I shrug my shoulders as I check the bottle's temperature. Perfect.
“You want to feed this kid for me?” I ask with pouty lips. I know I'm supposed to be the nanny here, but I also sort of want to see Brooke hold the baby. She nods and reaches her arms out for Sadie, propping her up against her chest as I watch, feeling all possessive and shit. Like, maybe this girl's supposed to be my woman or something?
Buuuuut, I just did say I have commitment issues, didn't I? I was not fucking kidding about that shit.
I go back to the pancakes and stir the batter with vigor as the song repeats itself. I like to put my songs on loops sometimes, listen to the same damn thing a hundred times in a row. Who doesn't, right?
“I guess I was scared,” Brooke admits as I get out a pan and rub some butter around the bottom. Pancakes always taste better when they're soaked in butter, right? “My sister got pregnant really young and then went through a long string of semi-serious boyfriends. None of them turned out to be who she thought they were. Maybe by dating Anthony, I felt like I was safe from all of that. He was safe. Everyone always said what a good guy he was, how nice he was, how dedicated he was to his faith …”
“Oh, that is so not sexy,” I laugh as I get out the bacon and eggs from the fridge. “Dedicated to his faith? Gross. Don't you want a guy that's dedicated to you instead?” I glance over my shoulder and find Brooke's cheeks turning a funny pink color. “A guy that can nail you to the mattress?”
“Um, children present,” she says, but she knows they're asleep and that Sadie can't understand a damn thing we're saying. I grin at that.
“Good guy. Nice. Dedicated. Yuck. No wonder you fell into bed with me.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” she asks as I start a second pan up for the bacon.
“I'm, like, the complete opposite of that guy, don't you think?”
“Not really. You might not be religious, but you are kind of a nice guy. I mean, you look all badass and tough, but you're kind of sweet, Zayden.” I turn around and wrinkle my nose at her.
“Ouch. Sweet and nice?” I put my tattooed knuckles together. “You just haven't seen me get up the need to kick anybody's ass yet. I totally can.” I flex for Brooke and she laughs, sunlight streaming through the glass of the sliding doors and turning her hair into a glittering sea of bronze. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
I make myself turn away from her, pulling my phone out to Google how long bacon needs to cook for. There's a text from that pink haired chick, and a few from my buddies at home. A couple Facebook messages from a girl I hooked up with last month. I stare at it all, the proof of my life back home and I feel this weird emptiness yawning open inside of me.
Fuck.
I jam the phone back in my pocket and refocus on breakfast. I can't think about anything but this moment. I just have to live this. I've got an exhibitionist date booked with Brooke for tonight and a week of guaranteed fabulous sex waiting for me. At the end of the week, we'll see how I feel.
I bet I'll be gunning to get the hell out of here.
Surprise, surprise.
That bitch, Monica, really does show up like I asked. I think Brooke's in complete shock, her mouth hanging open as she pushes the door wide and lets her great aunt in. The woman gives me a look that's worth a thousand words, most of them synonymous for dickhead or serial killer. I don't think she can decide exactly how much she hates me. S'okay. I'm used to it. People love to judge me based on my appearance. I got this.
“Yo, Monica,” I say as I pry one of the twins off of my leg and use my foot to stop the ugly hairless dog from humping the ugly not-hairless one. The kids keep asking me what they're doing, and I had no clue how to answer. When Brooke suggested they were “dogging” and that it was some sort of game, I went with it. “No dogging, Dodger.” I grin when I say it and enjoy the way Monica's face pales. “We're callin' the whole humping thing a euphemism.” I clap the woman on the shoulder and she gasps, putting a hand to her chest as I wink and twirls my nephew around my waist like a swing dancer. He screams in joy as I deposit him back on his feet. “You'll get the hang of it pretty quick.”
“I'm not—” Monica starts, but I ignore her. She's one of those selfish, judgmental assholes that I hate. Who cares what she has to say? Not me. All I want right now is for her to watch these rugrats so I can go screw their aunt into the side of a brick building during the arts fair.