Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)

by C. M. Stunich

  I flash one of my signature Zay grins and a boy scout salute … eeeeeeven though I've never actually been in the scouts. Well, okay, I was for like one day but I got kicked out for beating up some snot-nosed brat that called me a weirdo.

  Standing up, I examine the strange wheeled device before me and then lift the baby's seat out of the car, hooking it into place on top and standing back to admire my handiwork.

  Yeah. See that? See it? I got this.

  “Fuck yeah,” I say and several of the moms scoff at me. I ignore them and park myself at one of the picnic tables under the trees, whipping out my phone for a little sexy texting with miss pink haired Kitty cakes.

  Thirteen days left. Thirteen days and Hubert and I will be back in Vegas.

  I've never wanted anything more in my life.

  Until I met Brooke Overland.

  Incoming: a serious fucking wrench in my life plans. ETA: twenty minutes until my life goes boom.

  Thank God today is Saturday. No class for me or the girls, time to keep searching for an alternative to my upcoming job at the strip club.

  Just the thought of it gives me chills and I clamp my arms over my chest.

  “Are you okay, Aunt Brooke?” Bella asks as I pick up my purse and sling it over my shoulder. I do my best to smile down at my niece, but inside, I'm screaming.

  Strip? I'm going to strip?

  I never thought I'd find myself at such a point in my life where I'd even consider it. This body … it's my body and my choice and … I really don't want to do this. But Eureka is an economically depressed area, and these girls need me. There's rent to pay and food to buy, and my parents are on a fixed income; my dad is sick. They can't help us, and I can't bear to rip the girls away from their friends and their school to move to a foreign city.

  Deep breath.

  I have to do this. For them.

  “I'm fine, honey,” I say as I reach down and ruffle the dark chocolate color of her hair. We're practically twins, Bella and me. She has the same dusty brown eyes, pointed chin and arched brows as I do. We both take after my grandmother while Ingrid and Grace take after my mom: blond hair, blue eyes, round face and plump cheeks. “Are you ready to head to the park?”

  She nods enthusiastically, eyes shining, face bright. That makes it a little easier, that expression. Especially after last night. She tried to hide it from me, but I heard her crying in her room, tears soaking into her pillow. It took me hours to get her to sleep. Fucking Ingrid.

  I hate my older sister a little bit right now.

  “Grace!” I call out and the little girl appears at the top of the stairs, the dog following directly behind her. I think we all need an activity to take our mind off things, distract us a little. I know I sure as hell do.

  Soon, you'll be taking your clothes off for strangers.

  The thought makes me sick, so I banish it with a big breath, leading the girls out to my Subaru and loading them up. They're easy enough to get into the car. But Dodger? The dog is a Chinese crested, a nasty little hairless rat. I am so not into little dogs, but what am I going to do? The girls treat this thing like it's their brother. Although it could probably win an ugly dog contest no problem.

  “Alright, Dodger,” I say as I bend down and try to coax the hideous little gray and white creature into my arms. “Let's go, buddy.” The dog ignores me, trotting over to a tree and lifting its leg.

  My jaw clenches tight.

  Oh, hell no.

  There is no way I'm letting a stupid dog get the better of me. Not today.

  I sprint over as the dog lifts his leg on another tree and grab him around the waist, lifting him into the air before he can bite me—something he's already done twice since I got into town last week. The little fucker.

  I toss the dog into the car and climb into the front seat, starting up some rock music and hoping the girls won't complain. I know Ingrid was always a huge country music fan. Me, I like a little screaming in my songs.

  “Time for some Amatory Riot,” I say as I scroll through my playlists and find the one dedicated to my favorite band. I smile at the girls as I pull down the sun visor and check my makeup, my hair. As soon as I pull out of the driveway, the song picks up into a raging feminine roar and I head bang my way straight over to the park.

  When the girls get out of car, they both pretend not to know me.

  “Have fun, ladies!” I call out with a grin as I grab the dog and set him on the ground, closing the car door with a bump of my hip.

  I don't make it ten steps into that park before I see the most beautiful creature known to man.

  Holy panty-wetters.

  I think I've just spotted the God of Tattoos and Piercings.

  And I am an ardent worshipper.

  I find myself freezing ankle-deep in wood chips as children stream around me like I'm a rock in a river, water parting around my shocked and panting heart.

  Who … the fuck is that? And why is he in Eureka, California? Nobody hot lives here.

  The man is sitting on a park bench under the trees, one leg propped up, his elbow resting against it as he texts with a furious thumb—a furious tattooed thumb. Half of his head is shaved short and dark, the other half is standing up in a Mohawk. Tattoos peek out from under his tight red T-shirt, staining his neck and arms with vibrant color. I raise an eyebrow at the shirt. It's straight-up nerdy: it has a graphic of the original Nintendo and says Classically Trained, but … the muscles underneath are taut and sculpted and strong.

  What a beautiful dichotomy, I think as I bite my lower lip and then grunt as a kid slams into my knees and knocks me into the wood chips.

  “Sorry!” she screams, but doesn't stop, sprinting away in a fluttering wave of pigtails as I blink away the shock and try to drag myself to my feet.

  “Holy sweet baby Jesus. You okay there?” A tattooed hand appears in my vision. When I reach up to take it, the skin is smooth and dry and warm. My breath rushes out in a burst as Tattoo God pulls me to my feet with little effort, his phone still clutched in his opposite hand. When he smiles at me, I see butterflies. No, like literal butterflies etched into the skin of his throat, right above the neck of his tee. “Sorry about that,” he tells me with a loose, easy shrug. “You wanna sit down or something?”

  I nod, but I'm having trouble finding the right words to say to this guy and his gorgeous lips, a piercing dancing on either side, winking in the sun. He's got one in his brow, too, and one in his nose.

  Basically, he's hot as hell.

  “You hurt?” he asks me, gaze traveling up and down my body appreciatively. When he gets back to my face, he smiles this easy, goofy smile that belies the harsh look of his tattoos and his hair, like he's a bad boy on the outside but a super nice guy underneath.

  The last thing you need right now is a man. You need to focus on the girls, and on your master's degree, and your new life in Eureka.

  I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair, dislodging a few wood chips in the process.

  “I'm okay,” I say as I take a seat next to God Guy and try not to stare too hard at his tight jeans, the belt with the skulls on it, the fact that he's not wearing shoes … there are tattoos on the tops of his feet, too. “The name's Brooke Overland, by the way.”

  I hold out my hand and he takes it, gripping hard, his palm brushing against mine and making my heart thunder in my throat. If I was in a different place in my life, I'd seriously consider asking this guy out. Well. I look down at his hand don't see a ring, but he is at the park with a kid.

  A gurgling sound draws my attention to a stroller and a baby. Holy crap. Okay, well, clearly this guy's not married but he's obviously taken. Why wouldn't he be? Men this hot don't stay on the market forever and let's be honest, outside of a ridiculous romance novel, where can they be found anyway? In rock bands? Please.

  “Zayden Roth,” he says as he looks me up and down again, still smiling that easy smile of his. “Sorry about Kinzie. She's kind of an asshole.” I rai
se my brows. Never heard a guy call his kid an asshole before, but hey, she … kind of is an asshole. That really did hurt. I rub at my knee and the torn spot on my nude tights. I'm not even sure why I'm wearing them; I never wear tights. Maybe it's because I felt this crazy urge to put on tons of layers today? Like that would protect me from taking them all off later.

  I almost start hyperventilating and manage to pull it together at the last second.

  “That's okay. I'm sure it was an accident.”

  Zayden rolls his gorgeous green eyes, the color pale but striking. Like sea glass.

  “I wouldn't necessarily say that. She's kicked and punched me so many times today that I'm seriously considering calling a therapist or something. The kid has issues.”

  He snaps his fingers at me and grins a little wider, piercings bright in the sun. I notice his ears are ringed in silver hoops, from bottom to top. I wonder what else is hiding under those clothes? I force myself to take a long, deep breath.

  “Which ones are yours?” he asks as he scans the playground and lifts up a hand covered in ink, the knuckles labelled with the word EASY. I wonder what the other says? I crane my neck to try and sneak a peak when he notices and grins big, curling his hands into fists and putting them together for my viewing pleasure.

  LIVE EASY.

  I smile.

  “I'm here with …” I start to say my sister's kids but I don't want to get into the whole torrid story with a sexy stranger. What does it matter? It's not like I'll see the guy ever again anyway. “The beautiful Bella.” I point out my dark haired look-alike. “And gorgeous Grace.”

  “Nice alliteration,” the guy purrs as he winks at me and I feel my skin heating up from the inside. “I like a girl who can alliterate.” Zayden leans back, sunlight skipping between the redwood branches above our heads, speckling his skin with sunlight.

  “I can rhyme, too. Oh, and list palindromes.”

  Zayden grins.

  “Sexy. You're a real smarty-pants, huh?”

  “I try,” I say, straightening the boring brown skirt I decided to wear today. Again, not my usual style, but I think I'm overcompensating for the whole strip club thing. I feel my face fall, but I can't help the rush of emotion. I don't want to do this. I'm scared. I shouldn't have to do this.

  When I glance up, I notice that Zayden's studying me carefully, watching my face like he can sense the emotional turmoil inside of me.

  I look away and study the original play set from when I was a kid, a structure of wood and metal that's older than I am. It sits in the center of the park under a copse of old-growth trees. The redwoods are so big they distort the proportions, making it look like the playground's in miniature.

  “Something on your mind?” Zayden asks, his voice deepening a little with the change in mood. “I hear I'm a killer listener.” When I look back at him, he's grinning at me again. “Feel like spilling your guts to a stranger?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but the thing that's bothering me, there's nothing I can do about it. I'd really just rather forget about it while I can.”

  “Fair enough,” he says as he leans back, elbows on the top of the table. “I feel you.”

  I smile, but the expression does nothing to shake the awful feeling settling over my shoulders. I have a handful of days left to find another job, something where the hours won't conflict with my school schedule. As of right now, it looks like I'll officially be taking my clothes off for money.

  “I like your tats,” I say, gesturing with my chin as I examine a colorful sugar skull on his upper arm. It's mixed in with a strange variety of other things: a bundle of lollipops, a tree with leafless branches, a woman with angel wings, a pinup. This Zayden guy must be an interesting character.

  “Thanks,” he says, holding his arms out, so I can get a better look. “I started collecting them when I was eighteen. Think I might be a tad addicted.” Without any prompting, Zayden lifts his shirt up and flashes me his midsection.

  Holy … shit.

  Color spills across his chest, peeks up from his waistband. The ink above and below his abs only emphasizes how tight they are, how flat and sexy and touchable … I blink several times to clear my head. I can't really look at him without getting light-headed. I glance away and pretend not to be interested. Were his … were his nipples pierced?!

  “Nice ink,” I say, hoping I sound cool. I mean, not that I care because this guy's a complete stranger with at least two kids, one of whom's a baby. I bet this man makes a lot of babies. The last thing I need to be doing is sitting here and hitting on him like this. I do not need to be making any babies. Or trying to lose my virginity with some Tattooed God Guy.

  “What about you? Got any tats?” I shake my head as I look back at him. I'm sure his story's a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.

  “Nope. Not a single one. I've always been scared of getting poked.” I flush as Zayden grins at me, forcing myself to smile like I meant that double entendre. If he only knew how true that was … “Does it really hurt as much as everyone says it does?”

  “Naw,” he says, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head. “Personally, I like getting poked.” A wink that's clearly meant in a flirtatious sort of way. “Got any piercings?”

  I shake my head and smile.

  “Same problem. The whole … you know, poking thing.”

  “Gotcha,” he says as he looks me over again, clearly checking me out. Basically, I'm in complete shock. I'm wearing torn nude tights, a brown chiffon skirt, and a white tee that's a little too small for me. On my feet are a pair of suede boots with scuffed toes. Essentially, I'm a hot mess. “So, how come your,” a pause to look down at my hand, checking for a ring I think, “boyfriend isn't here with you today?”

  I raise my eyebrows as my heart starts to pound. Holy crap. This guy really is hitting on me.

  “I don't currently have a boyfriend,” I say, trying not to think about that particular screw up. Three years with the wrong guy, a guy who was supposed to be perfect. And the reason I'm still carrying my V-card. He said he wanted to wait until marriage, that his faith was important to him. Yet, he was sleeping with my friend on the side. Yeah. Great. “I'm not looking for one either,” I add, even though I really like the idea of this guy liking me.

  “Well,” Mr. Tattoo says, handing his phone out to me. “I've got plans to bring the kids over here tomorrow, too. If you're gonna be around, we could always hang out. No strings attached. Personally, I'm not a fan of the tangled little fuckers either.”

  I smile and—almost reluctantly—accept the phone from his hand. I am so stopping by the store and using the last of my money on a new one after this. I plug in my number and hand it back, knowing as I do though that I'm probably making a mistake here. I've got two kids and a dog to worry about, a degree, a … job. A job that I hopefully won't have to go to. If I look hard enough, maybe I could find a gas station or convenience store gig, something overnight that doesn't involve … that.

  “Maybe I could bring bread for the ducks?” I say, even though I don't expect anything to come of this.

  Zayden flashes another grin at me as Bella and Grace wave me over from the direction of the slide.

  “Come watch!” Bella yells as they dart up the steps.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he tells me as I stand up and wave good-bye.

  I really don't expect to see Mr. Tattooed and Handsome ever again.

  And I especially don't expect that I'll be asking him to be the girls' nanny.

  Funny how life works out sometimes, isn't it?

  If I'm gonna be in town, I might as well have a little fun. The young looking mom with the kids was fucking ballin', baby. She had no idea how hot she was in that little white tee, her flat bare belly showing above the waistband of that ugly skirt. I mean, not that I mind a chick that knows how hot she is, but Brooke was so clueless it was kind of funny.

  I grin and spin my phone in my hand, getting ready to shoot her a text message. I've
also got sexy little Kitty waiting for our video chat session tonight. Maybe these two weeks don't have to be god-fucking-awful, right?

  I park my butt on the couch just in time to hear a crackle from the baby monitor. Shit. Don't I, like, ever get a break here? I mean this is nonstop. How does Mercedes ever find time for games? Seriously. Does the woman not sleep?

  “I'm coming, I'm coming.” I clomp up the steps two at a time, setting my phone down next to the baby's crib and hefting Sadie into my arms. She screams and throws her fuzzy brown head back, wailing like a goddamn banshee. A fist pounds on the wall from next door and I hear a grumbling shout. Motherfucker. What the hell am I gonna do about a goddamn baby? I mean, it's not like I enjoy kids or anything, but seriously? What is that asswad's problem?

  I scowl as I carry the kid downstairs and manage to juggle getting a bottle under the hot water, all the while trying to pretend that it's not Mercedes' breast milk that's inside the clear plastic.

  “It's cow tit juice instead, right?” I coo at Sadie as I bounce her and try to get her to relax. It doesn't work, no matter how I move or what I purr at her in babbled baby talk. Damn it. I balance the baby against one shoulder and squirt some milk onto my skin to check the temperature. Yeah, I actually read Mercedes' dossier. This guy knows what he's doing.

  Sort of.

  When I sit down and try to feed the little chick, she won't take the nipple in her mouth, screaming and howling around it. When I check her diaper, I find it … full of crap. Jesus. So that's what the smell was. Personally, I thought it was the fucking chihuahuas. They go every which where it seems. I keep stepping on tiny poops.

  I am in literal hell.

  I change Sadie's diaper and she finally calms down, falling asleep on my shoulder before I deposit her upstairs. By the time I do, I find my phone's all blown up from Kitty and her texts and calls.

  Not around, I guess. Well, screw you. I've got other options.

  I mouth the word shiiiiiiiiiit and then fall onto my back on my brother's bed, bangin' out a quick response.