Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (Hautboy Series Book 3) (8 page)

“Salary?”

“I’ll match what you were making at the hospital, and cover your healthcare costs while you’re employed here.”

“Concerns?”

“As I said on the phone, I’d like you to stay on through the end of the pregnancy.  Em is her best friend, but she’s opening her own restaurant in a few weeks and she’s been busy hammering out the details.  She can’t always be there to chill and keep her company.”

That wasn’t necessarily what I was fishing for.  I was going to have to come clean.  I couldn’t—in good conscience—sign any agreements unless I knew Jake wouldn’t be a problem.  “Look, I need to be level with you.  Jake and I hooked up at the club two weeks ago.  I haven’t heard from him since.  I don’t have a problem with that.  But if working here is going to cause trouble, I won’t accept the position.”

“What happens between you and Jake is none of my business.  As long as Cooper and Levy are your main focus when you’re here, I don’t have a problem.”

“Happened,” I clarified.  “From experience, I think it’s in everyone’s best interests if it remains in the past tense.  Mixing work with personal—let’s just say I learned my lesson.”

“That might be best,” Tate agreed.  “Jake has these …rules.  They’re surprisingly conventional for an artist, but I guess we’re not exempt.  No sisters or exes, that kind of thing.”

“I’m well familiar,” I snorted.  “I have ten brothers.”

“Ten,” Tate repeated, astounded.

“Two sisters,” I added.

“Shit.”

I smiled leniently, though I hated discussing my brothers and sisters.  I felt like they were part of my identity.  I guess everyone had that blemish to their name, sort of like losing a sibling or loved one, or having some sort of mole or scar to your face.  Good or bad, people used it to identify you.  Surprisingly, being one of thirteen overshadowed having violet hair.

“Anyhow,” I said, moving on, “you know Jake better than I do.”

Tate’s lip curled in a wry grin.  “Jake won’t be a problem.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”  His gaze shifted, focusing behind me.  Self-consciously, I glanced over my shoulder.  There was no one there.  When I turned back to Tate, he flashed a smile that made me blush.

“I’ll get the paperwork?”

“Um, sure.”  I looked behind me one more time, feeling like I was the brunt of some joke.  The hall sat empty except for a large ficus tree, its leaves shivering against the draft.

“I’ll grab it from my office while I show you through the rest of the house.”

There wasn’t a room in the entire place left unadorned to perfection.  It made the stark white walls of my apartment feel like a jail cell.  I’d foregone the home décor and chose to put my money toward traveling.  Whatever.  I refused to regret that.  I liked seeing the world.

The main house was large, but not as large as anticipated.  I supposed the pool house, boat house and several other smaller structures offset the lack of square footage.  Don’t get me wrong, it was still impressive.  And I’d yet to see the studio that took up the basement.

As I descended the stairs behind Tate, Peter’s cackle echoed up from below.  I was glad Tate couldn’t see the shift in my expression, because I just about had an aneurysm.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Tate inquired.

“That would be my brother.”  Even his laugh was obnoxious.

“No worries.  It’s cool.”  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Tate crossed the space to a stainless fridge.  “Something to drink, Paisley?”

Carter looked up at the sound of my name.  “Violet!”

“Carter,” I replied, and turned to Tate, but Peter beat me to it.

“She likes hard cider.”

“Thank you, but I can’t,” I declined.  “I’m driving.”

“I can drive,” my brother offered, surprising me.  I stared in wonder.  I’ve never known my brother to pass up a beer, and from Tate Watkins of all people.  “What?”

“I’m just wondering what drugs they gave you.”

“Pipsqueak, I have Carter Strickland’s bass guitar in my hands,” he explained.  He was holding the thing reverently, as if it were the robe of Jesus.  “You can’t get any higher than I feel right now.”

“Do you play?” Carter asked.  “Let’s hear it.”

“For real?”  Peter was like a little kid.  He actually looked to me, as if asking for permission.  A smile snuck up my face, despite my annoyance.  I rolled my eyes and shrugged my assent.

Grinning like a loon, he lifted the strap over his head and adjusted his grip on the neck.  After a few seconds of mental prep, he began finger-picking Crossroads.  I’d listened to him play it dozens of times as kids.  Well, listened to him
try
and play it.  He’d improved over the years.  It had to have been three or four since I’d heard him play it last.  We were still living at home.

Tate gestured to Shane, who picked up on cue, jumping in with a jazz like procession that cast a little energy to the performance.  Peter’s face lit up, and he began to jam, bobbing his head to the beat.  Unable to help himself, Tate picked up his Gibson and began picking the famous riff.

Cracking open my bottle of cider, I sat down and started filling out the paperwork.  Peter owed me big time.  Be cool, I told him.  Keep quiet.  And here he was, jamming with Hautboy in Tate Watkins’ private recording studio.  I supposed I should count my blessings.  It could’ve been much worse.  He could’ve taken me in a headlock and given me a knuckle rub on my scalp.

“Aren't you going to ask about your boy, Jake?” Carter inquired.  He dropped into the chair across from me.  His main attention was on my brother.

“How's Jake?”

“Good.  He's around here somewhere.”

“I think he's hiding behind a ficus tree upstairs.”

A wide smile spread across Carter’s face.  “What a fuckin’ pussy.”

I shrugged, feigning indifference.  “He's not interested.  It's fine.  I'm here to work anyhow.”

I glanced up at my brother, but he wasn't paying any attention to us.  Nonetheless, I put my head down and continued reading through the legalities.

“It's not that he's not interested.  He's been busy.  We all have.”

I forced a smile and nodded once, keeping my eyes on my work.  Hoping Carter would move on.  I had.

“You're doing it again—you're appeasing me.”

“Look, no offense, but I don't want to discuss it.”  I glanced pointedly at my brother.

“What—are you ashamed of him?”

“No, but what happened between us is nobody's business but our own.”

My brother decided at that moment to take note of my expression and lost his momentum, leaving my exclamation hanging in the air like an avow.

Everyone looked at me and then Carter and then anything but the two of us.

“Hey, as long as she’s happy, I’m happy,” said Peter, totally unlike himself, “Just treat her right.”  As if it were an everyday occurrence, he went back to finger picking his guitar.

It took all but five seconds before I recognized the riff line for White Wedding.  Shane was the first to laugh.  “That,” he said, tapping a cigarette from his pack, “was fucking funny.”  Pinching the cigarette between his lips, he cupped his hands around his lighter and took a long drag.  “After the other night, I wasn’t sure about you, but you’re actually kinda cool.”

Me, I flipped Peter the middle finger.

Tate hooted and laughed.

Carter got up and stormed out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

“What?” Peter asked, confounded.  “What did I say?”  He looked at me for an answer, as if I knew.

“Why did you have to say anything at all?”  Standing, I crossed the room and handed the papers to Tate.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.  I appreciate you offering me the opportunity, though.”

“She’ll take the job,” I heard Peter say as I jogged up the stairs.  A second later, he was following me.

Cutting through the kitchen to go out the rear door, I found Emelia pressing a compress to Jake’s nose.  He had his head tilted back, but not so far that he couldn’t see me.  “Oh, thank God,” Emelia sighed.  “You’re a nurse, right?  Can you take a look at it?”

I actually looked at the door.  I’d had enough humiliation for one day.

“I don’t know what happened,” she continued.  “Carter just hit him for no reason at all.”

“I’m fine,” Jake said, tilting his head back farther.  “Just a bloody nose.”

“Don’t tilt your head back,” I sighed.  “The blood will run down the back of your throat.  It’ll make you nauseated.”  Approaching Jake, I dragged a stool over and placed it in front of him.  “Sit.”

“I said I was fine.”

“The kid’s watching you.  Be a good role model.”  With reluctance, Jake sat down.  “I’ll need some ice and some fresh gauze, and nasal spray if you have any.”  I turned to Jake, ignoring those steely eyes.  I didn’t want to get caught up in something I couldn’t have.  “Keep your head tilted slightly forward.  If the blood runs into your mouth, spit it out.  It can irritate the lining of your stomach, and like I said, cause vomiting.  Can I take a look?”

“It’s not broken.”

“I can change that.”

Despite himself, he laughed.  Blood bubbled out his nose and down his face.  “Shit.”

“Serves you right.”  Grabbing a fresh paper towel from Em, I swapped it with the soiled one.  “Just hold it there while I look,” I instructed, placing it directly beneath his nostrils.  Gently, I examined his nose, careful not to cause him any undue pain.  “It’s not broken.  What you want to do is pinch it for about ten minutes.  Keep ice on it if you can.  If it keeps bleeding, try some Afrin, and pinch it for another ten minutes.  The Afrin will help constrict the blood vessels, and reduce the bleeding.”

Jake looked up.  Our gazes met.  I quickly looked at Em.  “It was a pleasure seeing you again.”  I held out my hand.  Em took it with a warm smile.

“When are you starting?”

“I’m not.”

Her smile fell.  “No? Why?”

“I was offered something more permanent.”

Behind me, Peter sneeze-coughed.  “Coughliarcough.”

Ignoring him, I adjusted my purse on my shoulder.  “Good luck with the restaurant.  Though, if it’s as good as it smells, you’ll do amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Bye, Jake.”  I said it quickly like a coward, then turned and walked out.  I didn't slow once I was outside.  I strode directly to my car and slid behind the wheel.  A minute later—and I mean one
long
minute, and I knew, because I watched the clock—my brother dropped into the passenger seat beside me.

“I
didn't
sleep with Carter Strickland.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”  I glanced at Peter.  He was rubbing his knuckles, which were tinged with blood.

“What did you do?”

“I’m sorry.”

OMG.  “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I tried.  I really, really tried.  I swear.”

“Peter!”

“If it wasn’t broken before, it’s broken now.”  His lips curled into a faint smirk.

Chapter 8
 

“
I
told you, I’m not discussing this,” I said for the millionth time.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”  Easter Sunday for most families meant a large, wicker basket filled with enough candy to share with twelve square blocks for a week.  For my family, it meant early morning mass followed by a lunch-dinner that could feed double that amount.  And why was there no equivalent to brunch for lunch and dinner?  Probably because there wasn’t a combination that worked.  I mean, dunch?  Linner?  Dunner?  None of them rolled off the tongue fluidly.

Back to the point, I was helping mom in the kitchen as usual.  Which meant I was hot, sweating, and highly irritable.  I had mashed potatoes smeared across my dress, flour in my hair, and tie-dye hands, thanks to the three dozen Easter eggs I hid across the back yard at the crack of dawn.  And that basket of candy…my mom decided only children would partake.

I told myself I didn’t care.  I didn’t need the calories anyhow.  But damn if it didn’t burn me up.  If I was helping with the cooking, I was entitled to my share of candy.

Honestly, that wasn’t what was bothering me.  It was the fact that all three girls were in the kitchen busting their butts to fix dinner while the boys were scattered across the house to do their own thing.  Those except the two oldest.  Pax was busy busting my chops.  Peter wasn’t helping cook, but he had surprisingly kept to his word and eased off with the interference.

“I only asked where you went,” Pax stated, pressing for information.  His blue eyes glinted with umbrage.  “You partied with Hautboy and you can’t tell me where they took you?”

While Peter knew who I was with, he didn’t know where they had taken me, and I was keeping it that way, because what Peter didn’t know, Peter couldn’t tell.  It wasn’t Pax’s business.  If I wanted Pax to know, I would’ve told him myself.

“Say something to her, Mom.  She got in a car with a bunch of strangers, went God knows where, and shut the GPS off on Peter’s phone so we couldn’t get in touch with her.”

I snorted internally.  You didn’t need GPS to make a phone call.

My mom looked up from under her mousy bangs.  “She’s not living under my roof anymore, Paxton.  She’s an adult, and can make decisions for herself.”

“Yeah, Paxton,” Peter chimed in.  Never mind that he was the one who tattled in the first place.  “She’s an adult.”

Pax frowned, disgruntled.  “I can’t believe you played Carter Strickland’s guitar.”  Finally, the truth came out, the real reason for his foul mood.  He was jealous.

“Oh, I played with Tate Watkins and Shane Richardson,” Peter clarified with glee.  “We played Crossroads, and I
killed
it!”

“There’s no justice in this world.”  Pushing away from the table, Pax stood and left the room.  “No freakin’ justice!”  He smacked the door jamb with his knuckles on the way out.  My father gave him a word of warning on damaging the house.

Peter smiled and winked.  “Gimme that.”  He gestured to the bowl of potatoes I was mashing.  “You’re not supposed to wear the things.”

“
You’re
going to mash the potatoes?” I said disbelievingly.  I handed him the mixer.  Hey, if he offered, I wasn’t going to refuse.  It wasn’t often, if ever that he wanted to help.

“Oh, come on—how hard can it be?”

“Wait!! Wait!”  I stepped closer to the window, pulled back the curtains, and craned my neck, looking up at the sky.

“What’re you doing?” Peter inquired with consternation.

“I’ve never seen a pig fly before.  I don’t want to miss it.”

“Ha ha.  Funny.”  Rolling his eyes, he flipped the switch on the mixer, spraying the front of his shirt and half the kitchen with a mixture of russet and yukon gold potatoes.  “Aw fuck!”

“Peter!” Mom scolded.

“It’s not me!  This thing’s broken!”

“It’s not broken.  More like user error.  You have to hold it straight.”  I had to hold my stomach, I was laughing so hard.  Peter turned the mixer in my direction.  There was nowhere to go.  Our kitchen was the size of a shoebox.

“Out!” Mom shouted, shoeing Peter from the kitchen.  “Get out!  You’re making a mess, Peter!  I’m trying to get dinner on the table!  I don’t have time for your antics!”

“I was trying to help!”  Peter exclaimed.

“You want to help—you can help clean up after everyone’s eaten!”

“Fine.”  Peter turned the mixer off and sat it on the counter.  “If you’re going to yell about it…”

“This is the reason I don’t allow the boys into the kitchen,” she said, looking at me.  “They’re useless.”

“That’s discrimination,” Peter stated.

“It isn’t discrimination; it’s the
truth
!”  When Mom started toward him with her trusty wooden spoon, Peter hightailed it out of the kitchen.

“This isn't over!” Peter declared, ever the comedian.  He'd watched way too many cartoons as a kid.

“Finish the potatoes,” Mom said, gathering my attention.  “Paige, take the casserole out of the oven.  Piper, put the biscuits on the table.”

My smile faded.  I pushed my hair from my face and went back to mashing the potatoes.  Playtime was over.  Always the story.

“What happened to the doctor, Paisley?” Mom asked, now that she had the kitchen to herself.

“We broke up.”

Mom snorted.  “I knew that much.  I meant why?”

“That’s not nosy at all.”

“I’m your mother.  I’m allowed to be nosy.  It’s my job.”  Mixing the glazed carrots on the stove beside me, she waited for an answer.

“I’m your daughter.  I’m allowed to be taciturn.”

“He was a nice boy.  You weren’t afraid to bring him home.”

“I never brought him home.”

“No?” Mom pondered.  “I thought you had.  Maybe I’m thinking about one of Powell’s friends.”  With thirteen children all school age and older, there was always an extra face in the crowd.  Like I said, we all blended together.  There was no singularity in our family.  “And what about this rock star?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Was it just sex, then?”

My breath left my lungs.  “Mom!”

“I had thirteen babies, Paisley.  I’m versed on the subject.”

“I don’t care!  I’m not talking about this with you!”  Dear God.  She never even had ‘the talk’ with me.  In her defense, she never needed to.  Between health class, the internet, television, and having twelve brothers and sisters, I was also versed in the art of conception, i.e., sexual intercourse.  Now, eight years too late, I wasn’t about to broach the topic.

“Promise me one thing, then.”

“What?” I’d promise anything to change the subject.

“It isn’t the one in all the legal trouble, is it?”

“No.  Tate Watkins is very cool, actually.  Like I told Peter, he’s happily married, and the doting father to be.  His wife is beautiful and down to earth.”

Why people chose to believe the tabloids rather than giving someone the benefit of the doubt, I'd never understand.  Not to mention it showed how little my mother knew me.

“Then why don’t you want to work for them?  You’re out of work, and on your own; you need the income, no?”

I was going to kill Peter and his big mouth.  “I’m fine on money, Mom.  I had some money I set aside for a vacation.”

“You’re avoiding the real question.”

Now I know where Peter got his persistence from.  Turning the mixer off, I tapped the blades on the side of the bowl and dropped them into the sink.  “Potatoes are done.  I’ll put them on the table.”  I made a quick exit from the kitchen, dodging my mother’s question.

The dining room was mayhem.  Powell was setting the dishes.  Preston was handing out napkins.  Perry, the youngest, was handling the silverware.  He had no idea what side the forks and knives went on, so he opted to place them all on the left.  Phillip had the pitcher and was filling the glasses with water.  I placed the bowl of potatoes off center, leaving room for the ham.  Standing back, I looked over the table to see what we were missing.  Potatoes, corn, biscuits, green bean casserole, salad, glazed carrots…the table was set, the glasses were filled.

“Patrick, we need the salt and pepper shakers.  Can you go get them?”

“Why don’t you get them,” Patrick retorted, absorbed in whatever he was watching on his phone.  “You’re up already.”  Patrick was eighteen, and had just purchased his first phone.  None of us had them until we were old enough to work, therefor able to pay the bill.  Not only was he dreamy-eyed over his new toy, but he was feeling a little larger than life over impending adulthood.

“Because I helped cook, which means you have to help set the table.”  Little twerp.  He might’ve been eighteen, but I was still older than him.

Dad smacked him on the back of the head.  “Do what your sister asked or you don’t eat dinner.”

“I don’t like ham.”

“Fine, then you can do the dishes when everyone’s done eating.”

Nobody liked touching wet food.  Patrick was quick to comply.  He turned off his phone and sauntered into the kitchen with a hitch in his step that had Dad and me stifling our laughter.

“I thought that swagger went out with the nineties,” Dad observed.  He shook his head, trying to solve the puzzle of Patrick’s maturity.  “At least his pants aren’t sagging to his knees.”

I declined to comment.  I’d gone through my own stretch of vainglory.  Though, mine didn’t take effect until I had moved into my apartment.  Fortunately, no one had been around to witness it.  Nor did it last long.  I remember lying in the center of my empty living room, completely sprawled on my back and basking in the silence.  The neighbor below me cranked up his radio.  Welcome To The Jungle began vibrating through the floor.  Grimacing, I rolled to my side, and watched a silverfish scuttle across the baseboard and vanish into a crack in the plaster.  I was off the floor in two seconds flat, doing the heebie jeebie dance.  Once I shook off the last of my revulsion, I locked up, went to purchase a gallon of insecticide and dithered on whether to buy some used living room furniture or enough groceries to last me until my next pay.

I’d bought neither.  I settled on a television.

“He got a shiny new toy,” I explained.  “Give it a week; the novelty will wear off.  He’ll grow bored with it.”

“I hope so.  He doesn’t ever put it down.  I’m afraid he’s going to get in a car accident from texting while driving.”

The doorbell rang.  Pax rose to answer it just as Mom carried out the platter of ham.  “Sit, everyone!  Dinner is on the table!  Come eat before it gets cold!”

Everyone began to file into the dining room and take their seats.  It was the one time of day no one argued, and that was only because they were glutted with large amounts of fat and carbs.  That’s not to say there wasn’t conversation.  There were fifteen of us.  It tended to get loud, and often entertaining.  On the rare occasion, I missed having dinner with my family.

“Paisley!” Pax shouted from the foyer.  “You’ve got a visitor!”  The entire room ooh’d over the announcement, as if I were sixteen and it was a boy at the door.  The last time a boy knocked at the door for me, Pax broke his nose.  And Liam, he never knocked because I always made sure to get to the door first.

I found myself mentally rambling as I wondered who it could be.  Nobody had my parents’ address except those I attended high school with.  It wasn’t Dani.  I’d seen her briefly Saturday night.  After my visit with Tate, I needed a drink.  We stuck with Trum’s because it was close.

Rounding the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks.  I blinked a few times, sure I was seeing wrong.  Jake Whalen, sex God extraordinaire, stood in my parents’ parquet foyer.  In his hand, he held a large Easter basket, but that was secondary next to his appearance.  He’d seen better days.  His eyes were ringed lightly with blue.  His nose had a small cut along the bridge.

“How did you get this address?”  I didn’t even live with my parents anymore.  I hadn’t used it on my application, what parts I had completed.

“Tate.”  I guess their security team did comprehensive background checks.  Although, that was beside the point.

“What're you doing here?”

Jake glanced pointedly at Pax, who was standing off to the side, and back to me.  “Can we talk in private?”

“Pax, get lost.”

Not one to be told what to do, Pax pushed off the wall and stepped toward us.  “Aren't you going to introduce me?”

“No.”

Jake grinned minutely, and extended his hand.  “Jake Whalen.”

Pax, however, didn't smile.  He clasped Jake’s hand in a vice like grip.  Jake didn't back down.  He gave it right back.  The tendons in their hands and wrists stood out under the skin in a contest of masculinity.  Idiots.

“Peter do that to you?” Pax asked Jake, nodding toward his face.

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“Peter hits like a sissy.”  Implied meaning: Pax hit much harder.  It was a warning.

“Hey, I'm not looking for trouble.”  Jake held up the large basket in his hand.  “I came to make amends.”

“Good luck with that.”  This time, Pax flashed a smile.  He released Jake’s hand, and headed toward the living room, not before tousling my hair.  “Give him hell, squirt.”