Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)(15)
Zayden arches a pierced brow and puts his hands on his hips, cursing under his breath.
“Fuck,” he says and that's it. “Just f*ck.”
I smile and then throw my arms around the neck of a perfect stranger.
I have no idea why I do that; f*ck doesn't exactly mean yes.
I am such a huge f*cking sucker for pretty girls in distress.
That shit is gonna kill me one day. I can barely handle the four brats that I have now. Take on two more? I must be going insane. Like, literally insane. Hello straitjacket, sign my bitch ass up, so I can start my journey on the crazy train.
My fingers rake through my hair as I pace back and forth and check the time on my phone.
Seven fifty six.
It's just about time to head over to that chick's house. Like, I wouldn't even go, but if she's na?ve enough to just give me her address and invite me over to watch her kids, then I'm worried about her. What if she really does get on Craigslist and call up some weirdo? I … f*ck. I couldn't live with myself.
Why the f*ck did I make that nanny joke? And why didn't I correct her? References? I don't have any references. My brother's exact words were: Do you think I'd have called if I had anyone else? That does not inspire much confidence in anyone.
A text comes in as I'm pacing. It's from Kitty again—and it's a picture of her pierced tits.
Looking forward to tonight, it says and I swear, I can feel my cock crying tears of frustration.
Sorry, babe. Babysitting isn't going well. You want to reschedule for tomorrow night?
But then, that probably won't happen either. That girl, Brooke or whatever her name is, kind of implied that she needed me, like, all week. And I kind of didn't correct her because holy shit, what a hottie. I mean, wow. She might not be as colorful as Kitty with the Pink Hair, but that body … I squeeze my crotch and groan.
“What are you doing?” I jump and stifle a scream as I spin to find Kinzie glaring at me. Is there seriously no such thing as privacy? I'm in the bathroom AND I've locked the goddamn door.
“Did you pick the lock?” I ask and she grins at me, tossing a hair clip thing in the sink. “With a barrette?”
“That's a bobby pin, stupid,” she tells me. “Mom taught me how because the twins always lock themselves in and refuse to come out.”
“Great,” I say caustically, raking my fingers through the hair on the left side of my head. “Weren't you napping or something? Can I please have a minute here?”
“I'm up now, and I'm hungry. Can we have burgers?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. Get your shoes on. We've gotta go.”
“It's almost eight o'clock,” she says, and I narrow my eyes. “It's bedtime. And you haven't even fed us dinner yet. Frozen blueberries aren't dinner.”
“Listen up, you,” I tell her as I lean over and give her a look. “You have a serious attitude, okay. I'm trying my best here. Cut me some slack, yeah?” Kinzie gives me a look … and then hauls out and kicks me in the shin. I grit my teeth, but I don't have time to play games right now. No, I'll save those for later. Because you know what? No spankings doesn't mean no time-outs, does it? And it doesn't mean I can't unplug the TV and take away her video games, right? Although that does sound unnecessarily cruel …
Anyhow, it's time to whoop some metaphorical ass here.
I gather the kids up and get them all in the car while the baby and the twins squirm and scream and cry about being woken up. Of course, by the time I get to Brooke's they're all asleep and I have to start the entire process all over again.
The house is … kind of shitty, but it's definitely an upgrade over the duplex with the Bible-thumper on one side and the pot dealer on the other. I mean, Jesus, a trailer would be an upgrade over that place.
“Let's go,” I say and notice that Kinzie's flat-out refusing to leave the car. Fine then. I lock her in, confident that the child safety locks will keep her there, and head to the front door, knocking twice before it swings open and Brooke's standing there with two lines of dark mascara tears running down her cheeks.
Holy … shit.
My knight in shining armor meter starts pinging.
“Yo, Brooke, what's wrong, doll?” She shakes her head and sniffles, running her arm under her nose as she steps back to let us in. I carry the baby into a shabby little living room with a single couch, a love seat and a coffee table. Other than the TV and the rug, that's pretty much it. Not a lot of art or decorations or even toys. But at least there's space. And there's not a baby-hating * on the other side of the wall. I am going to murder that man, I swear to Christ. “I have to go back out and grab Satan's spawn. You gonna be alright for a second?”
“I'm seriously fine,” Brooke says, but her voice is a goopy sob and her makeup's a mess. Her very, very thick stage makeup that looks nothing like what she's been wearing to the park these last few days. Where the hell is she working tonight?
A second before I drag myself away—cannot stand to see a pretty girl cry like that—Kinzie appears at the front door and slams it behind her, sitting down hard on the couch and folding her arms cross her chest.
Well, shit. At least she didn't run off.