by Bella Jewel
“Your father is an arrogant bum-head,” I murmur, figuring it best not to swear in front of an infant. “But you and I will get along just fine.”
Mack grunts. “I’m questioning your sanity.”
I turn and glare at him. “Excuse me, biker, but you’re the one who hired me without asking questions.”
He crosses his arms. I jerk my chin up.
“Just do your fuckin’ job.”
“Jesus, you’re a bossy man. I’m surprised anyone decided to breed with you in the first place. Yeesh.”
A low, throaty growl leaves his throat, but I ignore it. I walk towards the room that Santana told me belonged to the baby before they all left us alone. “Come on, handsome. Your daddy needs therapy. It’s not his fault, he was likely born that way . . .”
“Fuck me,” Mack mutters from the kitchen. “I’ve hired a fuckin’ looney.”
I smile, stepping into the room. I place Diesel down onto the table that holds all his diapers, and unwrap him. God, so tiny. His little legs kick about. I have no idea. None. Zero. I don’t even know how to use a diaper. I pull out my cellphone and scroll down until I find my mother’s name.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Hey, Mom, it’s Jay.”
“Jay,” she croons. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine,” I say, placing a hand on Diesel’s belly. I don’t know if he’ll roll right off the table. I don’t even know if he can roll . . .
“You sound off. What’s going on?”
“Well,” I hesitate, “I took a job.”
“Oh, how wonderful. What is it?”
Here goes. “I’m a nanny.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” I scoff. “It’s a great job. Live in. It’s this little baby, he’s about two months’ old and his name is Diesel.”
More silence.
“Oh God, how did you get a job like that? Someone needs to help that baby, right now! Do you need me to call someone . . . the police maybe?”
“Jesus, Mom,” I groan. “I’m not going to kill the child.”
“Do you remember what you did to your Cousin Lucy?”
I throw my head back and groan. “It was an honest mistake. At the time it seemed like it would work . . . She was crying too much.”
“You tied a basket to the clothes line and put her in it, then you swung her and she fell out.”
“I was twelve. My motherly instincts hadn’t kicked in,” I protest.
“That poor, poor child. She never was the same.”
“She was fine!” I cry. “There was only a slight dent in her head.”
“Oh, God. You should quit. Right now.”
“Well, I’m not quitting. So I need your help.”
“You’re going to prison.”
“What? Mom!”
“You’re going to do something worse. That poor baby. He’s too young to die.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. Diesel starts croaking on the table, squirming uncomfortably. “Mom, pay attention. I need to know how to take care of a baby.”
“You can’t just take care of a baby! There are no instructions. It’s so hard, oh God . . . There was this one time when you ate prunes . . .”
“Mom,” I cry. “Focus.”
“Right,” she says sternly. “I can’t believe I’m helping you with this. His death will be on me.”
“Jesus, Mom, I’m not going to kill the child.”
She’s silent and I know she’s shaking her head, not believing a word I say.
“You said he’s two months’ old?”
“Around that.”
“Then he’ll need a bottle every three hours.”
“Every three hours!”
She sighs. “Do the world a favor and let someone else have the job.”
I’d love to, but the money is too good to pass up and I need it. Call me selfish, but I can’t change what needs to be done.
“No, it’s okay. Three hours is fine.”
Goodbye sleep, I’ll miss you. It was great knowing you.
“He’ll also need his diaper changed a lot. You need to check it every few hours. Make sure you clean his, ah, parts properly. You don’t want infection. Oh, and don’t forget the diaper cream.”
“Diaper cream?”
“It stops that diaper rash they get on their little bottoms, the poor chickens.”
God, my mother just called children . . . chickens.
“Fine, bottle, diapers, diaper cream. What else?”
“Gas!” she cries. “Gas will make him cranky. You need to pat his back until he burps mid-way through and after his feedings.”
God.
“You need to keep him nice and warm; it’s cold out. Wrap him at night, it’ll help him sleep. Don’t put him on his stomach. He could stop breathing.”
Oh, man. I don’t want that to happen. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Diesel starts crying beside me and I stare down at him.
“Oh,” Mom croons. “Is that him?”
“Yes, he’s crying. What do I do?”
“Maybe he’s hungry. You need to offer him food. If he’s not hungry, you need to change his diaper. If that’s not it, give his back a good, soft pat. He might have gas. If not, maybe he’s tired. Give him a pacifier and nurse him to sleep.”
My God. This baby thing is hard.
“Okay,” I say, as Diesel’s screeches get louder.
“You’re meant to be looking after the baby, not talking on the phone!” a voice barks.
I turn to see Mack standing at the door. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s glaring at me.
“I’m getting advice,” I point out.
“I thought you were a fuckin’ nanny?”
“Who is that?” Mom cries. “And tell him to stop using such vulgar language. That’s not the baby’s father, is it? My goodness, no wonder—”
I move the phone from my ear.
“Now you’ve sent my mother into a frenzy. I am a nanny, I’m just getting advice on sleeping . . . ah . . . patterns.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Well, stop him from crying while you’re at it.”
“You could always come and, I don’t know, pick him up. He is your son.”
He turns and walks off.
Walks off.
Issues.
“Jaylah!”
I sigh and press the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Mom, all is well.”
“What’s going on? Who is this man you’re babysitting for?”
“It’s not babysitting, and he’s a single father.”
“That’s not good. It’s never good.”
“I’m going now, Mom,” I say, because Diesel’s screeching is getting louder. “I love you.”
I hang up before she can answer. I lift the baby into my arms and walk out into the kitchen. There are some bottles on the sink, and a tin of formula beside them. Right, I can do this. I spin the tin around, reading the back. It doesn’t look so hard. I hold Diesel in one hand and open the tin, flipping a bottle over and scooping some of the powder into it. I lose half the contents onto the counter, but it’s not bad for my first shot.
Then I pour some water from the kettle in, figuring boiled must be the best. It’s too cold. Shit. I remember the days of my mother testing temperatures on her wrist, but how the hell did she heat it? I find a glass and fill it with hot water, plonking the bottle into it. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to use the microwave. Right?
After ten minutes of Diesel’s screaming, the bottle is warm. I shake it once more and rush to the couch, adjusting him awkwardly as I press the bottle to his lips. He latches on like a trooper and begins sucking with a force I’ve never seen coming from something so tiny. His little hands are balled into fists and his brown eyes are on mine.
My chest feels funny . . . This little warmth creeps through me.
He is kind of cut
e.
While he’s feeding, I pull out my phone and balance it in one hand, doing the old one finger text.
Jaylah – Hey Jos! I need a favor . . .
Josie – What did you do? Did you kill the baby? Have you been kidnapped?
I giggle, and reply.
Jaylah – No, not yet, anyway. I need my stuff. I got the job, woohoo. Could you be a gem and pack up the basics for me?
Josie – Why can’t you come and get it?
Jaylah – Well, the father is kind of moody. It’s a long story; you’ll see when you come over.
Josie – I guess I don’t get a choice. See u soon!
I text her the address and a list of what I want, then I drop the phone on the couch beside me. Diesel has nearly finished his bottle and his eyes are drooping.
“Uh-uh, buddy,” I say, poking his cheek softly. “It’s not bedtime yet.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes flutter closed and he stops sucking. Great. I haven’t even bathed him. I stand, plucking the bottle from his lips. He makes a few sucking motions, then his mouth settles and he makes a squeaking sound. Then he’s asleep. Damn. I wish I could sleep that easily.
I carry him into the bathroom. Hmmm. That’s a big, big bath. It’ll be impossible to bathe him in that. I turn and walk out, edging down the hall. I’m not sure which room belongs to Captain Broody, but there are only a few so it won’t be hard to find. I’m right; he’s in the second room on the right. He’s sitting on his bed, playing his guitar softly.
Oh God, he plays the fucking guitar.
I think I just peed a little.
That’s hot.
“Ah,” I begin, and he snaps his head up, glaring at me. “Where do I bath him?”
He looks confused. “Where do you usually bath something?”
“The bath is too deep.”
He narrows his eyes. “So hold him.”
“I’ll break my back leaning over it.”
He cocks an eyebrow.
“Seriously?” I snap. “Some help would be good.”
“Who is gettin’ paid here?”
“Jesus, never mind.”
I turn and walk out. As I pass the laundry, I stare at the deep yet not too big sink in there. That’ll be perfect. Smiling happily, I gather a towel, find some baby soap and fill it. I lay a towel out over the washing machine, and place Diesel down. I begin to undress him, but halt when I start trying to take the tiny shirt over his head.
Shit.
I move it, but it catches on his chin.
Shit. His head is too big for this tiny hole. Who invented such an outfit?
I purse my lips and use my fingers to stretch it as much as I can, slipping it over his head. He cracks up, and begins to cry, his little legs flailing about. “I’m sorry!” I cry, lifting his naked baby body into my arms. Ack, he’s so tiny, so freaking small. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s the shirt . . .”
I’m talking to a baby.
I’ve lost it.
I stick a finger into the water. It’s warm, so I gently lower Diesel in. His body quickly becomes slippery and I have to use both of my hands to make sure he doesn’t sink. I swish his body side to side gently, letting the water go around him. He stops crying and starts making cooing sounds at me. Oh God.
“You’re all right, little man,” I say, smiling. “You’re going to grow up and be a super dude.”
He coos and my heart melts a little more. Who knew babies were so cute? I wash him as best I can and then lift him out of the water. The screeching starts again; someone doesn’t like being taken from his bath. I quickly wrap him in a towel and carry him into his room, placing him on the table thing again. I’m sure there’s a name for it; I just don’t know what it is.
I place a hand on his belly and lean down, taking a diaper and a warm suit. I stand up straight, and am struck in the eye with . . . oh my God . . . the baby is peeing in my eye! I squeal loudly, wanting to jump back but not wanting him to roll off the table. He continues to squirt at me, and my shrieking becomes louder as warm urine is splashed over my face.
“What the fuck?”
“He’s peeing on me!” I squeal. “Your child is peeing on me. Hold him, oh my God, my eye!”
Silence.
Then loud, booming laughter.
“You horrible . . . horrible . . . horrible . . .”
He laughs louder.
“Will you hold him? I’m going blind!”
“You gotta learn. Have fun with that.”
Then I hear his heavy footfalls as he leaves. Seriously? Seriously?
“You will pay for this,” I yell. “There will be sweet, sweet revenge.”
More laughter.
“Sweet revenge.”
Oh God, help me.
CHAPTER THREE
Waaah.
Waaah.
Oh, God. Again?
I roll in the large, squishy, really warm double bed I’m sleeping in. Diesel’s shrieking is getting louder and louder. Jesus, I only fed him . . . I check the time . . . ack. Two hours ago. My God, I had no idea how hard a baby would be, and it’s only the first night. I think of the money, and the help I’m providing, and push the covers back with a groan, throwing my legs out of the bed.
I pad down the hall and into his room. His little arms and legs are flailing about as he cries. I lean down, lifting him into my arms, and press him close to my body. “Hush, sugar,” I murmur. “We’ll get you a bottle.”
I slip out of his room, holding him to my chest. I get into the kitchen and prepare a bottle one-handed while bouncing him with the other. Then I plonk down onto the couch, and listen as he makes small suckling sounds as he drains the bottle. My eyes droop and I shift us so we’re both lying down. My eyelids flutter and Diesel drops the bottle, making a squeak before drifting off to sleep.
I’m not far behind him.
~*~*~*~*~
“Ah . . .”
I hear the feminine voice and my eyes flutter open. I look up to see two girls staring down at me. One of them I recognize as Santana, and the other is a girl I’ve never met, but she’s gorgeous. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, and then I sit up quickly, Diesel in my arms. He stirs, croaking, but nestles back into my boobs.
Then I realize what I’m wearing.
Or . . . what I’m not wearing.
Three, yes three bikers are standing by the front door, and they lazily let their gazes travel over me before smirks appear on their lips. Yeah, lap it up, boys; you won’t be seeing it again. Santana giggles, and her eyes flicker to the bikers who are still smirking. They’re hot. Like, über hot. One is huge and mega fine, all dark and dangerous. The one beside him is bad boy through and through, not as built as the first, but equally as handsome.
The third one is in a wheelchair, but damn, is he rockin’ it. He’s gorgeous but he has a really kind, gentle face. I recognize one of them from yesterday, so I’m guessing he’s close to Mack . . . or maybe Mack is like, their president or something. My eyes scan over their leather jackets. Nope, the big guy is the president, says so right there on his patch.
“Ah,” I say, still bouncing the baby. “I ah . . . he woke up and we fell asleep here . . .”
Santana reaches out and takes the baby, smiling at me. “Go and get some sleep. I’m happy to watch him for a few hours. You look exhausted.”
I stare down at my now empty arms. I feel kind of lost without him already. Looking back up at the girls, I murmur, “Thanks.”
The pretty girl beside Santana reaches a hand out and I take it. “I’m Ash,” she smiles.
“Jaylah, but call me Jay.”
“Jesus . . .”
Mack’s barking voice fills the room and I turn, staring at him. He’s shirtless, oh mamma, and he’s got his big arms crossed over his chest, glaring right at me. What? I’m not doing anything. Sheesh.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” he demands.
I stare down at myself. Well, this does look a little suspicious
considering I’m wearing a pair of tiny panties, and let me tell you, they’re tiny. Boyleg, showing a great deal of ass, and they ride low on my hips. Then there’s the top . . . well . . . the tiny tank that is cut way, way above my belly button. It’s the comfiest thing to sleep in, but not really appropriate when company is around.
Oh God . . . are my nipples hard? My God, they’re hard.
My hands go over my chest quickly and a little squeak leaves my lips. I look back to Mack and he’s staring at my body, his eyes all lusty chocolate-brown. Shit. When they meet mine again, some of his anger is gone, but he still looks totally broody.
“You doin’ a fuckin’ striptease?”
“Excuse me?” I snap, crossing my arms.
He nods his head. “What the fuck are you doin’ prancin’ around in that in front of my brother and the club?”
Brother? I gaze at the three by the door. No way are any of those guys Mack’s brothers.
“Hey!” he barks. “Look here.”
I turn back to him, arms still crossed, and snap, “I am not doing a striptease. I was sleeping on the couch and they just . . . came in.”
“You sleepin’ on the couch in fuck-me panties?”
My cheeks heat, and instead of speaking with my voice I make a little squeaking sound. Great. Well done, Jaylah. I’m sure he thinks you’re super cool now.
“They are not fuck-me panties,” I finally growl. “They’re just panties.”
“They’re fuck-me panties.”
Men.
I glare at him, and he glares back.
“Stop being an asshole, Chief,” Santana snaps, giving him some sass. Go, girl.
“Back down, Chante, this aint’ your business.”
“Excuse me,” she breathes. “But I created the ad, I’ve looked after your child for two weeks, and I took the damned call to get her over here. She was the only one who would even walk through the door after getting a look at you, so you’re going to stop being an asshole so she doesn’t leave.”
“Tana,” the big man behind us warns, his voice all sexy and husky.
She turns, giving him a bright smile. “I’m just saying.”
