The other side of the bed is empty and cold. Wherever Merc is, he’s been gone for a while. When the doorbell rings again—more insistently this time—I abandon all hope that the place Merc went was to take out our early morning intruder.
I know it’s not one of his gazillion family members. They wouldn’t have bothered to ring. They all have keys. Oh damn. Unless whomever it is forgot their key. Fine. I sling out of the coziest bed in the world and note that both my boyfriend and our baby are gone.
Stanley sleeps in a bassinet near us because he’s up several times a night. He’s got that beautiful nursery we put together for him—after we fought about every fucking thing from paint color to carpet texture—and he never uses it.
He’s a spoiled child who spends all his time in someone’s arms when we’re awake or beside us if we dare try to sleep, but spoiled he shall remain if I have anything to say about it.
The kittens are in here though. They have two modes: sleeping or causing fucking chaos. No in-between. The three of them—because we talked Merc into keeping one more than he tried to originally dictate—are cuddled around each other in their bed. Harry Styles (formerly Elvis), Beyoncé, and Bon Jovi—Bojo for short. Hopefully, they’ll stay that quiet for a bit.
As a zombie who used to be the energetic hockey player, Jack Leslie, I drag myself toward the front door in nothing but a pair of boxers. Someone wants to disrupt us at God’s hour of the morning, they might see my dick. It’s the chance they take.
And see my dick they will. I might not be awake, but my cock is. It’s hard as a rock, still dreaming. Maybe if I don’t wake all the way up, I can fall back to sleep after I punch whoever’s at the door in the face and get back to where I left off.
I pass the nursery on the way, peeking my head in and yep, Merc’s there with our babe, passed out in the rocking chair, and has somehow managed not to drop him. Poor kid. He probably will end up with an accidental bump or bruise with us as parents.
Making whoever wait even longer—they’ve already proved they’re not going anywhere and if they finally leave, good—I stealthily remove Stan from Mercy’s precarious grip. Mercy’s the “parent who has already raised too many children” parent and he’s not as helicopter-y as I am. And I’m probably not considered a helicopter parent by any stretch of the imagination but compared to Merc I’m downright neurotic.
Mercy stirs. “Awww, baby. I came in here so you could sleep,” he mumbles, unable to open his eyes.
“Someone’s at the door and I’m awake now anyway. Go to our bed and get some real sleep.” I like saying “our bed”.
He nods, standing on unsteady legs and stumbles his way down the hall to our bedroom like he’s had too many beers.
By some miracle, Stanley stays asleep, and I take a moment to admire our little wonder. “You’re a fucking demon, but I love you and would maim for you.”
Also, I’ve accepted that our child will swear. Between Merc and I it’s hopeless, but I’m hoping we can at least convince Stanley—and any future children thatwilljoin us with the way Merc adopts people—to not swear at school.
The rude guest has run out of patience and is ringing the doorbell like he’s a damn woodpecker by the time I reach the kitchen. If they wake up my baby, I’ll sue for damages. Sometimes Stanley will wake up at the sound of a pin dropping and other times a bomb could go off and he’s dead to the world.
You never know which it’s gonna be. He keeps us on our toes, this one.
Holding Stanley like a football in the crook of one arm, I swing the door open with the other. With full intentions of letting this early-morning-interloper know exactly how I feel about their impromptu visit, my expression is set to extreme displeasure.
It quickly morphs to shock when I take him in. He’s thin and medium height, wearing a leather jacket that’s three sizes too big for him and a fuck-the-world scowl. His hair is jet black and feathers sharply to his left. Under his right arm is a bike helmet and behind him is a Harley thatcannotbe his. Someone tell me that’s not his.
Except I’m pretty sure it is his and that I know who he is too. I’d know that chin and jawline combo anywhere even in its babyface form. I prefer the older and rougher one though, thanks.
“Who the fuck are you?” he says.
“I live here, Tommy Lee. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
He pats me on the shoulder. “Elvis fucking Stojko. Where’s my brother? You’re not him.”
“He’s asleep. You can come in, but you’re not waking him up. Also, keep your voice down.”
“Is that a baby?” He slides in the door and takes a gander around, not interested in the baby.
“Your powers of deduction are astounding.”
“Wow, nice place. Could use a little remodeling and redecorating though. I didn’t know there would be a baby. I hope no one expects me to look after it.”
“Him. Not ‘it’.Him.”
“Whatever. You got anything to eat?”
What a demanding little shit. Isn’t he supposed to be going on nineteen? We cannot be a mere six years apart. Ugh, but he’s Merc’s younger half-brother and he’ll expect me to make him feel at home. Maybe he’s not planning on staying. Maybe this is a quick meet and greet. Let’s hope so.
I move around the kitchen while he snoops through the drawers and I manage to make coffee one-handed. He’s about to learn that my last-minute specialty is cookies from the cupboard. I mentally vote right now that we all go out for breakfast before we send this kid on his merry little way.
