Sustained (12 page)

And then—without warning—a hot stream of piss, like a fireman’s hose, arches in the air, coating my shirt with expert aim.

I glare down at the baby. “Seriously, man?”

He just smiles around the hand he’s chewing on.

Fucking Google didn’t mention this.

•  •  •

Once I get Ronan settled in his swing, I find Rosaleen in the living room. We walk to the kitchen to check out our supplies, but she stops just inside the kitchen door. Her face goes blank and frighteningly ashen.

“You okay, Rosaleen?”

She opens her mouth to answer—but what comes out is a burst of chunky yellow vomit, like lumpy pancake mix gone sour.

Man down.

She coughs and stares, horrified, at the disaster on the floor, splattered
on her shoes and on her sparkly T-shirt. Then she starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

Something in my chest swells at her tears, making everything feel too tight. I kneel down beside her, my hand rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay. Rosaleen—it’s just puke. It’s not a big deal.”

The dog scurries in like Mighty Mouse coming to save the day. Then he starts to chow down on Rosaleen’s vomit.

Robustly.

I gag in the back of my throat but manage to hold it together. “See?” I tell her, trying to sound cheery. “You did me a favor—now I won’t have to feed the dog.”

•  •  •

Rosaleen changes into pajamas and climbs into bed next to her sleeping aunt. I do a second check of the wounded and take advantage of the momentary quiet to call my reservists.

“They
all
have it?” Stanton asks with shock—and a lilt of humor.

“They all have it,” I declare grumpily. I rub my eyes. “I’m not ashamed to say I’m out of my league here.”

“Do they have fevers, too, or just the upchucks?”

“How do I tell if they have fevers?”

“Do they feel hot?”

I think about it for a second helplessly. “They don’t feel cold.”

“All right. Call the grocery store—they’ll deliver. Tell them you need an ear thermometer—the directions will be in the box. You also need Tylenol, saltine crackers, ginger ale, chicken broth, and Pedialyte.”

I furiously write down everything he’s saying, like it’s gospel. “What’s Pedialyte?”

“It’s like Gatorade for babies. Keep an eye on the infant. If he starts puking, don’t mess around—call the pediatrician. The number is probably on the fridge. Babies can get dehydrated really fast. Same goes for
the two-year-old—watch her. If she can’t hold down a tablespoon of the Pedialyte an hour, you may have to take her in.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Just keep them comfortable. Little sips when they can drink. Crackers and broth when their stomachs settle. Call us if you need backup.”

I sigh. “All right, thanks, man.”

•  •  •

By the next morning, I’m waist-deep in laundry. Sheets, soiled pajamas, cloths for foreheads. I know my way around a washing machine—my mother made sure of it. And since I like things organized and clean, I know how to load a dishwasher and fold a towel, too.

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.”

“That’ll be perfect.”

I gaze into Chelsea’s ice-blue eyes. “I really think it will be.”

I
get out of my car in front of Chelsea’s house on Friday night. And not to sound like a total douche, but there’s a spring in my step. A lightness in my mood. I’m excited. Looking forward to this evening with Chelsea—and, yes, with the kids too. Sure, they’re half a dozen little cockblockers, but they’re funny. Smart. In general, pretty awesome.

The fact that there’s a really good chance I’m going to finally get laid doesn’t hurt, either.

I knock on the door, holding a bouquet of white roses and the movie in one hand.

The door opens, and in front of me stands a tall, tan, lanky guy with strategically tousled dirty-blond hair, a white T-shirt, saggy jeans, and a shark-tooth necklace.

He lifts his chin in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Who the fuck is he, and why is he answering the door? “Where’s Chelsea?”

He steps back, opening the door wider, turning his head. “Babe! There’s a guy here.” His brown eyes turn my way. “A big fuckin’ guy. What do you bench, two fifty?”

“Something like that.”

I step past him, lowering the flowers to my side, feeling like an asshole for having them.

Chelsea comes out from the kitchen, wearing a little black dress with thin straps—sexy in its simplicity—and open-toed black heels. Her hair falls soft and shiny around her shoulders. “Jake!” Her smile is off—kind of forced.

“What’s going on?” I ask evenly.

Two more twentysomethings step out behind her: a dark-skinned girl with long dreadlocks and a stunning face, and a guy with long brown hair wearing a trendy, butt-ugly, lime-green paisley shirt.

“My friends from Berkeley came to visit.” Her face tightens—broadcasting an apology. “I didn’t know they were coming.” She steps back, gesturing to the couple behind her. “This is Nikki and Kevin.”

Nikki and Kevin both smile at me a little too happily. A little too stoned to play it straight.

“And this”—Chelsea gestures to the blond shark killer—“is Lucas.”

Lucas grins dopily. “S’up.”

I nod at him, then hand Chelsea the flowers. “These are for you.”

She gazes at them lovingly, running her palm over the soft petals. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

So much for dinner. And more important, so much for getting laid.

Fuck.

Rosaleen comes tearing around the corner, her hair parted into curly pigtails, hugging me around the waist. “Jake, you’re here! Did you bring the movie?”

I hold it up for her to see and she bounces.

Riley and Rory join us next. Lucas rubs his hand roughly on top of Rory’s head. “Little dude, how about you grab me a beer? If we’re watching a movie, I’m gonna need a brew.”

Chelsea’s head tilts. “We don’t have any, Lucas. My brother and Rachel weren’t drinkers.”

“That sucks.”

We all walk toward the den, and the muscle in my cheek twitches as I watch Lucas throw his arm around Chelsea’s shoulders casually. Cozily. With intimate familiarity.

I really don’t like this asswipe. And I’m not the only one.

Rory comes up to my side and whispers, “He touches my head again, I’m punching him in the nuts.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Can we watch the movie in Mom and Dad’s room?” Riley asks carefully. “We used to have movie night up there every week. But we haven’t since . . .” She ends with a shrug.

“Sure,” I tell her.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Chelsea agrees softly.

“Dude! I just got a greater idea!” Lucas says, turning my way. “So . . . you’re like the manny, right?”

“The what?” I ask, my expression heading for hostile.

“Like the nanny, but you’re a guy? You can watch the kids, yeah?”

“Sweet!” Nikki squeaks, picking up his train of thought. “So, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hotty can stay with the babies while the four of us go out!”

I wait for Chelsea to decline.

I wait for her to say she’d rather stay in with the kids.

With
me.

But she doesn’t.

She just turns to me blankly. “Would that work for you, Jake?”

A sharp snort rumbles out of me. Frustration and resentment simmer in my stomach, burning like acid. “Whatever you want to do, Chelsea.”

“Awesome.” Lucas nods. And he still hasn’t moved his fucking arm from her shoulder.

I want to break it off.

Lucas’s eyes crawl over her. “You should get changed, babe.”

I give him a hard stare. “I think she looks perfect.”

His head toggles. “Well, sure, she’s smokin’.” Then he turns to Chelsea. “But you kinda look like a MILF. Hot and all . . . but still a mom, ya know?”

And now I want to break his mouth, too.

Her face falls, but she agrees. “Okay. I’ll get changed real quick and then we’ll head out.”

Ten minutes later, she comes down the stairs in tight blue jeans and a white halter top. The shirt pushes together her tits in a fantastic way—she looks gorgeous. But different. There’s less . . .
elegance
in this outfit. And she seems infinitely more screwable.

Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, normally. If I had met her in a bar, wearing that—before—I would’ve pulled out all the stops to get her to come home with me. It’s just the fact that she’s going out without me—where other pricks will be looking at her and thinking the same thing—that rubs me the wrong fucking way.

She leads me into the kitchen, rattling off Ronan’s feeding schedule and bedtime. Things I already know by now. When she stops talking, her eyes rise from the floor to meet mine.