Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Which wasn’t exactly hard to do as long as I wasn’t home where they could accidentally walk in and see.
Like I did.
It’s how I know The Kid got Rabbit this artsy journal kit thing with every type of fucking pen a person could think of including some glitter shit I am not looking forward to seeing in our shower.
I wonder if her skin scribble disorder thing is genetic.
Part of me wants to ask Val – off the record.
Away from my counterparts.
The last thing I want is Rabbit and Kid worried about what could go wrong with the addition to our family versus simply being excited we’re getting one.
I can do the worrying.
And the stressing.
And the house planning.
And all the nightmare, headache shit that keeps dropping onto our front doorstep.
They should be celebrating.
Arguing over baby names.
Colors of the baby’s future room.
Car seats.
Strollers.
I want our child to be born into that shit – that overabundance of love and having the best of everything shit – not the anxiety over how much it costs.
Or is going to cost.
Or what possible complications we may have to deal with when it gets older.
Fuck.
Should I be worried about other issues if it was my sperm that took?
I mean I know men can knock a woman up pretty much at any age, but does older, dustier sperm come with more fucking risks than if it were Kid’s swimmer who “won” the gold?
In general?
I couldn’t give a fuck who it “technically” belongs to because as far as we’re all considered, it – fuck, I can’t wait to stop calling it an it – is all of ours, but do we need to know the specifics in case there’s some sort of biological concern?
“Have you had any other problems with your accounts?” Garcia cautiously inquires, the under the hood text easy to exam. “Have any of you?”
Shit.
Did McAdams figure out a way to get into my fucking account?!
Theirs?!
“Not that I know of.”
“Check,” he commands with a firm chin tip. “And as for this?” His head motions to the unpurchased presents. “Worst case scenario is I’ll pay for the shit now and you can pay me back.”
“No.”
“Ace-”
“Fuck no.”
“But-”
“If this were any other shit? Fine. Fuck. Whatever.” Pulling out my device precedes my stare falling to it. “Not this.”
Kid would lose his fucking mind – as is – if he knew we were out shopping together right now.
Especially. For. This.
I can’t “taint” his gift.
I just fucking can’t.
One, keyed in passcode, later reveals to me a missed call from Post along with an alert text from the credit card company. Quickly opening the message has the knot of dread that’s growing in my throat promptly dissipating. “Fraud alert.” After typing the correction option, I look back up at Garcia. “Due to the large, unusual purchase, it was flagged as fraud.”
“Are we sure it’s not?” he playfully pokes. “This purchase is unusual for you of all the fucking people I know.”
“You can refrain from being an asshole to me and resume being a charming asshole to her.”
Monique struggles not to snicker while I try my card again.
“I’m not an asshole,” Garcia slyly segues, sending his attention with it. “And I look forward to proving that to you tonight, Mon.”
“I look forward to that too,” she replies around the time my purchase is approved.
“How do you feel about the white that sparkles? Like champagne? Particularly vintage. The restaurant I’m thinking of has a 1996 Boerl & Kroff Brut Millesime that’s well worth the cost.”
Instead of blocking or assisting or really having any additional parts to whatever Jingle Bell Cock shit he’s stirring up, I merely put my card back in my wallet.
Grab my cell again.
Occupy myself with sorting through random work-related emails from both the shop and the tow company.
This time of year – similar to when we’re in festival season – is pretty fucking busy.
Between people wanting to winterproof their cars – a lot like their houses – and people not being smart enough to abide by the fucking weather patterns – ice sucks more than snow – there’s very little downtime.
I swear it feels like from sunup to sunup again I’m behind the wheel of something.
Whether that’s towing or tuning or traveling to meet with contractors or city members regarding our rebuild or Garcia to discuss the suspicious lack of activity from McAdams, I’m rarely idling for longer than it takes to get my dick wet.
Or The Kid’s sack empty.
Or hear Rabbit pleading for mercy.
Fuck, even most meals I have are on the goddamn go.
They’ve even started packing them for me in containers knowing I’ll most likely be eating them on the road.
Originally, I agreed to slow down, but once we found out Rabbit was pregnant, I knew I needed to pick the shit back up.
At least for a bit.
Secure a literal nest egg.