“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “How’s it going?”
“How’s it going?” she screeches immediately, making my eardrums wither. “Did you ever think of us? Did you every think of your father and me for one moment, Macy? You know we can’t get a refund for all the tuition we paid on your behalf! Did you think of that, hmmm? Did you think of how much Jim and I invested in you? And to throw it all away,” she snaps with an angry harrumph.
“I’m sorry,” comes my trembling voice. “But I told you all along, college isn’t my thing. The Morgans agree,” I say staunchly, back straightening even if she can’t see. It helps just to conjure the image of my lovers, standing in solidarity in the kitchen.
But Marsha’s relentless.
“Of course they tell you that,” she sneers. “Those men have you pussy-whipped. You know what that is, right?”
I’m unable to answer, the receiver trembling in my numb fingers.
“You’ve never had a man before,” says Marsha, her voice going low and venomous. “They’re your first, so you believe everthing they tell you. You think they want what’s best for you? You think the Morgans care about your welfare?”
“I know they do,” I interrupt, voice bold even if my heart’s shaking. “Because they tell me all the time.”
“Bullshit,” sneers Marsha. “That’s a load of crap if I ever heard one. Those assholes are gonna get a pretty eighteen year old knocked up and then walk away. The men get off scot free, and you know what happens to you? You’re marked with a scarlet letter, shamed in front of the world.”
That can’t be true.
“No, you’re wrong,” I say in a low voice, trying to keep the tremors out. “The Morgans love me, and they want our baby. I know that. They’d never do what you’re saying.”
“Please,” snarls Marsha. “Tell that to their other baby mamas. Or wannabe baby mamas.”
The air evaporates from my lungs, making it impossible to breathe then. What other baby mamas? Are there other women out there that the Morgans are trying to impregnate? How can that be? They’re with me all the time, it can’t be true.
But Marsha’s unstoppable.
“Oh yeah,” she caws. “There’s a woman out there, Heather something or other, who’s also their whore. Get that, sweet daughter of mine. You think you’ve got a harem going, but the game’s on you. They’ve got a den of women that they keep for nefarious purposes. You’re nothing special.”
And at that, the receiver drops out of my lifeless fingers. It can’t be. I am special, I’m the one who’s going to have the Morgan heir, my lovers have made it clear again and again. They caress me all day, stroking my curves, praying that their seed takes hold. So how can my mom even say this? How does she know?
But somewhere, a kernel of doubt blooms. Marsha’s succeeded in poisoning the well and my mind goes blank before jumping to life, spinning furiously. Somewhere, there’s this Heather woman and I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to figure out the truth … otherwise my whole life is just one great, big lie.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Macy
The phone jerks with a sharp brrriiing!
Oh shit!
It’s too early!
I’m not ready!
Quickly, my thumb stabs the off button, breath coming fast.
But an inner voice speaks then. You gotta get with it Macy. You can’t just sit here staring at the bedspread forever like a lump of lard.
So with trembling fingers, I dial once more, heart beating fast, nerves on edge. But it’s a letdown because an automated system at Morgan Enterprises picks up.
“Enter the extension of the party you wish to reach,” says a friendly robot-lady on the other end of the line. “Dial three for a directory by name.”
I dial three. And then my fingers fumble to press four-three-two-eight-four-three-seven, spelling out H-E-A-T-H-E-R. My heart is about to beat through my chest, I’m so nervous. What if it sends me to some random Heather who has nothing to do with this insanity? What if it sends me to the Heather? What if there is no Heather at all?
“No matches found,” says the voice flatly. “Dial zero for operator.”
I let out a relieved breath and dial zero, asking for the human resources office. It goes through in an instant, and a woman named Jill answers, chirpy and sweet.
“Hi,” I stammer, trying to think on my feet. What do I say? How can I get the information I need? I wanted to use the company directory, but that was a bust. So what do I do now?
“Um,” I improvise quickly. “I work for Jones Incorporated and I, um, have an application for a Heather but the last name is illegible. Her last place of employment listed was Morgan Enterprises and I hoped you could maybe help me confirm the name?”
Wow. Good one. I mentally pat myself on the back.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” Jill asks in a sweet voice.
“Macy Jones,” I say. “I’m a chef and I’m opening a new restaurant downtown. She applied to work in our business office.”
“Oh, okay Ms. Jones,” she says. “I can’t confirm any contact information but the most recent Heather we had on staff was Heather Mastricci.”
Bingo.
“Mastricci,” I repeat, saying the name like it’s already familiar. I have her spell it out for me, then thank her for her time. That was easier than I thought. Too easy, to be honest. I guess anyone can find anyone in our interconnected world these days.
But oh no. This opens up a new can of worms. Do I really want to go down this path? Do I really want to meet a woman who might have been me not so long ago, completely nuts for these seven gorgeous, talented brothers? What if she’s crazy and tries to kill me? Or what if she’s pregnant?
I don’t know what I’d do then.
My stomach drops, throat growing tight.
All these conflicted feelings run through my frame. I should be happy if she’s pregnant right? If this Heather chick is pregnant, then I’m off the hook. Everything my mom said is true, and I can count my blessings it’s not me.
But on the other hand, I want it to be me. I want to be the mother to the Morgan heir, the lover of seven men. I want to feel the brothers pulse between my legs, their semen taking hold deep within. And I want to cuddle a child, nursing him at my breast, loving the babe.
My head shakes ruefully.
Marsha’s gotten to me.
My mom has obviously gone straight off into the deep end with her crazy sinner talk, but maybe she’s right in a way. Maybe these guys are love-em-and-leave-em types. Maybe they chew up and spit out curvy virgins, leaving them as roadkill. Don’t I want to know the truth before going any further? Before I commit to giving them what they want most?
But then again, what if Marsha’s wrong? I mean, she hears gossip among her country club set, sure, but how would they know anything about the Morgan boys and their sexual proclivities? Those country club ladies are vicious bitches. They’ve cast many a stone against women who were allegedly “less than godly” over the years. Good Christians, my ass. More like hypocritical vipers, holding a Bible in one hand and a drink in the other.
So where does that leave me now? My head whirls. Marsha’s probably lying, more concerned about her social status than my well-being. But at the same time, there’s an edge of doubt now.
Mastricci.
That name can’t be too common, right? It sounds Italian American. Can’t hurt to just look.
So with trembling fingers, I google the name, then search Facebook. And oh god, but the girl exists. Of course she does, Morgan Enterprises already confirmed that for me.
But the thing is, Heather’s more than just a ghost now. Seeing her picture, the brunette is real, with a nice smile and friendly brown eyes.
Normal.
Kind.
Probably a good person.
Her last post on Facebook was three years ago though. Weird.
Stop now, whispers the voice within. Don’t do this to yourself. You
’re just going to uncover a world of hurt.
But I can’t stop. The thing with Internet searches is that you fall into a hole, finding more and more and more, until you’re sick to your stomach. It’s like a drug you can’t stop taking. So staring at the screen, I enter Heather’s name into a site called www.whitepages.com. It’s a version of the old white pages, a digital phone book for the ages.
And there she is. Heather Mastricci, living maybe twenty minutes from where I am now. She’s a real person, this Heather, not a figment of my imagination. What is she like? Does she have a funny laugh? Does she laugh when the Morgans laugh? But no, there are a billion Heathers in the world. Even other Heather Mastriccis, with the unique last name. No reason to think this specific Heather knows my boys. Right?
Honestly, it makes me sick even thinking about it. About there being some other girl like me, smitten by seven alpha males, in thrall to their charisma. If she was like me, she might be curvy, maybe a little shy. Maybe she felt like she didn’t quite belong most days, couldn’t quite figure out who she wanted to be. And then seven men dazzled her, made the woman feel special.
So can I do this?
Or more accurately, do I want to?
Moving in a daze, I leave the house, taking the Mercedes out back. Yeah, the Morgans bought it for me, said I could have any car I wanted. But right now, it makes no difference. Staring like a zombie, my foot hits the accelerator and pretty soon, I’m on the road.
The drive is short but harrowing. Crazy thoughts run through my head. I don’t need to know this. Everyone has previous relationships. Even me. I mean, my past doesn’t come with a huge family fortune or kinky sex, but I’ve had sort-of boyfriends, for sure. But the past stays in the past, right? It’s bad form to bring up ex-lovers with your current lover.
So maybe I should turn around. Of course the Morgans have been with other women. They’re virile men; I’d be totally naïve to think I was the first.
But still, my hands keep gripping the steering wheel, foot on the gas pedal. And before I know it, I’m in front of a two-story house, real fancy. Wow, Heather lives here? Shading my eyes, I stare up at the second floor. There’s a balcony with trim, and big casement windows for light. This is a nice place to live for sure.
But right. I’m here on a mission, not to scope out real estate. So taking a deep breath, I trudge to the door, trying to summon the courage to knock. Oh god, there’s no turning back if I do. Should I? Maybe this was all a bad idea.
But again, Marsha’s words ring in my ears. You think you’re the only one? Try again, comes her screechy voice.
And in slow-motion, my hand raises, knuckles tapping against the wood. There’s no sound for a couple minutes, but then some shuffling comes from inside. I can literally feel someone staring at me through the peephole, an unseeing eye.
The door swings open, and I don’t move, just staring. Because the girl before me is Heather Mastricci from Facebook, sure. But she’s also not. Because this female is bony, skeletal almost. She looks like she’s wasted away and I wonder if I’ve stumbled upon a drug addict, it’s that bad. Her skin is pale and waxy, and long, dirty blonde hair hangs in chunks around her face, stringy and unwashed. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud because why would the Morgan boys want someone so used up?
Or maybe she looks used because of them ….
My nervous stammer breaks the silence.
“Hi. Um, are you, um, Heather? By any chance?”
The blonde squints my way, shielding her eyes against bright sunlight. Is she a hermit? It’s like she hasn’t been outdoors in weeks, if not months.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “And you are?”
“I’m Macy,” is my hurried reply. “I, um, wondered if I could talk to you about something. Like the Morgan brothers?” My voice ends on a hopeful note, the question dangling in the air.
And that gets a reaction from the corpse in front of me. Her eyes widen, big blue orbs in her thin face, before stepping aside to let me into her house. We make our way to a living room, and my stomach sinks with every step. I could leave now, without asking even one question. I can close my eyes and live in happy oblivion, with no problems whatsoever.
But it’s impossible. Because signs of the men are all over this place, from the dark wood to the strong, simple lines of the furnishings. Even the artwork reminds me of them, sensuous and complicated.
Suddenly, understanding strikes my brain like lightning. This place is nice. Too nice. The boys must be paying for it, forking over rent every month.
And it’s like Heather knows why I’m here. She seats herself on a pristine white couch before squinting at me blearily.
“You said you had some questions about the Morgan brothers?” come her raspy words.
Right. She doesn’t even ask who I am. It’s like she knows.
“I do. I, um, wondered what your relationship was to them? Or with them?” My voice stumbles. “If you don’t mind sharing, that is,” comes my murmur on a small, humble note.
She shakes her head, eyes blazing with memory, almost too bright if you ask me.
“I don’t mind,” she says slowly. “I used to work for their company, Morgan Enterprises. Specifically, I was an assistant to the twins, Will and Tim. It was an awesome job because they’re the creative minds behind the company. And as a new graduate, it was amazing to be their personal assistant.”
I cut in then.
“But you don’t work there anymore?”
Heather swallows heavily, looking down.
“No,” she says, staring at her hands, bony fingers gripping each other tight. “It was a crazy situation because maybe three months into the job, the twins swept me off my feet. It’s hard to resist you know,” she said in a low voice, unable to meet my eyes. “They’re incredible men, handsome, rich, powerful, the whole shebang. So I kind of lost it,” she says, shrugging those frail shoulders. “Blame it on being young and naive, but I started an affair with my bosses.”
I couldn’t look away then, absolutely transfixed by her tale. Heather definitely wasn’t shy about sharing with a stranger, but then again, maybe she hadn’t had a chance to interact with a human in a long while.
“And then?” prompted my voice. “And then?”
“And then Will and Tim introduced me to their brothers,” she said, a faraway look coming into those blue eyes. “And I fell head over heels for the Morgans, my heart theirs.”
Everything inside me turns to acid as the words drop. I have to look away to keep tears from burning in my eyes.
But Heather’s in her own world and speaks again.
“I should be embarrassed to admit it, but I liked being with them. With all of them. I was never very sexually adventurous. I wasn’t a virgin by any means, but my past was vanilla, you know? It was all high school boys who had no idea what they were doing. These guys on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting out a small, bitter laugh. “They sure do.”
We lock gazes and I can see Heather knows who I am, and why I’m here.
“I was in thrall to them,” she says. “Utterly enchanted. I’d have done anything for the Morgans because they promised me so much. Jump off a bridge? Yes sir. Bear a child? How many? Give up everything? Not a second too soon. I loved them so much and was willing to transform myself into whatever they needed.”
The words are stuck in my throat, but I force them out.
“So what happened?” The question comes out in a croak.
“What do you think happened? I couldn’t get pregnant,” she answers bitterly, bowing that head. Her face is hidden but a telltale wet spot splatters on her hand, the tear dissolving. “We tried and tried so many times. I wanted it. They wanted it. And I was only eighteen! But some things just aren’t meant to be,” she said, voice breaking. “Who knew I was infertile? Me, with spunk streaming out of me night and day.”
I can barely breathe, lungs tight.
“And t
hen what happened?” comes my choked query. For some reason, this is the most important part of all. The hardest and yet the most difficult because how they treated Heather is indicative of how they’ll treat me.
The blonde doesn’t mince her words.
“They got impatient, what else? We tried everything,” she says, her words in a rush now, spilling like a fountain. “I quit my job because maybe it was work stress keeping me from getting pregnant. So there I was on my back for basically three months straight, legs spread, praying and praying. But when you’re nervous and worried, the sex isn’t as good. So they were frustrated, I was frustrated and we were all trying to relax. But how can you relax when you want something this bad? And every time my period came, it was like another iron door clanging shut.”
I stare at her as she recounts the tale, emotions warring on that thin, twisted face. Heather’s angry and discouraged and sad all at once, a woman folding in on herself. She stops talking for a minute, eyes faraway again.
“When it still didn’t happen, the Morgans sent me to a specialist. We tried all kind of treatments and pills and procedures but nothing took. And on my twentieth birthday, that’s when the nail in the coffin came. They took me to a nice dinner and told me it wasn’t going to work.”
Claiming His Virgin In the Pool Page 55
