by Billie Dale
“How long was I asleep?” I garble through a yawn.
“Twelve hours,” Carrie says. “Mazzy’s been out just about as long as you.”
“WHAT?” I screech, scaring Mazzy. She fusses but snuggles her nose near Daddy’s neck and slips back to sleep. Guess I wasn’t the only one exhausted. When I pull my arm free, lifting my shirt, Dad’s cheeks turn red and he rushes from the door.
Milk emptied, I take another shower reveling in the simple ability to bathe when I want. Redressed in the same pants, but different shirt, I follow my nose to the kitchen; breaking out in a happy dance when I inhale the savory scent of meatloaf and it doesn’t make me toss my cookies. I’ve missed her tomato-covered seasoned beef, buttery rich mashed potatoes, crunchy tart pickled corn, and fresh buttermilk biscuits. My taste buds shed drooling tears of joy, joining my stomach in the happy-happy growling musical of “Feed Me.”
I settle in my normal spot at the table, eyes on the prize of my full plate. The first fork load hits my tongue and a foodgasmic firework display explodes through my mouth. Carrie works a pair of scissors over my hair and as my plate clears, I pause to chew, raking my eyes around the room. The dish drainer is full of bottles and empty milk containers. A stack of clean burp towels and blankets sit folded on the counter and Mazzy’s carrier is tucked in the corner.
Lost in the comforts of home and myself I forgot her. A wave a terror and sadness swallows me, flooding my eyes with tears and the lump of meat in my mouth turns to ash.
Daddy and Carrie Lynn banter about using our shared ground as a livestock pen, and the muted sounds of the television carry in from the living room as my panic climbs.
“Hey, Sam, you want some—” Carrie smile falls. “What’s wrong, honey?”
I choke down my bite, feeling it hit my stomach like a brick. “I forgot my baby,” I sob. “Here I am sleeping, showering, and eating yet I haven’t once wondered how she is. Pumping has become so routine; I don’t think about why I do it. I’m like one of Durden’s dairy cows come to empty twice a day on the milker, with no purpose other than to vacate my udders.” My words run all together through my hiccupping blubber.
“Sammy,” Carrie utters.
“I mean, here I sit all la-de-da, thinking how good this food is and how I might walk the land, visit the pond, then I’d go home but I don’t have one, and I’m a horrible —”
“Samantha Lee, stop,” she demands, standing above me. “Come on.” Kindness warms her eyes as she wraps her hand in mine.
I continue to mumble about my worthlessness, dragging behind her to the living room. Pappy is kicked back in his recliner; soft snores vibrate a tiny bundled blob resting against his chest. Mazzy’s black hair is the only thing sticking above the blanket.
Carrie wraps her arms around my shoulders, embracing me from behind, “Every new mom needs to find their footing. A stable of normalcy and a routine. It takes a village to handle a colicky infant, and most women don’t have the support system needed to thrive.”
I melt into her hold, crying harder. “I failed.”
“No, honey. You waited a smidge too long to ask for help but, Sammy Lee, you might be mature beyond your years and have a higher IQ than the residents of Seven Mile Forge combined, but you’re still an inexperienced young woman.”
I swipe a hand over my cheeks and under my nose. “How did you get her to stop crying? Did you work Mom voodoo?”
“Like father, like daughter, I s’pose. I wasn’t much older than you when I had Mazric, and with his daddy deployed all the time, I was on my own too. Broken down and defeated, I showed up at Double V hanging from my last thread of sanity. Gotta say, you beat me in the awful stink department though.” She giggles, continuing to tell me how Granny Ginny took over the same way she did, sending her to shower and sleep. When she woke Mazric was like an all new babe. An old midwife recommended adding a few drops of catnip tea to his milk, swaddling him in a warm blanket, and massaging his tummy with lavender oil. She moves over to Paps, lifts Mazzy Jae, and settles her in my arms.
“Hey,” Joe complains. “Give me back my sleepin’ buddy.” He scratches his stubbled chin, blinking lazy eyes toward me. “You got a precious gift right there, Sammy Lee, and it’s time you brought her home where she belongs. She might not be a Vortex in name, but she’s blood and Double V is her home. Your childhood home is good, but you need round-the-clock help and Johnny ain’t got the right tools to fix this. He and I will go get your things from the plantation, while you and Carrie turn the den into a bedroom.”
Lavender and baby powder fill my nose from Mazzy’s warm head. I love skating my lips over her hair. So soft and smooth it brought me comfort on those long nights begging her for a sleep reprieve.
“Thanks for the offer, Joe, but you need your office, especially once we implement my new endgame for the farm, plus kinda hard to keep up the charade with Hendrix if I’m living here.”
“Kept my mouth shut this whole time, but guess it’s time. I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen. Sit down.” He nods to the sofa, kicking his legs down.
His tone is one I’ve grown familiar with. Joe is a man of few words but his matter-of-fact demand means I will hear what he has to say. I lower myself on the old cushions, propping Mazzy in the corner.
“Now no one said boo to me about all this cockamamie new age shit between you and the Carmichael boy. Gonna say this once. I understand you want the best for Mazric, can’t say I agree with the method. You’re not this lost little girl anymore and best I leave this decision to you. Unless you’ve got a future planned with Hendrix, don’t see a reason you can’t continue the lie right here.”
“Nothing’s happening with us,” I interrupt.
He shakes his head. “You kids are blind as a bat with bad sonar.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. As for using my office, would you prefer the tack room behind the horses?”
“I can’t keep Mazzy in the barn,” I scoff.
“Didn’t say nothing about baby girl living there. No, she’ll stay right here.”
“Tempting a sleep-deprived mom with the chance to sleep a solid eight hours every night, without interruption, is an evil thing to do, Paps. I’m her mom, I belong with her.”
“Where you should be and where you want to be often conflict.”
I look at my girl; her bright eyes are open staring back ringed in brown. She needs me and I need her. “I. am. Her. Mom.”
A prideful smile tips his lips. “Right you are. Makes more sense to move my office to the tack room anyhow.”
Conniving damn old man. He knew his words would pull out my motherly instincts. But there is still a huge pothole in our way. “What about when Mazric comes home?”
“You let me worry about my grandson. Take Mazzy Jae down the hall, I stacked boxes outside the door.” He slips his feet in a pair of boots by his chair. “It’s a go, John,” he calls.
Daddy peeks around the corner. “Took long enough.”
My forehead crinkles as I try to show frustration, but I can’t fight my grin. They planned this and it should frustrate me, but there really is no place like home. Besides, if these last weeks are insight to what the future holds raising Mazzy Jae, I will need all the help I can get.
Forty-Four
Four Years and One Draft Pick Later
MAZRIC
CHAMPAGNE, EXPENSIVE suits, women decked out in diamonds and gowns; I’ve never felt more out of place, but after the Arkansas Prospectors drafted me, my agent advised skipping my welcome to the team celebration is not a good foot to start on. As I stare into the sea of pretentious clones, I can’t help but wish my best friend were here to share it with. I can almost see us huddled in the corner making fun of the entire scene.
Graduating from college, entering the NBA draft, watching my manager negotiate and settle on a talented team and an obscene amount of money; it’s my endgame. Pappy and Mom cheered from the seats, while I crossed the stage to take my diplom
a, and she was on the phone whooping it up when I signed with the Prospectors. I haven’t been home in four years. No holidays or summer breaks. Not that I had more than a week to spare anyway between training and camps.
Gramps showed up at my door the end of freshman year. He gave me a choice. I could keep up my assholery and hurt toward Sammy or do the right thing. Double V will always be my home, despite the way things went down, but it’s also Sam’s. After hearing about her struggles with motherhood I gave up my claim to the farm, content with knowing she has help. He mentioned her and Hendrix weren’t together, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t plant a seed of hope in my heart. Ma never missed a Christmas and when Coach gave us a break, she found the funds to come stay for a week. Claimed she brought home to me by cooking all my favorite foods. All the guys in the house gained twenty pounds when she visited, but she mothered us all. They’ll miss her more than me now that we’re done.
I offered her most of my signing bonus to fix up the farm, buy the new combine Pappy’s had his eye on, even build a new barn so they can get livestock going, but she refused. Sammy’s name stays out of our conversations, but when she’s the reason Mom won’t take my money there’s no avoiding it.
I noticed when Ma cooks she switched from her normal brands. Turns out, Home Vittles, the new market vegetable line, is a co-product between the ranch and an old-fashioned canning facility. The brainchild of Samantha Gentry.
She might not have the letters M.D. after her name, but she used all those smarts and schooling to create what I have labeled a super-seed. Ma says she used a special fertilizer to infuse the original crop with vitamins and nutrients. After harvest she analyzed and worked. The next season Pap planted and the crop boomed. Double the yield, insect and weed resistant without the use of pesticides, and it’s impervious to drought. The FDA jumped all over it and so did third world arid countries, which struggle to grow crops due to heat.
The next step was getting it on the shelves; this is where Mom came in. She perfected preservation with all those years canning, so we’d have enough food to make it through the winter. They hit the market right at the boom of the organic craze. People love the Mason jars with the bright gold lids and the fresh corn, beans, and peas sell like mad.
All the profits went back into the land: new silos, tractors, implements, and fixing up the house and barn. They still have the horses and chickens but haven’t added the fencing and buildings for beef cattle. Despite her objections, I had my newly hired money manager set up an account for Double V, and told the overeager, overdressed dude to send the statements to the homestead.
“Seems like you’re hiding, sitting all alone over here,” a sultry voice pulls me from my thoughts back to the party.
My head twists to find a gorgeous woman inches from my knees. At first glance, she’s hot but when I start at her feet and work my way up, I realize she’s stunning. Sky-high heels adorn her feet, matching a tiny melon dress resting high on her thighs, showing plenty of long dark leg. Her skin is the mocha color of a perfect latte, and let me say she has tons on display. Flat stomach, curving hips, enough tit to show lickable cleavage from the deep open V down her chest, and toned muscles define her biceps. A wild mane of chocolate spiral curls hang down her back with varying shades of blonde and brown catching in the overhead light.
Her body makes me choke on my tongue but her face, damn. Vibrant, deep-set, sky blue eyes surrounded by long sweeping black lashes which dust her high cheekbones with each blink, and spark with enough mischief to hold you prisoner. The color stands out against her shimmering smooth skin, accented by angular brows. Slim nose, plump red painted lips; fuck me, she’s a Halle Berry doppelgänger. Every fantasy I ever had about Storm from X-Men plays in vivid detail through my brain. I mean what man doesn’t fantasize about that damn Cat Woman outfit?
Yes, my comic book geekdom is showing.
“Can’t say this is my scene.” I shrug, rising from my chair. Thanks to her heels we stand eye to eye.
“Aren’t you the man of the hour? The three-point golden boy?”
My face heats. “Guess so, but most call me Mazric.”
“Well, Mazric,” she purrs extending her hand. “I’m Meloni Tate. Tell me if this gathering of wealth and talent isn’t your cuppa, then what is?” A slight English accent hangs on her words.
“Nice to meet you, Meloni Tate.” Sparks fly when our palms meet. “Beer, for starters, this shit tastes like fizzy piss. A pair of Wranglers and one of my worn-out tees. I hate all this gunk in my hair, I prefer a hat. I’m not much of a suit wearer. If I can’t have my jeans, I’ll take baggy shorts or athletic pants. Don’t even get me started on this frou-frou food. Man, I’d kill for a cheeseburger.”
“Handsome, a cowboy and a baller. Well, Mazric Vortex, you are a triple threat.” She winks, closing the space between us. Raspberry, caramel, and sweet warm wood slips up my nose and spreads a boiling path to my dick. “These hips don’t lie and many a burger has given them this shape. What do ya say we get out of here, and grab a bite of something we can pronounce?”
This said from any other woman would come off as fishing for compliments, but from her, it’s laced with intent. She’s not insecure, nor looking to pad her ego, but she’s also not the jersey chasers I use for a one and done.
“Rain check? Practice in the morning, don’t want to be worn out for my first time out with my new team.”
Those luscious full lips pull on one side and my dick weeps from the loss of opportunity. She pulls a card from her clutch, slipping it in my hand. “Well, Cowboy, when things settle, give me a buzz.”
I nod and watch her saunter off, kicking myself with each swish and sway of her ass.
My new buddy, Curry James, shoulders me. “Dude, was that Meloni Tate?”
Curry is the starting center for the Prospectors. He showed up at my hotel room seconds after I signed my contract, claiming he was the welcome wagon. A towering six foot seven, dark skinned behemoth who, despite his hulking build, is quick on his feet and almost impossible to shoot around when he plants himself under the basket. If it weren’t for his bright white, toothy toddler grin, he’d be a terrifying giant decorated with charcoal tattoos painting his huge arms. He demanded I stay with him until I found a place of my own. I’ve known him less than a handful of months, but he’s become a trusted friend.
“You know her?”
“Man, have you been living under a rock?” He reads my curious widened eyes as an affirmative to my boulder living. “Miss October 2011 and 12. She looks as great with clothes on as she does without.” I must still look bewildered. “She enjoys reading on the beach, dresses as a sexy witch every year, and loves her feet massaged after a long day walking the runway.”
One of my college teammates wallpapered his room with naked women. Called himself a lover of the female form, plus he could list the things they enjoyed. He’d change one centerfold each month. I remember one always standing out because of the color of her eyes, a vibrant Caribbean blue.
Holy shit, I just met her.
“She’s a fine bunny with a nice round tail. I hear she’s burning up the fashion industry, most wanted model on the circuit. No airbrushing on her pics. You gonna tap it?”
He’s kind of a pig, but the ladies love him and when one is on his arm, he shows nothing but respect. “Been hanging in the weight room today?” I ask.
“Shit.” He runs a hand over his shorn hair. “Am I talking douche again?”
I nod. Two weeks back, he got a mighty slap from a sexy redhead who heard his trash talk and woke him up to the inappropriateness of degrading women. The shit gets worse when he listens to the other dickholes on the team. I promised I’d call him out when I heard his diarrhea mouth digging his grave.
“She’s one fine woman. Wild, if you believe the rag mags, but f-i-n-e. You using that card burning a hole in your hand?”
“Nah, not in the right headspace to tangle with a rogue one.”
“She�
��d be worth the ride, that’s for damn sure. Still stuck on the one who swam away?”
Too many nights downing beers led to confessions about Sammy Lee. “Nope. Need to get my feet set with the team, plus I’m not interested in fighting the current for another woman. If my path crosses Meloni Tate again, I’ll take her for a test drive.”
“Now who’s being a dawg?”
“Arf, arf.” I laugh. “Gonna go do my dog and pony show, mingle, and then I’m outta here. See ya at home?”
“Sure thing. Enjoy it, brother, you’re only the new kid on the block once.”
Forty-Five
SAMANTHA
“WOULD YOU LOOK? HE’S on every cover and with a different gorgeous woman: actresses, models, ballerinas. Isn’t she the gymnast from the last Olympics?” Asia’s voice carries over the partition, I cringe from her high-pitched bleat.
“Mama, can I have Cap’n Crunch?” Mazzy asks, her tennis shoes clapping on the tile as she runs toward the sugary cereals.
“Bet she was nice and bendy,” another recognizable voice, Brooklyn, comments.
They’re looking at the tabloids and magazines in the next aisle. The stupid gossip and photos are everywhere I look. I’ve stood staring at the display more than I care to admit. His season started in October, but he’s had a camera watching his every move since the day he joined the team.
Away games mean new images of different women. The analyst boasts on his statistics, predicting numerous records he’ll break, but all the people in this town care about are the stars hanging on his arm.
“Moooom,” Mazzy Jae yells.
“Sure, honey but it’ll tear up the roof of your mouth,” I warn, but she’s already throwing the family size box in the cart.
“Don’t care. I’m gonna see if they have a new puzzle book,” she cheers, skipping away.
“Can you believe how bad she screwed him over? I mean having a baby with his friend then taking over his home. All those years she rubbed how smart she was in our faces, but she ended up being most likely to fail.”
