Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Rough day at the office?” I joke when she lets herself in and pauses, blinking several times at me like she'd forgotten I was even here. It is awkward as hell in that living room, but I stand my ground, Sadie tucked up against my shoulder as I rub my hand in a circle on her upper back. I'm already starting to get the hang of this baby thing. Honestly, I think she's easier than the older ones. At least she doesn't walk, talk, or otherwise move around. No broken cell phones, no spitting, no kicking me in the shin. All this one does is eat, poop, and sleep. Those three things, I can handle.

  “Thanks for staying so late,” she says, lifting her chin up in that proud way she's got. I wonder where she learned that from? “I meant to get back before dark, but I ended up stopping back by the strip club and talking to the owner.”

  Deep breath from her as I raise an eyebrow.

  “He says he'll give me another chance. I need to be back there tomorrow at nine sharp. Is there any way you could stay the night again?” She flicks some loose hair back over her shoulders and challenges me with a look that I can't interpret.

  “Usually when a chick asks me to stay the night, she has other things in mind.” I smile when I say it, but Brooke doesn't smile back. I wonder what's been going through her head all day, about what happened between us. Maybe that's what's bothering her? “Look, about yesterday …”

  “I'd rather not talk about yesterday,” she says, and I nod.

  “Okay, then. Well, to be honest with you, your place is a hell of a lot better than where I've been staying. It's bigger, quieter.” There's no Bible-thumpers or pot dealers living next door. “If you don't mind, maybe I'll just go back and grab the rest of my stuff? Camp out here for the next week and a half?”

  “The parents won't mind. I mean, the parents of …” She gestures at Sadie, and I realize that I haven't exactly explained the whole situation to her. “Your … charges?”

  “My charges?” I laugh and the sound echoes in the nearly empty house. Whatever Brooke's sister was doing before she left, it certainly didn't have much to do with interior decorating. “No, the parents won't mind. They're in South Africa until the end of next week.”

  Brooke raises an eyebrow at me. It's got the perfect shape, you know, like the curve of the Gateway Arch, this deep rounded design that makes me want to grab my kit from the car and pierce it. Brooke would look great with a few careful pieces of metal. I like to think of them as accent pieces for the human body, chrome detailing for an already a beautiful sports car. And Brooke, Brooke is a fucking killer sports car.

  “What are they doing in South Africa?” she asks as she steps inside and kicks her shoes off by the door, setting her purse on the back of the couch. Before I get a chance to answer, Hubert's exploding from underneath it with a yowl, launching himself up the fabric and arching his back in Brooke's direction.

  As soon as she sees him, she lets out a startled scream and I realize I've forgotten to introduce the two of them.

  Oops.

  “What the hell is this thing?” Brooke asks as Hubert yawns and stretches his ugly little peachy paws out, clawing the crap out of the back of the couch. When he's done, he arches his back again and tries to rub his wrinkly hairless body along Brooke. “Is this a … is this a cat?”

  “Uh, yeah. He's mine … well, long story. An ex of mine left him at my place and we've kind of grown close.” I set Sadie down in her crib and move over to pat Hubert on the head. He hisses at me and tries to scratch me, but hey, we're cool.

  “Why is he … wearing a sweater?” Brooke reaches out a tentative hand to stroke Hubert's head as I catch my breath and tell my cock to stop dreaming about her frantic, wild touch. She's so … inexperienced and amateur and … God. I want that hand wrapped around my shaft, gripping hard, palm sweating with nervousness as she tries to figure out my body. If Brooke Overland wants to learn what it's like to be with a man, I'd be more than happy to teach her.

  No.

  No, I would fucking not.

  Didn't I just go over all the reasons this girl is bad news? Like, ouch. Clearly, if she's waited this long, she's looking for something “special”. I specialize more in the once in a lifetime variety of loving, if you know what I mean.

  Best I just text Kitty Pink Hair a picture of my pierced cock and wait for a response.

  If I need a friend with benefits, I can go hit the bars or something.

  This here … this is gonna be straight-up platonic.

  “He ain't got no hair.” I wink at Brooke and she raises her brows at me, her perfectly arched and begging to be poked brows. I grin again.

  “You live in Vegas. As in desert. As in hot.”

  “Yeah, but nobody actually hangs out outside. It's all about the A/C, baby. Hub's gets the chills, don't ya, Hubs?”

  “Hyoobs?” Brooke asks as she pets the cat and then takes a very calculated step away from me. Damn. Not used to that. Usually girls are trying to find their way closer to little old me. “That sounds like boobs or pubes.”

  “Aw, see, look at you rhyming again over there, Smarty-Pants.” That gets me an almost smile as I scratch Hubert's bum and he turns and bites me. Dickhead. “His full name's Hubert. Not my fault. I didn't name the little bastard.”

  “It's kind of an ugly name, but then … he's kind of an ugly cat.” I raise my brows at her, but it looks like she's trying to hold back a smile.

  “Well, you have kind of an ugly dog,” I answer back, wiggling my brows.

  “Yeah, well, he would not have been my first choice either.” That cute little half-smile widens, turning Brooke's young face into something spectacular. I almost whistle. Wow. Wow, wow, wow. I don't usually go for girls like this, the emotionally damaged but ridiculously sexy fresh-faced kind. I like the take-no-crap tattooed, pierced, bitchy sort. But Brooke … she's fucking hot.

  There's this long moment where we're just staring at each other. I'm checking her out, loving the way her hip's cocked to one side, her hand resting there with this little pop of attitude. I feel like she's scopin' me out, too, like her eyes are undressing me with a slow burning heat.

  Brooke bites her lower lip and causes me to run my tongue across mine.

  “Um. I'm home now, so …” Awkward pause. “You can go now.”

  I blink a few times as I feel a frown start to take over my face. Huh? What?

  “Are you … kicking me out?” I ask and Brooke shrugs, grabbing her purse and heading for the stairs. I follow her with my eyes, mouth gaping as she starts up the steps and glances over her shoulder at me.

  “See you again tomorrow? You can bring your stuff over then.”

  “Um. Yeah. You got it.”

  I pick up my hairless cat, my monsters, and my chihuahuas.

  And I leave.

  Feeling ten times as intrigued by the girl I shouldn't let myself have than I did before.

  Nicely played, Brooke Overland. Nicely played.

  I kick Tattoo God out of my house and then watch as his minivan pulls out of the driveway.

  Gah.

  That man is, like, way too attractive for his own good. And he knows it. And he knows I know it. And I had him shirtless on top of me last night, his body pressing me into my sister's mattress. Yuck. Super yuck. But also … not. I mean, I wanted him. If he'd kept going, slipped on a condom, put his thick, hard cock inside of me …

  I shiver and shake my head, turning away from the window and heading down the hall to check on Bella and Grace. They're sitting on Bella's floor, playing with a pair of dolls, a giant monster truck, and … a copy of War and Peace? Not sure what that's about.

  “How was your day today?” I ask, trying not to let the deluge of emotions I'm feeling into my voice. Not that anyone cares, but my day was not a good day. My class ran late and caused me to then be late to an interview. Next, my phone died and I forgot the new charger, so I had to use a crappy printout from the school library to try to get to my next one. In the end, I wound up getting lost and showing up five minutes late
to that, too.

  Oh, and I stopped over at that endangered sea crustacean's house and got my fifty bucks back.

  Bitch.

  Going back to the strip club was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life, but I sucked it up and I went. I did it. I got my job back.

  “Fine,” Bella answers. Grace ignores me and uses the old book as a stage for her doll.

  “Was … how was Zayden?” A shrug as Bella grabs Grace's doll from her hand.

  “No. Not like that,” she snaps, turning the doll's lopsided dance into a complicated hip-hop routine of moving parts. I raise a brow, but I well remember the joys of having an older sister.

  “He was nice? Polite? Did he feed you? Nothing … weird happened, right?”

  “Kinzie got four time-outs, but she deserved them because she's a bully and she spits.”

  “Um, okay.” I retreat from the room when it's clear there's nothing remarkable to talk about. Good. That's what I need from a nanny. Plain, boring, normal. No incidents to speak of whatsoever. Except for the fact that I almost had him run my V-card and make a hefty transaction. I shiver when I remember the crazy way I grabbed at his dick, like I was trying to spot shine it or something.

  I am such a weirdo.

  Flipping my long hair over a shoulder, I head downstairs and pause on the landing, the faint sound of music coming from the kitchen. I find an iPod that's distinctly not mine sitting on the table, pop music trickling softly from the speakers.

  When I pick it up, I find a god-awful playlist with Britney Spears on it. Who listens to Britney Spears anymore anyway? My mouth twitches as I flick my thumb down the playlist and find several other atrocities against mankind: Beyonce, Bruno Mars, Miley Cyrus. Ewww.

  “Aw, cool beans! You got my iPod.”

  A tattooed hand shoots over my shoulder and snatches the MP3 player from my hand as I whirl and find myself chest to chest with Zayden.

  “What the … you can't just come in like that!” I say, my heart beating in my throat as I realize I can feel the warmth of his body from here. He even smells good, like blackberries and cinnamon. I swallow hard as he looks down at me with a confused pucker to his mouth.

  “Huh?”

  “You … left, and then you came back. That means you have to knock.” I ease myself along the length of the table and slip away from him. Being that close to him makes me remember yesterday, and I think that's a memory best left forgotten. “Seriously.”

  “Ooookay,” he says as he taps his iPod against the shaved side of his head, green eyes focused on my face with a perplexed expression. “Will do, Mistress.”

  “Mistress?”

  “Isn't that what nannies call the lady of the house? Close enough, right?”

  He pokes me in the forehead with a tattooed finger.

  “Got the kids in the car. Gotta run, Smarty-Pants.” Zayden gives me a stupid boy scout salute and turns on his heel, lifting his iPod up over his shoulder in a wave.

  I wait until he leaves out the front door for the second time before I reach up and touch a hand to my cheek. Holy crap. I really am blushing.

  Better be careful with this guy. He doesn't just smell like fruit and home … he smells like trouble.

  And I am so allergic to that.

  The next morning goes a lot smoother. I get the girls to school on time and manage to make it to class with minutes to spare, sliding into a seat before the professor even gets to the room. Of course, week two and I'm pretty sure this course is going to kick my ass, but it feels good to be here. I'm twenty-two; this is where I'm supposed to be.

  I work really hard not to think about tonight.

  Or about Zayden Roth.

  For some reason, my mind is desperate to conjure up images of his rock-hard body, his colorful kaleidoscope of tattoos, all those weird goofy mannerisms of his.

  After class, I head home with metal music thrashing around my shitty old car, tapping my hands on the steering wheel in time to the drums, wishing I was back in Berkeley on my way to a party or a club or something.

  Well, I will be on my way to a club tonight. Only this time, it's gonna be me who's the entertainment.

  My mouth purses tight and I swallow hard, pulling into my driveway to find … Zayden waiting for me. What the hell is it with this guy?

  I climb out of the car and find him dancing to Lady Gaga with the baby giggling on his shoulder. The minivan door is wide open and the music is blasting into the yard as he swings his hips to “Bad Romance” and sings the lyrics. I expect him to stop when he sees me, but he doesn't. In fact, it doesn't even look like he's embarrassed.

  If I were him, I sure as hell would be.

  I cross my arms over my chest as he bounces the baby in a gentle rhythm and turns in a circle, foot tapping to the music as I glance over my shoulder. But nope. There are no neighbors around right now; they're probably all at work or something.

  One eyebrow raises up as I study Zayden in his red Dr. Martens and his black skinny jeans, his hands this vibrant splash of color against the baby's peach onesie. Fuck, I hate this song, but … the whole scene is kind of … cute?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask when the song ends and Zayden smiles over at me, oozing confidence and don't-give-a-shit swagger. He literally looks like he could not care one crap less about what anyone thinks of him. How did this guy ever get hired as a nanny? But then I see the gentle but firm way he cradles the little girl against his chest, the kindness of his eyes buried behind all those piercings and tattoos.

  I guess it's not such a far stretch. I mean, I hired him. Only … I'm not paying him any money.

  “I don't need you until nine or so,” I say, but he gestures with his chin at the car and the duffel bags in the back. I hear a hiss from somewhere inside and assume he's got his cat with him again.

  “Cops busted a neighbor at one of the other duplexes for drugs. There are police everywhere; it's fucking chaos over there. Figured I'd stop by early if you don't mind? If it's too much trouble, we can camp out here.”

  “You think I'd leave a baby outside on the driveway? Come on.” I move up the single step and unlock the front door, stepping aside to give Zay plenty of room to squeeze inside. “Was it the neighbor in your building?”

  “Nope. Not the pot growing asswad directly next door, but the Bible-thumper on the other side. Looks like she was cookin' up meth with her gospel.” Zayden chuckles as he pulls the blanket off his shoulder and tosses it on the floor, setting the baby down and stepping back with his hands on his hips.

  We both watch as she attempts a shaky crawl, her floral headband bright against the dull colors of the living room.

  “I've got a baby hack figured out. See, I let her do this for a while and then she just,” Zayden slaps his palms together, “conks the hell out. Works like a charm every time.” He looks up at me suddenly and then snaps his fingers. “Hey, let me grab the dogs and I'll be right back. Watch her for me for a sec?”

  I nod as Zay disappears outside and returns with three yipping dogs. He almost trips and drops the cat carrier in his hand as they tangle their leashes around his legs. Dodger appears immediately, standing guard in the kitchen doorway, teeth bared and hackles raised. I ignore him. Nobody in their right mind would find that thing threatening.

  Zayden drags the dogs across the floor and then lets them all outside—Dodger included.

  “Fuck, you're so lucky you have a yard. The duplex has a tiny square of cement that pretends to be a porch. The dogs crap all over that and then run into the five by five space where there used to be grass and go there, too.” He shivers as I raise a brow again. I want to ask who has money for a nanny that doesn't have money for sod or a better house, but then I realize that I'm in pretty much the same position.

  Maybe Zayden does a lot of charity work? If so, where does he get money to live?

  I narrow my eyes on him and wonder for the millionth time if I'm getting roped into a scam or something here. He just stares at me,
bends down, and then releases his hairless sweater wearing cat.

  Hmm.

  Okay, so there's no way in hell a guy with a sweater wearing cat could be up to anything devious. It's just too … nerdy. But then I remember that I dated a guy for three years and couldn't figure out that he was cheating on me, abstaining from sex because I was going to be his perfect wife one day.

  I sigh.

  “My shifts are from nine to two every day this week. I know it's a pain in the butt, but if you could just, I don't know, stay and then go home on the weekend, that'd be great. I'll start up again Tuesday of next week.”

  Zayden sits down and tries to put the cat on his lap, but it thrashes around in its black sweater and takes off like a shot up the stairs. He watches it go and then shrugs like his shoulders are made of water, nice and loose and easy and flowing.

  “You alright, Brooke?” he asks me instead and I pinch my lips, staring at his face for a long moment before responding.

  “I'm okay,” I say, but then that's how I felt when I freaked out originally. Okay. Fine. Decent. Managing it. Until I wasn't. Until I was panicking and tearing my clothes off my body like they were poisoned, throwing myself at some strange guy I met at the park. I look up at Zayden, at his modelesque face, the silver points of his lip rings, the butterfly tattoos on his throat. “Actually, I'm flipping the fuck out.”

  He smiles at me and nods his head like that's the answer he was waiting for. Next to me, the baby struggles across the blanket, working her way towards Zayden with a shaky sort of intensity, like she's as fascinated by him as I am.

  “Tell me about it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me with those sea glass green eyes of his. The muscles in his arms bunch with the motion and I find my gaze tracing them greedily, finding new designs in his tattoos each time I look. There's a woman bleeding from the eyes, her hands locked in prayer … right next to a smiley face emoji. Interesting. I wonder what his stories for all these things are.

  I dig my fingers into the dirty beige carpet beneath my hands and take a breath.