by Kira Graham
The drone of voices was sort of helping me to distract myself from my mental breakdown.
“How could the stalker be involved here? Even we couldn’t find her, and I freaking had a trace run on her phone. And her credit cards. And Joey ran her face through that recognition software and hacked the public cameras,” Rosetta mumbles.
Jesus. She shouldn’t be a lawyer; she should work for the CIA.
“How do you even—”
A male clears his throat, and I hear the room go quiet before Tee starts to cackle, and Sin and Cleo let out shocked gasps. It can’t be Rosetta, because I swear, nothing shocks her.
“Is that…?”
“Sixteen pregnancy tests? Hell’s bells, Alexandria, did the first ten not clue you in to the fact that you’re preggers?” Rosetta snorts, and titters break out around the room, especially when Sin barks out a laugh, and I hear plastic clattering onto the coffee table.
“Is anyone thinking that maybe Alex is freaking out about this? ’Cause this is just…” Rosetta blows out a breath that trickles over my face, nearly turning me green.
She must have eaten tuna fish for lunch, and…my stomach heaves so hard that I bolt upright, swallowing to keep a chunk of puke from winding up my throat.
“She wakes!” Cleo trills, clapping derisively as my eyes land on the tests.
They could be faulty. That’s what I’m going with, I tell myself, ignoring the belly that grazes my thighs, clearly showing my self-denial to be a lie.
“Alex—”
“Don’t. Just don’t start with me! I don’t want to talk about this,” I hiss, feeling a variety of emotions hitting me from all sides.
I just can’t. It’s one thing to start noticing that your pants don’t fit anymore, but it’s another to have to admit that you aren’t getting your period—dry insertion fucking hurts!—and it’s in another realm altogether when you wake up one morning to a basketball below your navel, proclaiming with bodily proof that you have an issue that can’t be avoided anymore, no matter how hard you try.
But this, with those tests and…everything! I can’t deal with this. If I do, then I’ll have to be all adult about things, and then I’ll have to think about Chilli, and—and when those black dots reappear in my vision, I shut down my thoughts and look up to meet the eyes of my sibs, silently pleading for their help. Please, please just give me some time to come to grips with this, I plead silently, shaking off another wave of dizziness when Adonis shoves his hands into his pockets and drops his head with a sigh.
“I think that you should go to the doctor, Alex. I’ve heard that there’s a terrible flu going around,” he murmurs, smiling lightly when I breathe out with relief and allow Zeus to help me up from the couch.
“There is?”
“Totally,” Cleo injects with false cheer, sharing a look with the others. “You must have the flu. I heard that it makes you bloat,” she chirps, coughing delicately when she looks down at my “bloat,” and her eyes go a little wider.
Admittedly, bloat is a stretch, but I feel my nerves settle back down as they nod, even if Rosetta keeps staring at me with blatant shock covering her smile. Denial it is, I think, almost drunk with relief when everyone starts talking at once, discussing doctors and medications and whatever else that someone with the flu might need.
Yes, indeed. I think that I’m going with denial.
Chapter Three
Achilles
“The permits won’t be through until next week, and the historical society is up our asses about those gables,” Clarke tells me as soon as I step out of my car and onto the cracked driveway of my new home.
Well, almost. I bought the thing last month after spending hours driving around because I couldn’t sleep, and now, as I look up at the old Victorian façade, I ask myself for the hundredth time just what it was about this dump that compelled me to buy it. My old place, which I am still living in while we overhaul this one, is a marvel of modern design, clean lines, neat, neutral colors, and easy cleaning.
This place is nothing like that, strangely. I say “strangely” because I love my old place, and I never would have thought that I’d move out of it, especially not after all of the crap that I went through with building permits and the neighborhood association when they protested my designs. When I built the place, I thought for sure that it was my dream home, and yet here I stand, staring up at the spookiest, ugliest house ever created, and knowing in my heart that I am definitely going to live here. Just as soon as Councilman Roberts gets off my ass and signs off on those permits.
“You tell the historical society that I personally researched those gables, and not only are they within the proper style and time period, but they’re also what the original house had before the new owners replaced them.”
“I did. I even sent them the pictures you gave me, and had Bob look at the archives. They’re just being assholes. Don’t sweat it too much.”
I most definitely won’t sweat it. In fact, I have to admit that I’ve actually been enjoying the hassle of this revamp. The more problems I’ve faced with getting the house ready, the happier I’ve been, because nothing keeps my mind off thinking like the challenge of a build.
My brother Adonis likes to say that he does everything in our company, and, with his control freak ways, I have to say that he’s not wrong. All the construction is my baby, though, and it always will be. I love taking something that’s wrecked and turning it into something beautiful, and I even like the projects that start with a blank slate and have to be built from the ground up. Last month, I completed a building for Adonis’s charity, housing everything from apartments for mothers and children of domestic violence, to a community center and offices for the shrinks and other staff that will run the facility. It took me three years from start to finish to build that thing just right, and, now that it’s done, I’m finding myself at loose ends.
That’s where this house comes in. It’s my newest project, my baby, and the one thing that helps me when it comes to thinking about Alex.
“Yo, you paying attention?” Clarke asks as we clear the sagging porch and make it into the entryway.
“Fine. Don’t forget, I want the original trim—”
“To be kept and restored. I know, Hart. You’ve told me about four times. It’s marked off, and the restoration guy will come in after we’ve finished the structural stuff and started on the actual revamp. All the trim has been taped off, the staircase is marked as a no-touch, and the doorframes are getting sanded down just as soon as Blake is done with the bump-out on the master. You sure about that porch extension?”
No. Not at all, and yet no matter how I tell myself to ignore the damn thing, I continue keeping it in place for the crew to complete. A back extension isn’t something that I’d normally have gone for—not with my likes. I prefer a clean, neat deck, not some mom-and-pop porch with fucking rockers and hanging plants, and yet that’s exactly what I’ve incorporated into this house. I even have the freaking plants all picked out and back at my place, thriving now that Ma has stopped watering them.
The woman is a phenomenal mother, a great cook, and a master when it comes to baking, but get her near a plant, and the thing dies. Pop says that they’re just cutting their losses to avoid a prolonged period of drowning, but whatever it is, she can’t garden to save her life.
“Leave it. I want it wrapped all the way around with the extended width. And don’t forget the posts. You on track with the shipment?” I ask, knowing that the antique guy is having it shipped down sometime this week.
“Everything looks good. It’s just the permits that we’re waiting on now. We can’t go ahead with electrical or plumbing until they come through.”
“It’s been five weeks! Go down there and light a fire under his ass,” I yell, taking in the chaos all around me.
There are bare walls with exposed wiring on all sides, thanks to the fact that the councilman keeps dragging his feet on the permits. At this point, I’m paying a c
rew to sit around and stare at the house, because nothing can really be done until those documents come through.
“I tried. His secretary told me to get lost. I spent an hour in the waiting room, which would have been awful, but Rosetta just happened to stop by and keep me company.”
“Rosetta?” I ask, suspicion filling me when Clarke nods and gives me a smile.
I’d warn the guy not to go all dreamy-eyed over Zeus’s wife, or risk being torn limb from limb, but since he’s still sporting a black eye—compliments of Z when he caught Clarke staring at Rosetta’s ass in those pencil skirts she favors—I’m thinking that that’s a lost cause.
“Yeah. She was there to talk to the mayor,” he says, oblivious to the facts that are as clear as day to me.
As Hart Inc.’s corporate legal top dog, Rosetta is an asset that I love having in my corner. It’s when she’s not in my corner that I start to worry, and I’d bet half a year’s salary that she’s the reason that those permits keep getting messed up all the time.
Ever since Rosetta was arrested for the murder of her ex-boss and the other partners at her old firm, the mayor’s been up her ass and has all but handed her a free walk to keep her from suing the city blind. Not that I blame the man. Rosetta went through hell when she was framed for the murders, and she went through a lot more in this shitty town when people believed the story. They owe her more than they can ever repay for the torment she suffered in order to prove herself innocent, and I guess for almost dying when a deranged maniac, whom the police released, tried to kill her.
“Look, boss—no offense, but if this doesn’t get resolved soon, I’m looking at a disgruntled crew. Sure, they get paid, but my guys don’t take to sitting around and twiddling their thumbs all day. Maybe you should call your legal—”
“My legal counsel is the fucking problem!” I bellow, beyond annoyed when I notice a wet spot on the original hardwood floor that I was planning to sand down and restore. “Rosetta Sweet-Hart is the problem here. She’s probably had the mayor put a wrench in the paperwork.”
“Why would she do that?” Clarke asks, looking doubtful.
I have no idea why, since everyone knows that Rosetta is capable of a level of revenge that goes beyond cruel. The woman used to have a crush on me, and stalked me for months, until I let her down and told her that I dug her cousin Alex. In the ensuing weeks, I got so many death threats, “gifts,” and scares that I was a nervous wreck. Hell, the woman even sent me a pile of dog shit as a “go to hell” gift before she fell in love with Zeus and decided that hating me wasn’t interesting anymore.
I’d prefer the gifts and near-constant state of terror to this, though.
“Because she hates me.”
“Nah, man, she told you that she was over you after her and Z got hitched. I was there. She even promised to stop having you tailed by the cops,” he says matter-of-factly, as if none of that was weird.
Which it was. Because stalking someone and having your cop buddies follow and harass them isn’t normal. But does anyone say anything about it, or call her out on it? No! In fact, my own mother told me to stop being a baby when I complained that I’d gotten a ticket for no reason and then ended up spending three hours in lockup when the cop accused me of displaying “aggressive behavior” towards him.
The world has gone crazy, and in the center of all that nuts is the Sweet family. A family that has married into mine.
“She hates me again.”
“Ahhh, Alex,” he muses with a shake of his head and a look that isn’t meant to display any support for my cause. “You really messed up there, man.”
“How? She said we weren’t in a relationship! She was the one who set all those boundaries. ‘Just fucking,’ she said. She said it!” I mutter, my hand getting stuck in my hair when I try to swipe at it because I’ve started adding so much gel that that shit can’t move anymore.
The last time my brother Adonis told me that I was looking like shit, I started taking steps to get myself together. My nervous habit of destroying my hair got the gel treatment, and my constantly crumpled shirts and jackets are now so starched that when it gets too hot, I get sweaty and chafe all over my torso. But I look fucking good.
“Women say all kinds of shit, man, and sometimes they even mean it, but it is not cool to completely freeze someone out of your life the morning after you have sex. Even I know that. Hell, even my cousin knows that, and Lothario hit a record by sleeping with five women in the same night. Separately. And he still managed to make them all feel special the next day.”
“Your cousin is a fucking pig.”
“Who does breakfast.”
Dammit. Okay. So I may have panicked when I woke up beside Alex and realized that I’d just fucked a woman that I have to see daily for the rest of my life. And my reactions got a little crazier when, instead of facing it, talking it through, and then laughing it off, I dropped out of sight. Plus, it was definitely a dick move I pulled when she showed up at my house and knocked for over twenty minutes—while I hid behind the door and watched her through the peephole.
I have no excuse for my actions. All I can say is that I have commitment issues that are deep-seated, and I need to work on that. I did apologize, though. I said sorry and tried to make it up to Alex. And woke up with my hand glued to my nutsack.
I can’t prove that it was her or Rosetta, but I swear to God, I will get my revenge, especially after my doctor had to do a house call and spent an hour laughing so hard that I almost had to call the ambulance when the old geezer nearly passed out while chortling.
“Fine, I screwed up. I said I was sorry.”
“Rule number one, man—never hurt a woman’s feelings.”
“I know that!”
God, don’t I know that. I get freaking hives just thinking about hurting a woman’s feelings, which is why I haven’t ever—not ever—had a relationship with one. I didn’t even date in high school, no matter how much chicks hinted at it, and I haven’t done anything to change that in my twenties, either. I don’t date or do any sort of mornings after, because I get panicked just thinking about the next step that most chicks want to take.
I have issues.
“Then you know that the least you could have done was tell her thank you and then send her flowers or something. You did none of that. According to Rosetta, you disappeared for a week and then showed up again pretending that nothing had happened,” he says accusingly, while the crew members, who have been listening in, make gruff sounds of disgust.
Christ. Everyone’s a freaking critic.
“Yo, man, e’en Manuel don’t treat the ladies bad, man,” Jorge chimes in, his thick Mexican accent mangling some words while making him seem wise at the same time. “Chicas are delicate, mijo. They need a soft touch, ju know?”
I don’t know how he does it, but I find myself nodding even as I recall every touch of that one night that Alex and I spent together. It wasn’t just sex, I think, using a steel will to stop my arousal from blooming as I shift and try to ignore my twitching dick. I haven’t been with a woman since, and not from lack of trying, because let’s face it, I’m a man, and I can get hard whenever I freaking want to. I just can’t seem to move on until I make things right with Alex, something that’s become nearly impossible ever since she vanished from all our family gatherings.
Heck, even the flowers I recently sent came back undelivered, with a card stating that Alex is on a leave of absence thanks to the accumulated sick days and vacation time that she never took. Simply put, she’s avoiding me now, and instead of feeling relief, I feel alone.
Alex and I were friends at one point, having reached a standoff after one particular night of drinking together and reveling in our gratitude that Cleo was okay. We connected on a level that I haven’t ever had with another woman. She didn’t want me, didn’t seem at all interested in trapping me in a relationship, and I liked that. I liked calling her when I had free time and just shooting the shit. I liked having someone to t
alk to about everything and anything, and, despite our beginnings and Alex’s hostile nature, we were truly friends.
I miss that more than I can explain, and I feel more than a little regret about the way things turned out. I came on to her. I was the one who sat across from her at one of Honey’s dinners and flirted mercilessly. It was I who made that first move and led us to bed, and so, as much as it pains me to admit it, I am the one at fault for the absolute screwup of my first and only real friendship outside of my brothers. I miss Alex. And I want her back as my friend. I just don’t know how to go about that without getting at least one limb severed by one of the Sweets.
“Ju gotta make these right. We wun our lunches back,” Miguel whines, prompting a chorus of agreement to ring out around me.
And I get it. Alex, as hostile and outright scary as she is, can be a real sweetheart. She took to bringing the crew lunches from Sin’s place after it became apparent that construction workers would rather eat rubber boots than spend any of their hard-earned money on food. And she was a real hit with my crew, always laughing and making lewd jokes that would make even Clarke blush, the freaking pig.
We all miss her, though God knows, with the way that they’re looking at me right now, with that decidedly suspicious gleam of intent shining in their eyes, this standstill on my house may not be the result of only the lack of permits.
I think these fucks are boycotting me.
“And she was funny.”
“And she smelled good.”
“And Gloria misses her, too.”
“My wife, too. She told me to tell you she kill you if Alex don’t come back.”
I wave their threats off good-naturedly because I know that they’re all just joking. I hope. Christ.
“Tell that to Al. She refuses to take my calls.”
“Nah. She changed her number, like, three times. I think that your clumsy rubbed off on her, idiot. She’s dropped the thing in the toilet so many times that she’s had three different phones in the last couple of weeks,” Clarke laughs, shaking his head when I scowl.