By Wednesday afternoon, the troops are getting restless. They’re on the mend but not yet back to full capacity. Because they’re getting antsy, they start to argue with each other. He smells, she’s hogging the covers, he’s fucking looking at me wrong.
I transport them all downstairs and corral them in the den. Every couch, recliner, and love seat, and certain sections of the floor, is covered with blankets, pillows, and kids. Chelsea lies on the couch and I sit on the floor, leaning back against it. Ronan lies on his stomach on a blanket beside me. I flick on the television.
And the arguing starts up again.
“Let’s watch SpongeBob.”
“SpongeBob is stupid. Put on MTV—16 and Pregnant is on.”
Remember when MTV used to actually play music videos?
“We’re not watching 16 and Pregnant,” Chelsea tells her niece.
“How about the Discovery Channel?” Raymond suggests. “There’s a marathon on the hunting habits of lions. They eat a ton of gazelles.”
“Poor gazelles!” Rosaleen laments.
There’s a nightmare in the making.
“Listen up!” I holler. “I have the remote. That makes me master of the universe. And the master says we’re watching basketball.”
There are complaints and agreements in equal measure.
A little while later, Rosaleen crawls off the recliner, dragging her pillow with her. She plops it down next to me and rests her head on it, regarding me. Her forehead is sickly damp, her eyes glazed. “Will you sing me a song?”
I look back at her. “No.”
“Please?” she rasps.
I shake my head definitively. I will not be broken. “Not happening.”
Her clammy hand touches my wrist. “It will help me fall asleep.”
And just like that, the resolve begins to fissure.
“I don’t sing,” I explain with a dash of desperation.
Her lip trembles, and the fissure widens. “But it will make me feel better. And I feel terrible, Jake.”
I cling to my man-card with straining fingers. “I don’t know any songs.”
It’s doubtful Iron Maiden would be helpful in this situation.
She blinks up at me slowly. “Pretty please?”
And the fissure has now become the Grand fucking Canyon. Damn it.
I clear my throat and softly sing the One Direction lyrics that have been buzzing in my head for days like overcaffeinated insects.
“Everyone else in the room can see it . . .”
My voice is too deep and haltingly awful.
The boys groan in tortured unison. Riley perks up from the recliner and turns my way, suddenly interested. Chelsea covers her mouth and I just know she’s giggling under that hand. But Rosaleen . . . her baby-blue gaze warms me down to the marrow of my bones. Because it’s thankful and adoring and brimming with hero worship.
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, she’s smiling.
So I continue. “Everyone else but you . . .”
I finish the goddamn chorus. Rosaleen applauds softly and Riley sighs dreamily. “Best song ever.”
Chelsea gives up trying to hold it in and giggles out loud.
I glance over my shoulder at her. “I hate myself right now.”
• • •
Early Thursday morning, a little over two days after the plague began, Chelsea is back on her feet. She’s just out of the shower—her hair is still wet and smells fucking incredible. That clean shampoo scent with a touch of vanilla body wash makes me want to lick her from head to toe and every inch in between. And that’s not even a little exaggeration.
She’s wrapped in an adorably big pink fluffy robe, cinched at the waist.
We walk down the stairs and stand in front of the door.
“You sure you’re feeling better?” I ask.
“Yes. I can take it from here.” She nods, her eyes soft with gratitude.
I’m heading out early—I have to stop at home and shower, then be in court in three hours. The kids are better. Still not out of bed or back to school, but they’re not puking their body weight into a wastebasket every two hours, either. So . . . progress.
Chelsea rests her hand on my arm, and maybe I’m just really fucking tired, but my skin seems to tingle beneath her touch. I can’t imagine how good it will feel on bare skin . . . wrapped around my cock. I’m absolutely going to have to jerk off before I see her again.
“Thank you, Jake. Again.” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”
I can think of a few ways.
I wink. “Actions do speak louder than words. And are so much more fun.”
“You’re right.” She squeezes my arm softly. “Which is why I’m going to make you the best dinner you’ve ever eaten—to show you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us. Friday night. Will you come?”
Oh boy, will I come. She has no idea.
But I pretend to think it over. “No tofu, right?”
Chelsea grins. “No tofu.”
I lean in, closer to her ear, making gooseflesh rise on the exposed skin along her collarbone. “What were you thinking for dessert?”
Her voice turns sultry as she plays along—and plays well. “What do you like, Jake?”
“I’ll eat anything with whipped cream on top.”
She blushes, and a laugh bubbles from her lips. “I’ll be sure to stock up.”
I push her damp hair back behind her ear. “Good. And I’ll bring a movie to keep the kids occupied. Riley mentioned they never saw Goonies, which is just straight-up criminal.”
I transport them all downstairs and corral them in the den. Every couch, recliner, and love seat, and certain sections of the floor, is covered with blankets, pillows, and kids. Chelsea lies on the couch and I sit on the floor, leaning back against it. Ronan lies on his stomach on a blanket beside me. I flick on the television.
And the arguing starts up again.
“Let’s watch SpongeBob.”
“SpongeBob is stupid. Put on MTV—16 and Pregnant is on.”
Remember when MTV used to actually play music videos?
“We’re not watching 16 and Pregnant,” Chelsea tells her niece.
“How about the Discovery Channel?” Raymond suggests. “There’s a marathon on the hunting habits of lions. They eat a ton of gazelles.”
“Poor gazelles!” Rosaleen laments.
There’s a nightmare in the making.
“Listen up!” I holler. “I have the remote. That makes me master of the universe. And the master says we’re watching basketball.”
There are complaints and agreements in equal measure.
A little while later, Rosaleen crawls off the recliner, dragging her pillow with her. She plops it down next to me and rests her head on it, regarding me. Her forehead is sickly damp, her eyes glazed. “Will you sing me a song?”
I look back at her. “No.”
“Please?” she rasps.
I shake my head definitively. I will not be broken. “Not happening.”
Her clammy hand touches my wrist. “It will help me fall asleep.”
And just like that, the resolve begins to fissure.
“I don’t sing,” I explain with a dash of desperation.
Her lip trembles, and the fissure widens. “But it will make me feel better. And I feel terrible, Jake.”
I cling to my man-card with straining fingers. “I don’t know any songs.”
It’s doubtful Iron Maiden would be helpful in this situation.
She blinks up at me slowly. “Pretty please?”
And the fissure has now become the Grand fucking Canyon. Damn it.
I clear my throat and softly sing the One Direction lyrics that have been buzzing in my head for days like overcaffeinated insects.
“Everyone else in the room can see it . . .”
My voice is too deep and haltingly awful.
The boys groan in tortured unison. Riley perks up from the recliner and turns my way, suddenly interested. Chelsea covers her mouth and I just know she’s giggling under that hand. But Rosaleen . . . her baby-blue gaze warms me down to the marrow of my bones. Because it’s thankful and adoring and brimming with hero worship.
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, she’s smiling.
So I continue. “Everyone else but you . . .”
I finish the goddamn chorus. Rosaleen applauds softly and Riley sighs dreamily. “Best song ever.”
Chelsea gives up trying to hold it in and giggles out loud.
I glance over my shoulder at her. “I hate myself right now.”
• • •
Early Thursday morning, a little over two days after the plague began, Chelsea is back on her feet. She’s just out of the shower—her hair is still wet and smells fucking incredible. That clean shampoo scent with a touch of vanilla body wash makes me want to lick her from head to toe and every inch in between. And that’s not even a little exaggeration.
She’s wrapped in an adorably big pink fluffy robe, cinched at the waist.
We walk down the stairs and stand in front of the door.
“You sure you’re feeling better?” I ask.
“Yes. I can take it from here.” She nods, her eyes soft with gratitude.
I’m heading out early—I have to stop at home and shower, then be in court in three hours. The kids are better. Still not out of bed or back to school, but they’re not puking their body weight into a wastebasket every two hours, either. So . . . progress.
Chelsea rests her hand on my arm, and maybe I’m just really fucking tired, but my skin seems to tingle beneath her touch. I can’t imagine how good it will feel on bare skin . . . wrapped around my cock. I’m absolutely going to have to jerk off before I see her again.
“Thank you, Jake. Again.” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”
I can think of a few ways.
I wink. “Actions do speak louder than words. And are so much more fun.”
“You’re right.” She squeezes my arm softly. “Which is why I’m going to make you the best dinner you’ve ever eaten—to show you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us. Friday night. Will you come?”
Oh boy, will I come. She has no idea.
But I pretend to think it over. “No tofu, right?”
Chelsea grins. “No tofu.”
I lean in, closer to her ear, making gooseflesh rise on the exposed skin along her collarbone. “What were you thinking for dessert?”
Her voice turns sultry as she plays along—and plays well. “What do you like, Jake?”
“I’ll eat anything with whipped cream on top.”
She blushes, and a laugh bubbles from her lips. “I’ll be sure to stock up.”
I push her damp hair back behind her ear. “Good. And I’ll bring a movie to keep the kids occupied. Riley mentioned they never saw Goonies, which is just straight-up criminal.”
