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Of course, I hesitate. I put it off because I don’t have a clue what to expect the second I show up on Marshal Howard’s doorstep.
Three more days at the clinic drift by before I’m brave enough to follow through. It’s another screaming kid in the waiting room who finally gives me courage, a little boy with no chill. I’m the one who comes out with a green apple sucker while Quinn draws his mom’s blood. He quiets down like magic.
I can do this. I might even be good at it.
No more delays. No more crap. Come Monday, I’m seeing Mr. Castoff for my job interview.
2
Little Red Riding Hood (Marshal)
The alarm on my phone blares just before five a.m. It’s cold, it’s winter, and fuck, the hot shower I step into is glorious.
No time to stand in the suds jerking off, though. It’s another day packed with business.
I dry my hair quickly and head for the kitchen, stopping to poke my head through the door into Mia’s room. My little angel should be asleep for a couple more hours. That means now is the best window of opportunity I’ll have all day to get to my shop and get some major work done.
I take a detour to the stove. My coffee is black, pour over, and so dark it could strip rust.
The first slurp is perfection. Too bad it never lasts.
By the second, I have every reason in the world to be pissed off again.
“Keep coping, asshole. You won’t fix it today,” I tell myself, growling into the shadows before I drain the excess coffee dregs into my thermos for later. “It’s just another morning. No different than the rest.”
Half an hour later, I’m too busy to worry about the stains on my soul. The grease all over my hands is a nice distraction, making this wrench a hard bastard to screw.
I have to be careful. Have to focus. Classic motorcycle parts don’t come cheap if I fuck up and break them.
Besides, I’ve got plenty more work lined up through New Year’s. I put in a solid hour on the old Harleys, stripping metal and overhauling damned near everything. Then my muscles lock, pleading for a break.
This is the part I hate. The quiet, productive hours are over too soon. If I’m lucky, I’ll have another thirty minutes, maybe less.
Usually before ten, I hear my little girl screaming my name from the back door, or else coming up to my shop door to rap the secret knock I taught her. She’s been sleeping in later the last few days since her fever faded. Of course, I lost precious time, tending to her every need.
Money is the last thing on my mind when she’s sick.
I don’t know how I’ve kept us stable, raising a four year old alone as long as I have, but I do. I’m hoping that changes once there’s an answer to my nanny ad.
I sit down to rest, sipping the rest of my coffee, staring at the old ammo box in the corner.
It’s like a hellish magnet. Never fails to draw my gaze every idle second in my workspace.
Goddamn, not today. I can’t.
The blanket I threw over it a couple months ago hasn’t helped, ever since the last time I slammed it shut and pinched the lock on tight. Everything is still there.
Secret. Taunting. Pleading.
Everything I don’t want to dwell on, but have to.
Ignoring the fatigue in my hands, my fist tightens. “Someday, boys. I haven’t given up. I’ll die before that ever –“
There’s that knock. Three, to be precise. Right on time, honeybee.
Standing, I’m ready to greet her and head back to the kitchen to make us breakfast. I’m halfway to the door before I realize the other three taps are missing.
It should be six with a pause in the middle. Not three.
What the hell? I rip the door open, afraid something’s wrong because Mia never forgets.
It isn’t my little girl.
It’s a woman. A voluptuous hourglass of a fox who looks like she just stepped out of my wet dreams with her long flaming hair and jade green eyes. Teasing hips, deadly lips, and so much of that bright red fucking hair, my hands have a better reason to burn besides their recent workout.
Then her familiarity hits. Red.
The reckless flunky who stuck my daughter’s arm just last week. The shy, soft-spoken girl who should be anywhere but here.
It doesn’t make sense.
“You again. Here. Why?” I step out and stop, taking back my front step, surprised she holds her ground.
“I’m here about the nanny job.” It’s quick and forceful and anxious. Like she’s been practicing the words all morning. “Don’t look so surprised. I saw the ads in the waiting room yesterday. I need work. I’m at your service.”
My…service? What is this, the nineteen-fucking-fifties? The mouth on this girl.
