Chapter twelve
Damon and Annie's Home, London
February 2022
Damon
My cell rings again. It’s the boss. Again. Reluctantly, I pick up my phone from the armrest beside me and tap the accept call button.
“We need you back, McKinney,” he growls as soon as I answer. “Get your childcare sorted and get back to work. Be at HQ, Tuesday 08:00.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No more excuses. This operation is causing more issues every fucking day. Be here or be prepared to move downward. I can’t afford to give you any more time off.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone line cuts, and I lower the handset from my ear. My mother watches me, astute eyes assessing my body language as she attempts to guess what conversation I just had. She crosses her arms over her chest, then straightens her shoulders.
“Who was that?”
“The boss.”
“And what did he want?”
“Me, back to work,” I reply shortly.
“You are eligible for paternity leave, Damon,” she hisses. “He can’t force you back to work.”
“I am aware of the law, Mother.” She rolls her eyes, and the irate feeling she causes within me resurfaces.
Though she has been a godsend for childcare these past eight weeks since my daughter was born, my mother is now getting on my last nerve with her never-ending opinions and advice.
“However, he can make my life and job very difficult when I return if he wants to. As much as thirty-seven weeks of paid leave sounds appealing. In my position, it’s not possible.”
“Well, you better get a nanny sorted for Constance,” she snaps. “Have you even looked at the list I provided?”
“Annie,” I correct her, ignoring the question. No, I’ve not looked at the fucking list. “We call her Annie.”
“Her name is Constance.”
“Yes, but Annie rolls off the tongue much easier from day to day. Please use it.”
She snorts, narrows her eyes, then turns to march from the room. I love my mother, but hell, I can’t live with her. Small doses are fine. A few days of her company is more than enough. After every day for fifty-six days, I may end up in jail myself if she doesn’t leave soon.
“Two weeks,” she calls over her shoulder.
“I can give you two more weeks, son, but after that I will be leaving. You piss me off as much as I do you.”
She doesn’t wait for my reply, only leaves without looking back.
Once gone, I walk over to the kitchen counter where the list of names and credentials sit of the women my mother thinks would be suitable to help me raise my daughter.
After climbing up on the bar stool, my eyes fall on the first candidate.
Veronica Marmont
54 years old
30 years’ experience in early-years childcare.
Fully insured and DBS checked.
After working within a preschool for twenty years, Veronica has spent the past decade nannying around the world for families needing her support.
She cares for children from birth to eighteen years old.
Veronica believes discipline, daily routine, and house rules are key in a child’s development to become a productive adult in modern society.
She sounds fun—not. My focus moves to the next candidate.
Sasha Friel
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.
“Fight, fight, fight,” they chant. Greyson shakes his head then moves in their direction to calm the crowd of excited teenagers.
“Devane,” I hiss, and Hunter’s eyes lift to mine. “You’re not the only unhinged, lonely bastard in this gym. You’re my friend, but don’t take that as permission to say whatever the fuck you want. There will be no women provided by you, got it? I do not need the same shit in my life that you do.”
“Got it,” he mutters. “Now, piss off. Come back when you have your shit sorted.”
I wipe my hands on my shorts, shrug, then walk away without another word.
***
Damon and Annie's House
Applicant Five walks into my living room and sits on the sofa. I repeat the same questions I’ve asked the last four candidates. She answers with prepared statements, the same as the rest of them. It’s boring and predictable.
“Is there anything else you would like to know?”
she asks, her voice so quiet I can barely hear her.
I wrack my brain for something constructive to say or an interesting question to ask.
Nothing. My mother sits beside me, blows out hard in annoyance, then steps in as she has during each interview we’ve conducted.
“Julia,” she says in her most professional manner.
The young woman nods. “You say you worked as a childcare operative in a Swiss chalet last winter. Was that for one family or multiple?”
My mother lifts the curriculum vitae from the coffee table, moves her glasses to the end of her nose and surveys the document.
Poor Julia wriggles in her seat uncomfortably, then straightens her pink cardigan before answering.
“Multiple. I was employed by the hotel complex.”
“I see,” my mother responds. “Have you ever secured a position with a family? Or have you relied on employment within the corporate world? This position is quite different from being a stand-in babysitter at a holiday park.”
“Excuse me,” Julia replies sharply. “But the holiday park was a five-star ski resort, and I was much more than a stand-in babysitter. Families trusted me with their children for days at a time while they enjoyed themselves. I can assure you, I am more than capable of this position.”