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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.
