stay on through the end of the pregnancy. Em is her best friend, but she’s opening her own restaurant in a few weeks and she’s been busy hammering out the details. She can’t always be there to chill and keep her company.”

  That wasn’t necessarily what I was fishing for. I was going to have to come clean. I couldn’t—in good conscience—sign any agreements unless I knew Jake wouldn’t be a problem. “Look, I need to be level with you. Jake and I hooked up at the club two weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since. I don’t have a problem with that. But if working here is going to cause trouble, I won’t accept the position.”

  “What happens between you and Jake is none of my business. As long as Cooper and Levy are your main focus when you’re here, I don’t have a problem.”

  “Happened,” I clarified. “From experience, I think it’s in everyone’s best interests if it remains in the past tense. Mixing work with personal—let’s just say I learned my lesson.”

  “That might be best,” Tate agreed. “Jake has these …rules. They’re surprisingly conventional for an artist, but I guess we’re not exempt. No sisters or exes, that kind of thing.”

  “I’m well familiar,” I snorted. “I have ten brothers.”

  “Ten,” Tate repeated, astounded.

  “Two sisters,” I added.

  “Shit.”

  I smiled leniently, though I hated discussing my brothers and sisters. I felt like they were part of my identity. I guess everyone had that blemish to their name, sort of like losing a sibling or loved one, or having some sort of mole or scar to your face. Good or bad, people used it to identify you. Surprisingly, being one of thirteen overshadowed having violet hair.

  “Anyhow,” I said, moving on, “you know Jake better than I do.”

  Tate’s lip curled in a wry grin. “Jake won’t be a problem.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” His gaze shifted, focusing behind me. Self-consciously, I glanced over my shoulder. There was no one there. When I turned back to Tate, he flashed a smile that made me blush.

  “I’ll get the paperwork?”

  “Um, sure.” I looked behind me one more time, feeling like I was the brunt of some joke. The hall sat empty except for a large ficus tree, its leaves shivering against the draft.

  “I’ll grab it from my office while I show you through the rest of the house.”

  There wasn’t a room in the entire place left unadorned to perfection. It made the stark white walls of my apartment feel like a jail cell. I’d foregone the home décor and chose to put my money toward traveling. Whatever. I refused to regret that. I liked seeing the world.

  The main house was large, but not as large as anticipated. I supposed the pool house, boat house and several other smaller structures offset the lack of square footage. Don’t get me wrong, it was still impressive. And I’d yet to see the studio that took up the basement.

  As I descended the stairs behind Tate, Peter’s cackle echoed up from below. I was glad Tate couldn’t see the shift in my expression, because I just about had an aneurysm. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Tate inquired.

  “That would be my brother.” Even his laugh was obnoxious.

  “No worries. It’s cool.” When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Tate crossed the space to a stainless fridge. “Something to drink, Paisley?”

  Carter looked up at the sound of my name. “Violet!”

  “Carter,” I replied, and turned to Tate, but Peter beat me to it.
<
br />   “She likes hard cider.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t,” I declined. “I’m driving.”

  “I can drive,” my brother offered, surprising me. I stared in wonder. I’ve never known my brother to pass up a beer, and from Tate Watkins of all people. “What?”

  “I’m just wondering what drugs they gave you.”

  “Pipsqueak, I have Carter Strickland’s bass guitar in my hands,” he explained. He was holding the thing reverently, as if it were the robe of Jesus. “You can’t get any higher than I feel right now.”

  “Do you play?” Carter asked. “Let’s hear it.”

  “For real?” Peter was like a little kid. He actually looked to me, as if asking for permission. A smile snuck up my face, despite my annoyance. I rolled my eyes and shrugged my assent.

  Grinning like a loon, he lifted the strap over his head and adjusted his grip on the neck. After a few seconds of mental prep, he began finger-picking Crossroads. I’d listened to him play it dozens of times as kids. Well, listened to him try and play it. He’d improved over the years. It had to have been three or four since I’d heard him play it last. We were still living at home.

  Tate gestured to Shane, who picked up on cue, jumping in with a jazz like procession that cast a little energy to the performance. Peter’s face lit up, and he began to jam, bobbing his head to the beat. Unable to help himself, Tate picked up his Gibson and began picking the famous riff.

  Cracking open my bottle of cider, I sat down and started filling out the paperwork. Peter owed me big time. Be cool, I told him. Keep quiet. And here he was, jamming with Hautboy in Tate Watkins’ private recording studio. I supposed I should count my blessings. It could’ve been much worse. He could’ve taken me in a headlock and given me a knuckle rub on my scalp.

  “Aren't you going to ask about your boy, Jake?” Carter inquired. He dropped into the chair across from me. His main attention was on my brother.

  “How's Jake?”

  “Good. He's around here somewhere.”

  “I think he's hiding behind a ficus tree upstairs.”

  A wide smile spread across Carter’s face. “What a fuckin’ pussy.”

  I shrugged, feigning indifference. “He's not interested. It's fine. I'm here to work anyhow.”

  I glanced up at my brother, but he wasn't paying any attention to us. Nonetheless, I put my head down and continued reading through the legalities.

  “It's not that he's not interested. He's been busy. We all have.”

  I forced a smile and nodded once, keeping my eyes on my work. Hoping Carter would move on. I had.

  “You're doing it again—you're appeasing me.”

  “Look, no offense, but I don't want to discuss it.” I glanced pointedly at my brother.

  “What—are you ashamed of him?”

  “No, but what happened between us is nobody's business but our own.”

  My brother decided at that moment to take note of my expression and lost his momentum, leaving my exclamation hanging in the air like an avow.

  Everyone looked at me and then Carter and then anything but the two of us.

  “Hey, as long as she’s happy, I’m happy,” said Peter, totally unlike himself, “Just treat her right.” As if it were an everyday occurrence, he went back to finger picking his guitar.

  It took all but five seconds before I recognized the riff line for White Wedding. Shane was the first to laugh. “That,” he said, tapping a cigarette from his pack, “was fucking funny.” Pinching the cigarette between his lips, he cupped his hands around his lighter and took a long drag. “After the other night, I wasn’t sure about you, but you’re actually kinda cool.”

  Me, I flipped Peter the middle finger.

  Tate hooted and laughed.

  Carter got up and stormed out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “What?” Peter asked, confounded. “What did I say?” He looked at me for an answer, as if I knew.

  “Why did you have to say anything at all?” Standing, I crossed the room and handed the papers to Tate. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I appreciate you offering me the opportunity, though.”

  “She’ll take the job,” I heard Peter say as I jogged up the stairs. A second later, he was following me.

  Cutting through the kitchen to go out the rear door, I found Emelia pressing a compress to Jake’s nose. He had his head tilted back, but not so far that he couldn’t see me. “Oh, thank God,” Emelia sighed. “You’re a nurse, right? Can you take a look at it?”

  I actually looked at the door. I’d had enough humiliation for one day.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she continued. “Carter just hit him for no reason at all.”

  “I’m fine,” Jake said, tilting his head back farther. “Just a bloody nose.”

  “Don’t tilt your head back,” I sighed. “The blood will run down the back of your throat. It’ll make you nauseated.” Approaching Jake, I dragged a stool over and placed it in front of him. “Sit.”

  “I said I was fine.”

  “The kid’s watching you. Be a good role model.” With reluctance, Jake sat down. “I’ll need some ice and some fresh gauze, and nasal spray if you have any.” I turned to Jake, ignoring those steely eyes. I didn’t want to get caught up in something I couldn’t have. “Keep your head tilted slightly forward. If the blood runs into your mouth, spit it out. It can irritate the lining of your stomach, and like I said, cause vomiting. Can I take a look?”

  “It’s not broken.”

  “I can change that.”

  Despite himself, he laughed. Blood bubbled out his nose and down his face. “Shit.”

  “Serves you right.” Grabbing a fresh paper towel from Em, I swapped it with the soiled one. “Just hold it there while I look,” I instructed, placing it directly beneath his nostrils. Gently, I examined his nose, careful not to cause him any undue pain. “It’s not broken. What you want to do is pinch it for about ten minutes. Keep ice on it if you can. If it keeps bleeding, try some Afrin, and pinch it for another ten minutes. The Afrin will help constrict the blood vessels, and reduce the bleeding.”

  Jake looked up. Our gazes met. I quickly looked at Em. “It was a pleasure seeing you again.” I held out my hand. Em took it with a warm smile.

  “When are you starting?”

  “I’m not.”

  Her smile fell. “No? Why?”

  “I was offered something more permanent.”

  Behind me, Peter sneeze-coughed. “Coughliarcough.”

  Ignoring him, I adjusted my purse on my shoulder. “Good luck with the restaurant. Though, if it’s as good as it smells, you’ll do amazing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bye, Jake.” I said it quickly like a coward, then turned and walked out. I didn't slow once I was outside. I strode directly to my car and slid behind the wheel. A minute later—and I mean one long minute, and I knew, because I watched the clock—my brother dropped into the passenger seat beside me.

  “I didn't sleep with Carter Strickland.”

  “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.” I glanced at Peter. He was rubbing his knuckles, which were tinged with blood.

  “What did you do?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  OMG. “What. Did. You. Do?”

  “I tried. I really, really tried. I swear.”

  “Peter!”

  “If it wasn’t broken before, it’s broken now.” His lips curled into a faint smirk.

  Chapter 8

  “I told you, I’m not discussing this,” I said for the millionth time. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Easter Sunday for most families meant a large, wicker basket filled with enough candy to share with twelve square blocks for a week. For my family, it meant early morning mass followed by a lunch-dinner that could feed double that amount. And why was there no equivalent to brunch for lunch and dinner? Probably because there wasn’t a combination that worked. I mean, dunch? Linner? Dunner? None of them rol
led off the tongue fluidly.

  Back to the point, I was helping mom in the kitchen as usual. Which meant I was hot, sweating, and highly irritable. I had mashed potatoes smeared across my dress, flour in my hair, and tie-dye hands, thanks to the three dozen Easter eggs I hid across the back yard at the crack of dawn. And that basket of candy…my mom decided only children would partake.

  I told myself I didn’t care. I didn’t need the calories anyhow. But damn if it didn’t burn me up. If I was helping with the cooking, I was entitled to my share of candy.

  Honestly, that wasn’t what was bothering me. It was the fact that all three girls were in the kitchen busting their butts to fix dinner while the boys were scattered across the house to do their own thing. Those except the two oldest. Pax was busy busting my chops. Peter wasn’t helping cook, but he had surprisingly kept to his word and eased off with the interference.

  “I only asked where you went,” Pax stated, pressing for information. His blue eyes glinted with umbrage. “You partied with Hautboy and you can’t tell me where they took you?”

  While Peter knew who I was with, he didn’t know where they had taken me, and I was keeping it that way, because what Peter didn’t know, Peter couldn’t tell. It wasn’t Pax’s business. If I wanted Pax to know, I would’ve told him myself.

  “Say something to her, Mom. She got in a car with a bunch of strangers, went God knows where, and shut the GPS off on Peter’s phone so we couldn’t get in touch with her.”

  I snorted internally. You didn’t need GPS to make a phone call.

  My mom looked up from under her mousy bangs. “She’s not living under my roof anymore, Paxton. She’s an adult, and can make decisions for herself.”

  “Yeah, Paxton,” Peter chimed in. Never mind that he was the one who tattled in the first place. “She’s an adult.”

  Pax frowned, disgruntled. “I can’t believe you played Carter Strickland’s guitar.” Finally, the truth came out, the real reason for his foul mood. He was jealous.

  “Oh, I played with Tate Watkins and Shane Richardson,” Peter clarified with glee. “We played Crossroads, and I killed it!”