Page 30 of Damon
32 years old.
10 years’ experience in nannying. Excellent references available.
A veganism and environmental enthusiast, Sasha believes children should grow up surrounded by dirt, fresh air, and wholesome food.
Possibly, but as an avid meat eater it could cause issues when planning menus. My shoulders sag as I continue to read down the list of people who are more than qualified to care for Annie but are missing the key requirement: they aren’t her mother. They won’t love her the way Connie would have. My little girl is going to miss so much not having her here. My heart aches with the thought.
I’ve spoken at length with my mother about what duties a nanny will undertake and my expectations of them. After much badgering, I had to agree that living in my home was a non-negotiable obligation. The nature of my work is such that I must be able to leave at a moment’s notice, so whoever it is will have to live with me.
My thoughts return to Connie and everything that she’s missing. How much she would have loved this. The cuddles, the night feeds, the daily changes…all the simple tasks she’ll never get to experience with her child. All the special moments of normality she craved for so long.
My gaze shifts to my sleeping daughter, wrapped precisely in a soft pink wool blanket and snuggled in her crib. A crib in every room we use was a good decision; now it doesn’t matter where I am in the house, Annie is always with me. One look at her improves my mood, no matter how dark it has become. No matter how lonely I feel, her presence settles me more than I ever could have imagined.
“Your mummy loves you more than anything,” I whisper, then look to the ceiling. “If you’re up there, Bubbles, I hope you think I’m doing okay.” After sitting for a few moments to allow the familiar sadness to wash over me, I resume reading the list.
***
Titan MMA Gym
Silence. The perfect condition to train in. It will disappear when the others begin to arrive, but right now, the peace is idyllic.
The heavy black punching bag hangs from a thick chain suspended on a steel beam which runs horizontally across the room. I walk toward it, draw my arm back, and slam my fist into the smooth black leather. It swings, and the noise of the strike echoes around the space. Not breaking my stride, I move to the next bag and repeat the process. Ten bags hang from the ceiling, and by the time Hunter and Greyson arrive, every one of them is rocking on the end of its chain.
“Stressed?” Greyson shouts. His strong Scottish accent cutting through the sound of creaking metal.
“Jacked off,” I call back.
“Baby shit?”
“Every kind of shit except that is the issue.”
Hunter comes to my side and grabs my shoulder. He shakes it hard. “Tell Uncle Hunter what the problem is,” he says sarcastically.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, and he chuckles.
“Now, come on, son,” he continues. “I always have a listening ear if you need one, or a woman to ride if that would be better.” My hairs stand on the back of my neck; there have been no women, he knows that. “Maybe a fuck would put you in a better mood.”
“No, punching you in the face would do that.”
“Feel free,” he says, then opens his arms and steps back so we are face to face. “Take your best shot. But I assure you, your cock being wrapped in a wet pussy would be much more enjoyable.” I glower at him. “Fuck, McKinney, you have so much saved-up spunk, it’s almost bleeding out of your eye sockets.”
“I don’t need one of your cheap harlots,” I snap back.
“Now, now, there’s nothing cheap about the women I fuck. They are always of premium quality. I pay a pretty penny for them, too.”
“You really are an arrogant bastard.” He steps toward me, leaning in and staring me down. I don’t move. Greyson clears his throat.
“As much as I am enjoying your little dogfight,” he says, “the boys are about to arrive, and I am sure we’re meant to be training them in discipline. We wouldn’t be very good role models if you two are scrapping like roosters.”
Hunter drops his gaze then lifts his eyes back to mine. They’ve softened, and his face is relaxed rather than ready to argue. “What’s the issue?” he asks, his tone kind but firm.
“Issues, plural. I’ve been summoned back to work. My mother will stay only two more weeks. And I have an eight-week-old daughter with no mother.”
“Annoying but not insurmountable,” he says, then taps his lip with a finger. A dark smile plays on his lips. “Maybe…”
“What hair-brained idea do you have now?”
“Perhaps one of my cheap harlots could babysit Annie during the day, then you at night. Two birds, one stone.” He openly grins at me, and I swing, my fist connecting with his nose. Blood spurts in all directions as his palms lift to his face. “Fucking asshole,” he yells as twenty young offenders run into the gym.