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“Yes, there’s a master game, and that’s called life. But I want to be more than a pawn,” come my words. “It’s not enough just to be a vessel, someone who’s going to have your kid. I have to be more than that, even if I can’t deliver.”
The men are silent then. What are they going to say?
But no words come. Instead, they merely look at me, contemplative, blue eyes taking in everything.
Oh god, have I miscalculated? Have I thrown the best thing that ever happened to me away? And all on the word of a sick girl?
But I had to say it. I had to tell them the truth, that I don’t know what’s going to happen now. And turning to the side, my shoulders hunch, taking the steps one by one like a frail old lady.
Because the Morgans’ spell is already cast, writhing and twisting with devilish green light. If I don’t get a dose of goodness, a fresh shot of vitality and energy, I’m gonna end up just like Heather. Dead to the world. A pale, waxen figure, with raccoon eyes and a mind living in the past.
I won’t let that happen to me, I refuse. But what next? I’m a teen girl living in a luxury apartment with seven men. They pay all my bills. I’ve dropped out of college, my parents barely talk to me anymore. I’m caught in their web, and there’s no escape. Slowly, my limbs move into bed, arms and legs stiff, soul numb.
Because I love them still. I crave their bodies, the incredible energy that emanates from the alpha males. So it’s hard to reconcile what I witnessed today with the powerful billionaires. Or maybe that’s the thing. They’re powerful billionaires because of their innate ruthlessness, the way they take what’s theirs with no mercy.
And turning my face into the pillow, hot tears begin to roll, staining my cheeks before dropping wetly into the soft cloth. Because I love the brothers so much … and yet there’s no path forwards now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Macy
The boys are gone for the day by the time I manage to talk myself out of bed. There are no notes of apology. No flowers. Not that I’d have expected any. These are the Morgan brothers, so I don’t expect them to act like awkward teen boys, tripping over their feet. But still, it would be nice.
Hauling myself out of bed, my feet stumble downstairs. I’m a mess for sure, and decide to make some scrambled eggs to start the day. The runny yolk always makes me hungry, but this time, the opposite happens. Looking at the dark yellow slime, my stomach heaves and then bleeeeech! Vomit splatters in the sink, green and brown and ugly. Oh god, oh god. It must be true. I must be pregnant.
After some dry toast and a ginger ale, I haul on some sweats. There’s no sense in hanging out here any longer. I’m not gonna cook, I’m just going to mope and drive myself to new levels of confusion, locked in this beautiful apartment. So instead, I drive myself to Grandma Patty’s house.
As usual, the old woman takes one look at the bird’s nest on my head, the sleepless, haunted eyes, and sits me on her petite floral sofa with the lumpy stuffing.
“What’s wrong honey?” she says, stroking my curls. “What’s wrong?”
And the story comes boiling out then, interspersed with sobs, violent cries, and gallons of hot tears. I lay my head on her shoulder and tell her about Heather. How she was a shell of a woman, a scarecrow with barely any life force because of the Morgans.
“They just left her, Grandma Patty. She used to be healthy and beautiful and they turned her into dust. It makes me sick,” my voice wails. “What do I do?”
My grandmother takes my hands in hers and looks at me thoughtfully. “It’s hard to say,” she replies. “I’m an old woman,” she begins slowly, eyes faraway. “These new-fangled situations are strange to me. Seven men? This Heather woman was with seven men?”
Now it’s time for the big admission.
“Nana,” I say slowly, blinking my eyes hard to stop the tears. “I’m not sure if you heard me. Or even if you heard me, I want to make it crystal clear. It’s not just her. It’s me too. I’m with seven men, Nana, I’m in love with seven men. It’s wrong, it’s awful, because they’ve turned out to be monsters! So what do I do? What do I dooooo?”
The pathetic wail is terrible, ringing loudly in the living room of my grandma’s small cottage. But I can’t help the despair and fresh tears flow once more, choking me. “What do I do?” are my broken words. “What happens now?”
Nana is kind, patting my hand, those withered fingers soft.
“Seven is different,” she says slowly. “Back when I was a girl, even two or three was a lot.”
“Two or three?” I gasp. Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that Nana knew something about ménage.
But my grandma’s eyes spark mischievously.
“Oh sure,” she murmurs. “I was around during the Sixties, honey. It was all swingers and free love, expressing your true self. You have to remember that in those times, society was breaking free, shaking off its chains. Young people didn’t want to be held back, so I saw it all,” she winks.
I nod slowly. That makes some sense
“But I always thought you were family-oriented,” I say slowly. “Like raising Mom and all that.”
“Who said I’m not family-oriented?” asks Nana playfully. “You can have a family and also have a life. There are lots of ways to be happy.”
