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

by Anne Berkeley

  “Because it's only temporary.”

  “So it doesn't have anything to do with it being Tate Watkins.”

  “It doesn't. His mother is a doctor at the hospital. I worked with her before. She needs help through the summer while one of her nurses is on maternity.”

  “Paisley—”

  The phone rang again, cutting Peter short. I answered on my way to the other room. I desperately needed to get rid of my brother, especially when he was eavesdropping on my phone calls. “Hello?”

  “Paisley?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Tate.”

  Holy fucking shit. I had to close my eyes. This was not going to end well. I was so fucking screwed. Because I knew I wasn't going to say no. “Hi.”

  “What'll it take?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Hello?”

  “I'm here.”

  “I'll keep you on until the end of the pregnancy. That's two to three months, God willing. And I'll cover your healthcare costs while you're under employment.”

  “Two weeks is fine,” I sighed. Though he’d offered me a good deal with the insurance, I might be able to skate around Jake for two weeks. Especially if the band was on the road. I might not see him at all.

  “With the possibility of longer?”

  “I can't promise anything.”

  “Here's the thing. Coop’s BFF is busy at the moment and she can't be here to keep Coop company. She needs a friend. Someone to hang with her. She's new to Seattle, you know?”

  “You want to pay me to be her friend.”

  “I spend a lot of time in the studio. I need to make sure she's in good health while I'm working. I worry about her. But she doesn't want a nurse hanging around either. It makes her uncomfortable. That's what makes you perfect. You're cool.”

  Tate Watkins thought I was “cool.”

  “So what do you say?”

  “I'll entertain the possibility.”

  “When can you start?”

  “When do you leave town?”

  “Wednesday, but I have paperwork you’ll have to sign, and I’d like to show you around first.”

  “What sort of paperwork? What’ll I need to bring?”

  “Insurance waivers. Confidentiality agreement. Contract. You’ll need to bring your birth certificate, social security card, a jar of blood, and a quill.”

  I actually managed to laugh, despite my mood. “You had me there for a second.”

  “Hey, I’m at your mercy.”

  “Yeah.” I seriously doubted that.

  “I’m serious. I want Cooper to be happy.”

  “What day is better for you,” I said, pushing the conversation along. I couldn't believe I was doing it. I was a sucker.

  “Ah…shit…you know…if you could come this afternoon, I have a few hours free. If not, come Tuesday. I’ll be in the studio with the band, but I’ll make time. Tomorrow’s obviously not good because of the holiday, and Coop has an appointment Monday.”

  “This afternoon is fine,” I agreed. “I don’t want to interrupt you while you’re working.” I wanted to gain as little attention as possible while I was there. Quickly, I scribbled his address down on the envelope for the electric bill. “One o’clock is fine. Someone will buzz me in at the gate. Got it.”

  “And Paisley…”

  This was it. He was going to bring up the incident at the club. I just knew it. Why, God? Why did he insist on placing me in these mortifying positions? I swear he was testing me. Well, I’d learned my lesson. I wasn’t sleeping with another coworker. Never again. No way.

  “Bring a bathing suit. The pool is heated and the kid likes to swim.”

  “Oh…ok!” I exhaled, able to breathe again.

  “Later then.”

  “Bye.” Pressing the call button, I chucked the phone across the room and onto my bed. I would’ve liked to aim it at the wall, but I needed the thing. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” Mentally reciting a few more choice words, I dropped to the floor and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answer to my problems.

  “Nothing to do with Tate Watkins, huh?”

  “Go away, Peter.”

  “Why would you lie to me about that, Paisley?” Peter leaned against the door jamb and folded his arms across his chest. I was beginning to see an order in people I’d rather face. Henry. Jake Whalen. Peter.

  Sighing, I draped my arm across my eyes, hoping to fool myself that Peter wasn’t really there. “Because it's none of your business.”

  “I care about you. Doesn't that count for anything?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Then why won't you talk to me?”

  “Nothing happened. I went out. I got drunk like everyone else my age. The end.”

  “You had marks on you.”

  “What?” Shit. That wasn’t good.

  “I helped you change that night. You fell down. I didn't want you to break your neck, so I helped you.”

  “God, Peter,” I complained. “I don't want to talk about this shit with you! This is why I don't want you here!”

  “Do you think I like asking? I don't want to know what you're doing when you're out! But I fucking worry! Ok? For all I know, one of them could've slipped you a rufie and taken advantage of you!”

  “Nobody took advantage of me.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “Yes!” Trying to escape the nightmare of my brother, I stood and began rooting through my dresser for something respectable to wear.

  “Paisley.”

  “WHAT!”

  “You would tell me if someone hurt you, right? You know you could come to me? I'm not Pax.”

  “I'm starting to think you're worse.”

  “Fuck you!”

  I paused what I was doing and looked up. Peter never talked that way to me, and we'd had our fair share of disagreements. “Yes, I’d tell you.”

  “Would you really? You don’t tell me anything anymore.”

  “I talked to you about Henry yesterday.”

  “That’s only because I pried it from you. You stopped talking to me after your breakup with Liam.” Peter looked at his shoes. “I know you think I told Pax you slept with him, but I didn't.” Pax had beaten Liam up, and almost gotten arrested. He had been almost twenty at the time, a legal adult. Liam was barely eighteen. I had been infuriated and humiliated. Liam hadn’t done anything wrong. We’d had sex. It was consensual. And I had broken up with him.

  “I never thought you told Pax. I stopped talking to you because I didn't have anything to say.” Tossing my tee on the end of the bed, I plopped down beside it. “Jesus, Peter, what did you want me to talk to you about? All I did was go to school, work, and help mom with the house. When I complained what did you say?”

  Peter’s frown deepened. “Welcome to my life.”

  “And all you did was take out the garbage. I did dishes, laundry, cooked dinner, scrubbed toilets, showers, and the grass stains from football pants.” Peter’s football pants, specifically.

  “Sorry.”

  “My occupation is no wonder.”

  “I thought you liked nursing.”

  “I take care of people. I think I gravitated toward it subconsciously because it was something I knew, but I never had any clear direction. I never had any time to decide what I wanted.”

  “So what do you want?”

  I shrugged. “To be my age. I want to make mistakes. I want to make impulsive decisions, and bad choices. I want to look back in twenty years and know that I lived.”

  Dropping on the bed beside me, Peter pulled me down and slipped his arm under my head. “Can I at least be your wing man?”

  “Ew. No.” I elbowed him in the chest. He winced, flexing his abs beneath me.

  “Why?”

  “Because hanging out with your older brother kind of defeats the purpose.”

  “I’d feel better having your back.”

  I motioned to rise, b
ut Peter executed another headlock. “Really? You’re going to help me pick up guys?”

  “I’ll help you pick the right one.”

  “Even if it’s a rock star or his bodyguard?”

  “Was it a married rock star suspected of sleeping with half the world’s strawberry blondes?”

  “You have no faith in me.”

  “You said you wanted to make bad choices.”

  “He’s happily married and having twins. He’s actually awesome, and his wife is sweet. I like them.”

  “But you don’t want to work for them.”

  “I’m not discussing this any further with you.”

  “Fine, but answer this first…”

  “What?”

  “Can you get lice in your armpit hair?” Letting go of my head, he pulled his arm out from beneath me and shoved his pit in my face.

  “Peter!”

  “Just take a look! It’ll only take a minute! You’re a nurse for crying out loud!”

  “Come on! Your pits smell like corn chips!”

  “Corn chips?” Affronted, he sat up, stuffed his nose in his armpit, and took a long draw. “They do not. They smell like Axe. Women are supposed to be drawn to it like magnets.”

  “You’re right—they do smell like ass.”

  “Axe, I said Axe.”

  “Whatever.” Grabbing my shirt, I slid off the bed, and headed for the bathroom.

  “Wait!” Peter called behind me. “Do they really smell bad?”

  Chapter 7

  “Holy shit,” Peter exclaimed, staring at the estate of Tate Watkins. What we could see was massive and breathtaking. Large, yet tasteful shrubs placed strategically across the lawn concealed the rest of the facade. Tate Watkins valued his privacy.

  “You'll be cool,” I reminded him. “Right? You won't act like a moron?”

  “I can behave, pipsqueak. Chill.”

  “Please don't embarrass me again.”

  “Paisley.”

  “I'm serious, Peter. My reputation is on the line. Dr. Watkins recommended me for this job. I don't want to let her down.”

  “You want me to wait in the car? I'll wait in the car. Just say the word.”

  “I just want you to keep quiet. Don't act like a dork fan and get all gooey eyed.”

  “I am a dork fan.”

  “That’s my point. They're people just like me and you. We're going into their home. This is their personal space. Have a little respect.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  “You embarrassed me once already.”

  “I'm not going to embarrass you. Swear. I'm just looking out for you. Wing man, remember?”

  I glanced warily at my brother, refusing to be swayed by his deceptively boyish charm. “Ok.”

  Remotely satisfied, I pulled up to the gate and rolled my window down. There was a small intercom to the right of an ivory keypad. I was about to reach for the button when a voice crackled through. “I'm going to buzz you through, kiddo. Just give me a sec.” A moment later, the gate disengaged and began to swing open with a soft whir.

  “Who was that?” Peter asked.

  “Marshall.” The others would’ve referred to me as ma’am.

  “He gets to call you kiddo, but I can't call you pipsqueak.”

  “I think you should wait in the car.”

  “Come on! It's a valid observation!”

  “I don't know him very well! It would be rude if I objected!”

  “You went out with him the other night. You're practically friends.”

  I snorted. “Not even remotely close. Besides, they're my employers now.”

  “So if I throw you a few bucks I can call you pipsqueak?”

  “No.”

  Reaching the end of the driveway, I parked off to the side and pulled my keys from the ignition. “Peter.”

  The cause of my stress raised his hands. “This is a neutral zone. We haven't left the car yet.”

  I rolled my eyes and opened the door. Marshall was coming out the side door of what looked like a pool house or an in-law suite. “No trouble finding the place, I take it.”

  “GPS.”

  “I could’ve found it,” Peter spoke up. I threw him an acidic glare, silently demanding that he shut up. “What? I’m just saying we didn’t need GPS. I could’ve found it.”

  “You couldn’t find a pair of matching socks.”

  “I apologized a million times about the other night,” Peter stated, putting on a performance that could rival the ilk of Robert DeNiro or Jack Nicholson. I wanted to strike him. “I was just looking out for you.” He looked to Marshall. “I was just looking out for her. She refuses to forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “What are you doing here?”

  “Moral support,” Peter answered.

  “You’ll have to wait outside, sir. Mr. Watkins doesn’t allow uninvited guests into the house. We also request that you keep all cameras, including cell phones stored safely in your pockets. Any photos will be confiscated, and legal actions will be taken.”

  Fuck. I threw Peter another glare. Way to go, it said.

  “It’s cool,” Peter backtracked. “I’ll wait here.” Backing up, he leaned against the car and crossed his ankles. “Take your time.”

  “I’d suggest you wait in your car, sir. We have guard dogs on premises.”

  “Guard dogs?”

  “They’re still in training. Haven’t quite learned the command for release yet. Once they lock their jaws…” Marshall grinned pensively. “Tore the arm off my bite suit last week.”

  “For real?” Peter laughed. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “I never joke about client safety.” Marshall placed his fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Around the corner raced two of the largest dogs I have ever seen. I nearly shit a brick. Peter quickly climbed into the car. I hid behind Marshall, using him as a shield.

  “Am I safe?” I asked, “I’m safe, right?”

  “Yeah, they’re a bunch of babies. Literally. They’re not even a year old yet. No! No!” he shouted, when they reached my car. I winced at the thought of their nails against my paint. “No! Down!” Surprisingly, they listened, first looking in our direction, and dropping down when Marshall took a step toward them. “Stay!” He pointed to the ground, his voice commanding.

  “Wow.”

  “It won’t last long. Their attention span’s nil.” Grasping my arm, he led me to the front door at a fast clip. “Better get inside. Fuckers like to jump all over you.”

  “Will Peter be ok out there?”

  Marshall laughed. “I’ll go out and get him in a few. Let him sweat first.”

  “Is it ok that he came?”

  “I take it he wouldn’t let you come alone.”

  “He thinks the band is all degenerates waiting to take advantage of me again. Like there’re drug filled orgies going on in the basement twenty-four seven.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s completely filled with red velvet ottomans and hookahs. I hope you brought your nurse uniform.”

  “Oh, my tasseled pasties?”

  Marshall shook with laughter. “Tasseled pasties.”

  “I can make them go full tilt.” I spun my fingers in a circle, illustrating the effect.

  Marshall dragged a hand down his face, wiping away his shock. Laughing, I glanced around the house. It was massive and immaculate, yet warm, with ivory walls and wood accents everywhere. The colors were very neutral. The surfaces were quality, no faux finishes here.

  “So how are, you, kid?”

  “Good,” I replied, absorbed in the décor.

  “Listen…I’m sorry about the club.”

  That pulled me from my marveling. “It’s fine. No need to apologize.”

  “Whatever happened between you and Jake was none of my business. I should’ve handled it better.”

  “It’s done. It’s over. I’d like to leave it that way.”

  “Not a problem.”
/>
  “Thanks.” Pausing, I looked up at him. “I’d rather not anyone say anything to Peter, either.”

  Marshall frowned, but nodded. He glanced toward the door. Outside, the dogs had started barking. “You can find Tate, just through there.” He pointed toward a large archway to the right. “The kitchen is on the left. He was making the kid some lunch.”

  “Through the arch and to the left.”

  “You got it. I’m going to get your brother before they destroy your paint job. I just wanted a chance to apologize in private first.”

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  Marshall stepped out the door. His voice boomed in the silence. “No! Stop eating the rocks! No!”

  I stifled a laugh and headed for the kitchen. Rounding the corner, I almost walked right into Tate Watkins. Ashamed to admit, I had been admiring the house again and wasn’t watching where I was going.

  “Jesus!” Tate gasped, grasping his chest. “Sorry about that. I was just running out to see what the dogs were carrying on about. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I just got here.”

  “Marshall let you in?”

  “Yeah, my brother came with me. He was going to wait in the car.”

  “He could’ve come inside.”

  “I think that’s Marshall’s plan. He went back out to get him.”

  “Good. How bout I show you around? I’ll tell you my expectations. If you’re still interested, you can sign the necessary paperwork.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “We’ll start in the kitchen, then. It’s this way.” Turning, he led me though the archway and into the kitchen. Emilia stood at the stove, stirring a large pot with a wooden spoon.

  “Ah,” she said, spotting me behind Tate. “Sorry about that. Did they get mud all over you?” Tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot, she placed it off to the side. “They’re monsters. We hired a trainer, but it takes time and repetition, we’re told.”

  “No, they’re only my scrubs anyhow.” I was hoping to look professional. People tended to take me more seriously when I was wearing them.

  “They’re not usually here,” she explained. “But we have painters doing the house. It’s easier to keep them out of the way than cleaning up spilled paint and paw prints.”

  “They’re huge,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “They’re babies. They won’t hurt you, at least not on purpose. They knock Levy down every five minutes. They just don’t know their own strength.”