by Kira Graham
“How the hell do you know that?”
“She told me when she called to give me her new deets.”
“Yeah. Me, too. I been trying to make some sort of cover for her that’s watertight, but all it ends up looking like is a freezer bag,” Raul grumbles, taking some ribbing from the guys because that’s all it is.
His damn phone is in a bag right now, for God’s sake.
“She called you?” I ask them all, feeling like hell when even French nods.
Goddammit, I’ve slipped beneath French in her rankings, and I thought that that was impossible, what with the guy having an eyeball that Alex once described as an unsettling milky hue that reminded her of those posters that the priest put up in the youth center to advertise the ills of STDs.
“Yep. Even offered to send me some of her mama’s pot roast. Now that gal can cook!” he drawls in that Cajun accent of his.
Phew! She’s trying to kill him. I’m still above French.
“Dammit. I don’t have her new number. Give it to me,” I mutter as I grab my phone.
It’s when I look up, anticipating the number, that I learn a few things. One, these men may love Alex, but they’re all terrified of her, as they should be. And two, there’s no such thing as loyalty to the man who pays their more-than-above-minimum wage. Because when I do look up, they’re all gone. Just gone. Like smoke.
Even Clarke, who is a pro UFC fighter in his spare time.
Alexandria
The doctor glares at me over her clipboard, giving absolutely no thought to my comfort as I lay spread-eagled with my feet in stirrups and my junk all out on display. Not that I mind all that much. I mean, I washed it and everything this morning. It’s her glaring and muttering that’s really getting to me.
“You need an ultrasound, Alexandria.”
“For the flu?” I scoff, giving her a glare right back because Rosetta talked to her about this beforehand, and the idiot said she was on board.
Honestly, is it too much to ask a medical professional to lie to me for the sake of my mental health?
“Alex—”
“Don’t! Don’t say it unless you want me to pass out and fall off this bed, and really don’t say it unless you want a face full of puke. Look, doc, we’ve been over this. I’m having anxiety. Anxiety is not good for the…flu. And we all know it. So, while I’m trying to get a handle on this anxiety, just do me a favor and play along. It’s not like I’m asking you to cure cancer here, lady. I just need time,” I huff, slapping Sin away when she tries to stroke my hair.
I don’t want or need comfort right now. What I need is for everything to be okay so that I can go back home, eat the leftover pizza in the fridge, and watch Roseanne reruns. That’s all I want at this moment. Just some freaking peace.
“And I said that I would try, unless something came up. Something is up, Alexandria, and it isn’t just your legs in those stirrups. You’re measuring bigger than you should, and I need to check things,” Dr. Payne insists, embodying her name when she glares at me again and doesn’t seem fazed by Rosetta’s curses.
She must be insane, because anyone who isn’t at least a little cowed by Rosetta can’t be normal upstairs.
“You have your brief, doc. Everything okay? The flu progressing well? Those are the answers that I want right now, not a freaking lecture about her mental health. We all know she’s a nut, but she’s a nut who’s apparently suffering from panic attacks that make her pass out or throw up or both. Do not make her do that again,” Rosetta warns, gagging as she looks down at her jacket, where I blew chunks all over the designer silk.
Not my fault. I warned them all not to mention the P word, but she went and said it just as we were exiting Zeus’s car. With, like, nine security guys. I shit you not. Even Sin had security, and I guess that the stress I felt at realizing that I should have my own team, and that I don’t—that I’ve basically been living in fear for my life—added to what I felt when she said the P word.
None of this is good, and I know that. Two months ago, I had to deal with my sister’s being arrested for multiple murders that she didn’t commit, not to mention the ongoing case surrounding the freak who is apparently stalking not only Cleo, but also our whole family. And now, this. I don’t know that I can take many more hits right now. Not after my recent sixteen-stage trial by fire that ended with my head in the toilet bowl, and with denial becoming my main catchphrase for the foreseeable future.
I’m not usually this psycho, no matter what people think; it’s just that I’m not dealing well with all the upheaval. Of all the Sweet girls, I’m normally the stable one. Cleo is a dessert-making genius who fell in love with Adonis Hart and is making him crazier by the day. Rosetta is a serial killer masquerading as the law, and is married to her dream man. Tee and Sin are both insane, gainfully employed, and likely to spend their Saturday nights finding what I call victims—who end up crying the morning after when they get kicked to the curb.
That’s not me. I’m the quiet one that no one really notices unless I’m involved in one of their crazy schemes, and the girl that everyone thinks is a whore, just because I happen to have a lot of male companions that other people mistake for dates or conquests. It’s that quiet watchfulness that has allowed me to fool them all for years now, but, God help me, it’s not like I enjoy it.
They all think that I’m some advertising mogul who spends her days drawing up campaigns that are sexually motivated. I wonder what they’d all think if they realized that I’m actually a licensed sex therapist who rents office space from the ad agency because a friend of mine agreed to play along with my ruse after she met my mom and aunts.
They’d have a fit if they knew that I helped couples and individuals with their sex problems, and my mom would straight up stroke out if she ever found out that I know things about sex that would make those BDSM people look like kittens.
That’s me. I’m the quiet one that no one pays very close attention to. Enough so that I’ve managed to be who they want me to be while also living a secret life. The only person that I’ve ever talked to about any of this is that rat bastard, that turd-eating asshole, Achilles Hart. And look where that got me. My only consolation in all of this is that he didn’t spill the beans, even after I poured sugar in his gas tank and watched the engine of his Porsche blow up.
Which was as funny as hell!
“Rosetta, I can’t just ignore this,” Dr. Payne sighs, throwing her hands in the air when I sniff and cough in order to emphasize my stance on this. “Dammit! Fine. You know what? Just…take these,” she grumbles, rising to stalk over to her desk and coming back with a sleeping mask and a set of headphones. “Put those on, listen to some music, and let me examine your…bloat.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to do an ultrasound to make sure that, uh…that your bowel is okay. Got it? And then I’ll tell Rosetta and Sin what I find. That good enough?” she asks, rolling her eyes when I smile widely and put on the headphones.
With the mask covering my eyes and the sweet tunes of Ludacris calming my nerves, I hardly flinch when she pours something cold on my stomach, nor do I acknowledge what she’s doing when something smooth starts to roll over my skin. Normally, I’d be curious—I mean, I’m the nosiest person alive—but for once, I let myself relax and ignore the mystery because, honestly, I have to.
It’s not that I want to be a hater, and I’m not—I swear I’m not. I just can’t deal with it right now. Later, when I no longer want to bolt at the mention of Achilles, I will totally accept all of this and even become a loving mooo—dammit, I can’t even think that word.
When someone eventually taps me on the shoulder and pulls off the mask, I realize that it’s all over and gladly remove the headphones, asking myself why I would ever put Céline Dion on my phone. There is definitely something wrong with me if I apparently chose “Natural Woman” for a playlist at some point. Gross. Whenever I hear that song, it makes me think of Julia Roberts back when she was dating
that Bratt guy who didn’t want her to shave her pits or wear deodorant. The inhumanity!
“There. All done,” the doctor says, wearing a smile on her face now that she’s managed to get her way.
“My flu—it’s doing okay?” I ask, a small kernel of worry filling me until she smiles again and pats my thigh—a little too close for comfort, but hell, she’s had her hand up there already, I guess.
“All good. You should start feeling better once the meds that I’ve prescribed kick in. Just remember to stay hydrated and eat small, balanced meals. With the flu, it’s better to be healthy and keep your weight within reasonable levels. The fitter you are, the easier the del—”
“Ahem! Stick to the script. I have a freaking meeting in an hour, a mother to call, and a husband to meet for lunch. No more throwing up,” Rosetta tells both the doctor and me, her threatening look filled with meaning.
“Ahem! Like I was saying. Fit is best. I see that you don’t work out,” she begins, as she checks my chart and the questionnaire that I had to fill out upon arrival.
Sorry—the one that Sin had to fill out, because I “fell asleep” in the waiting room when a woman came in with a belly so huge that I don’t know how her legs were functioning.
“Is anyone paying me to inflict that amount of pain on my body?” I ask conversationally, smiling when the woman huffs.
“It’s best if you do some light exercise, especially if you’re planning to go the natural, er…route later.”
“Me sitting on some bike and peddling till my soul shrivels is not ‘natural.’ You want me to work out? You pay me for the pleasure. But everything else is okay?” I ask again, feeling a weight lift when she nods and starts to prattle on about various things to Rosetta, while Sin keeps me distracted.
Now. All I have to do is get past seeing my family, and somehow mentally prepare myself for a face-to-face with Chilli.
I can do this. I can totally do this.
Chapter Four
Alexandria
I can’t do this!
“Yes you can! Just breathe deeply and keep lying to yourself, and you’ll be just fine,” Cleo chirps, her ever-present smile and small touches to my stomach driving me nearly insane.
Here’s where we’re at with my situation thus far. Rosetta and Cleo called a family meeting after dropping me off at my apartment with Sin, who has magically managed to take some time off work and wants to hang out with me, or so she says. I think that she’s just scared that I’ll pull another runner, which I can’t say I wouldn’t do—not with the way that my head is still reeling.
Two pink lines…don’t think about it!
Anyway, where we’re at is that they came over and talked to the folks about…my flu, and, according to Sin, who’s been feeding me all day, everyone is over the moon about it. Except Honey, who is threatening to kill someone if she doesn’t see a ring on my finger in the near future.
I snorted ice cream out of my nose when I heard that, and Sin laughed so hard that she had to take a bathroom break. And borrow some clean pants. So, we’re all on the same page. I’m suffering from the flu, as well as from a mysterious disease that makes me gain weight. Awesome.
As for the Harts, I have no idea what Rosetta said to them, and I don’t want to know, either. I just want to be okay when I step into Honey’s and Uncle Jack’s house, and have to face people. I need for them not to put pressure on me and bombard me with questions. Essentially, I need them all to keep up the lie while I deal with what’s going on in my head.
Deep down, I know that I’m experiencing some sort of post-traumatic something after everything that’s happened. First, Cleo getting kidnapped and almost killed, and then poor Rosetta being arrested and accused of murder before almost getting killed herself. It all scared me a lot and made me very aware of just how fragile life can be. Factor in the thing that my doctor told me a year ago, and you’d understand even better why this is all just too much for me.
I was supposed to be sterile—or, as Doc Payne put it, my eggs were okay, but the factory wasn’t in proper running order. In short, the P word wasn’t supposed to be a reality for me—something that I didn’t tell anyone, because come on, who wants to look their family in the eye and confess that her uterus is what the doctor described as “a hostile environment for life to thrive”?
Not me. And I especially didn’t want to tell my mom that I had the same issues as she did, since they were the reason that my Aunt Honey ended up having to carry both Sin and me as a surrogate. So, with all of that showing up to bite me in the ass, coupled with the near losses, the uncertainty, and then the loss of Chilli, I guess that everything was—and still is—too much for me to face.
We were friends, dammit! And yeah, okay—sure, I was madly attracted to him, and that made it so that I ended up sleeping with him in the end, but the whole friends thing meant so much more. Not that I didn’t—and still don’t—appreciate the orgasms. I’d just have been a lot better off if the orgasms hadn’t left me with a seriously settled case of…the flu.
How am I going to handle this? I ask myself, as I take a deep breath and look up at the house, with its driveway filled with cars. I don’t—I mean, I’m not in the right place for all this…responsibility. I only just nailed down my client base, and, since I am on just a short leave, I’ll still get those patients back from the temporary replacement that I brought in to handle things in my absence.
But that’s all. The only area of my life that is at all stable right now is my job. My God, I don’t even own pots or pans because I cook like shit, and a service does my laundry because the last time I tried, the clothes all came out pink, and somehow the washer stopped working. I think the repair guy actually said that I should never own a washer again, and then he dragged the destroyed machine away after handing me a card for the laundry service.
So, to summarize, I don’t cook or clean, and I am useless when it comes to animals. Even Uncle Jack’s new dog, Trojan—don’t think about the whys, Alex—doesn’t like me! How am I supposed to look after anything smaller than that mutt and keep it alive?
“Chill out. You’re doing that hoarse panting breath thing again, and your face is turning green. It’s going to be fine,” Sin mumbles, squeezing my hand when a bout of nausea hits me.
“They’re all here, Sinai! All of them. Even Lovey. You know that I adore that woman. What if she asks about…?” I wave down at my stomach, which by now even a size large men’s flannel can’t conceal properly. “I just—I don’t want this to be an issue, and I know they’ll ask. Oh my God, are those Ares’ and Paris’s cars, too?” I wail.
I love Ares. He’s like my BFF, and the only Hart who is sane enough to talk to. He’s chilled out, he’s cool, and he’s also the only man I’ve ever met who asks all the right questions at all the wrong times.
“Calm down, dork. They’ll keep their mouths shut if they know what’s good for them,” she sneers, the only one of my family members who is truly in my corner.
I’ve gotten texts from them all, and in every single one, there is some variation of: “Please wake up and smell the coffee; this isn’t normal.” I know that, okay? I freaking get that having a mental breakdown over this isn’t normal, or healthy, or right! I freaking know. But I need it, and Sin seems to be the only person who gets that.
She’s supporting me in the way that I need her to, which is funny because, out of everyone in my life, she’s the one who never hesitates to call out the elephant in the room.
One time, she totally asked why everyone was crying at old Uncle Flannery’s funeral, when everyone hated him while he was alive. She also told Mindy’s mom that Mindy was a raging whore—in church, right in the middle of the good father’s sermon about abstinence.
And yet here she is, having my back and keeping her mouth shut. It’s perfect. Now, all I need is for everyone else to do the same, and I’ll be able to make it through the first of what I envision to be a long line of awkward family get-togethers. God help
us if Cleo actually stops dragging her feet, and her wedding happens.
“Is that…?” I gulp, staring at a white Porsche as my insides roll.
“Don’t sweat it, babe. He’s here. Let’s just pretend that he isn’t, and then get over this dinner. If things get too hard, I’ll kneecap him and hustle you out to my getaway car. By the way, I packed some snacks in my purse. You need to eat a lot when you have your particular brand of the flu, and I don’t think that eating Honey’s slop is healthy for, uh…the bugs. I mean, bug! Bug. You have one bug,” she mutters, pulling up right at the door and shutting the car off.
Oh, shit-on-a-shoe!
“We’re doing this. Unless you want to wake up with Rosetta standing over you, her eyes blazing hellfire,” Sin informs me when I try for the door handle and end up reaching for the car keys.
I can’t help it. My hands are just doing this stuff all on their own.
“Dammit.”
Achilles
The front door opens with a resounding clap that has my head shooting up and my arm shooting out, not only hitting Cleo’s glass, but somehow tipping over Adonis’s as well. That starts a sort of cascading effect that ends with Cleo shrieking a curse at me as she hops in place and tries to put out her skirt. Which is on fire. How the fire started, I have no idea. All I know is that I’m now staring down four extremely disgruntled people, the worst of them being Adonis, because all that’s left of Cleo’s neon yellow skirt is a black rag of smoldering stench.
“Christ, man! What the hell? Go stand over there, next to Bill. He’s indestructible,” my brother mutters, taking off his shirt when Cleo starts to shimmy out of her clothes, yelling about the luck that she has around me.
I’m clumsy. It’s a thing. You’d think that people would be used to it by now and just move the fuck on. That’s not what keeps our attention, though, thank God, and when I look over toward the front door a second time, I’m damn grateful that I’m standing beside Bill, because the little marble statue next to my elbow somehow falls off its base and slams into his foot so hard that even I wince.