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So I don’t move her, but I do keep my hand on her cheek. I caress my fingertips back and forth, though I’m trembling so badly they sort of do that on their own anyway. Maybe, even with her in a state like this, she’ll know that I’m here for her? She’ll know that I found her and that I’m going to take care of her. She’ll know that everything will be okay.
With my other hand, I grab my phone and dial 911. It’s a series of buttons that I’m all too familiar with.
The operator picks up almost immediately. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“Yes, my mother has fallen and is unconscious…”
I never should have asked if the day could get any worse. Because nine times out of ten, when you ask that question…
It’s going to get much, much worse.
4
REESE
Recent Google search: Can you die if you have too many headaches in two weeks?
The answers are inconclusive, and another headache is coming on. It’ll veer into a migraine before I get a break. Before that break, I’m gonna be in hell.
Shit, I’ve been in hell for the last two weeks. What’s new?
My townhouse is trashed. Child Protective Services is running through my whole goddamn life. Police, too. I’ve had to butter up my neighbors to keep them from being too nosy. I’ve shit so many bricks thinking about the paparazzi finding out, I could build a house with them.
Trixie—the actual name of the puck bunny who’d been with me when Violet was dropped off—was cool enough to sign an NDA without fuss. Granted, the ten grand for silence and the threat of a multi-million-dollar lawsuit should she blab was probably a good deterrent for anything nefarious.
Trixie’s not gonna be sleeping over again anytime soon. What a waste of good ass.
And now, I’m stuck with a baby. A literal, live baby.
I lawyered up quick. I made sure to get a paternity test in before anything else happened. No way was I getting my ass stuck with someone else’s kid.
Joke’s on me: Violet is mine. My flesh and blood, laboratory confirmed.
The problem is, I have no idea how.
I don’t remember being irresponsible. I mean, yes, I fuck a lot. In and out like it’s a second job. I’m smart about it, though. I buy my own condoms, put them on myself. Even when I’m shit-faced, I remember to use one every single time, every round. If there’s one thing you learn fast when you’re a pro athlete, it’s that there’s always some pretty pair of tits attached to a woman with an ugly spirit trying to trap you into something you don’t want.
I go through my mental list for the hundredth time.
Amanda? Nah. I’ve seen her IG, and she’s been partying in Tulum for six months straight. No sign of a baby bump in any of her photos.
Theodora? Probably not. She was… working on a theory? A thesis? Honestly, I was thinking more about getting my face between her thighs than whatever was coming out of her mouth. Whatever it is, she was way too serious about her studies to go through with a pregnancy.
Giselle? Rebecca? Julia? Shonda? I rule them out one by one.
There’s the nameless ones, too. I remember them in wisps of candy-like perfume and planes of soft flesh and wet thighs. Would one of them have traveled across state lines just to drop a baby off? How the fuck would they have known where I lived?
I guess I shouldn’t ask stupid questions. You can find damn near anything on the internet these days. Nothing is sacred anymore.
“Stop looking so constipated, dear. You’re going to end up with crow’s feet before you know it.”
There’s a gurgle and a giggle behind me. I sigh and steel myself before I turn around.
My grandmother has Violet in her arms as the baby plays with the locket at her throat, laughing all the while. Theresa Dalton is well into her seventies, but she’s aged so well most would think she’s only sixty, tops. Hell, her hair still holds more color than gray.
“What would you know about crow’s feet?” I drawl. “You don’t look a day over twenty-one.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get smart with me, Reese’s Cups. You’ve been holed up in this office for hours. You’d think you were some kind of recluse.”
