Snake Charmer (Rawkfist MC Book 2) (22 page)

Journey

C
hristine frets over her chili on the
stove. With Zeb coming for dinner, she wants everything perfect, but cooking
isn’t her strong suit. In fact, I peek around her shoulder just in time to see
her preparing to dump more cayenne pepper into the pot. Taking her hand, I stop
her from making the food inedible. She glances at me and sighs nervously.

“I love my dad,” she whispers,
explaining her shaking hands.

“Nuff said,” I whisper back. “Let me
finish up for you.”

“I don’t know why I never got the hang
of cooking.”

“You’re an insecure chef. No matter how
much of an ingredient you put into something, you always second guess if it’s
enough.”

Christine gives me a hug. “Thanks for
helping out. Tell me if the smell gets to you.”

“I haven’t had any issues with smell or
nausea yet.”

“I didn’t have many symptoms with you.
With Justice, I was so bloated for the first few months that I had to wear
maternity clothes.”

“No shock to hear Justice and bloating
went together.”

Christine smiles at me while I taste
the chili and add more salt. She’s fascinated by cooking, but I doubt she’ll
ever make anything non-microwavable.

“Is my dad coming to dinner?” I ask,
gently inquiring about their dating relationship.

“No,” Christine blurts out as if under
threat. “Zeb has been on his best behavior, but getting along with Jared would
be too much.”

“Fine, but your dad better not talk
crap about my dad or he’ll get an earful from me. Just warning you.”

Justice hears the word “warning” and
thinks something big is going down. She hurries over to get in the middle of
the battle.

“Who’s in trouble?”

“No one.”

“Hey, is it too early to think baby
names?” she asks, talking to my stomach.

“With a last name like Mooney, I figure
I ought to start thinking right away. His family is also huge, so I assume all
of the good names are likely taken. So far for a boy, I’m stuck on the name
Ike.”

“Kick the baby,” Poppy says nearby
while snickering at the
South Park
reference.

“For a girl, I’m less sure. A few
nights ago, I had a dream Coretta died, and I named my baby in her honor. So
I’m thinking Corinne if it’s a girl.”

“But she isn’t dead,” Justice says,
sounding disappointed about this fact.

“Not yet but fingers crossed.”

“Don’t say such things,” Christine
admonishes on cue.

“Fine, I’ll keep the horrible thoughts
up here,” I say, tapping my head.

“Corinne is a horrible name. Coral is
better,” Justice announces. “Go with Coral.”

“No.”

Justice gets in my face. “Do it.”

“Name your own kid Coral.”

“Okay. Mine will be Coral. Yours will
be Corinne. No doubt, my girl will have the name people prefer. I even forecast
many, many polls where my taste kicks yours butt.”

“I thought you wanted to name your
future daughter Henrietta,” Poppy says from behind her school book.

“Oh, yeah. Never mind.”

Stirring the chili again, I imagine the
life growing inside me. “I figured I ought to go with an old school name to prevent
myself from naming my kids something stupid like Rainbow and Boomerang.”

“I could see that happening,” Christine
says, grinning to herself. “When you were a kid, all of your dolls had silly
names. You changed one from Anne to Petals. Besides, I think Corinne is
lovely.”

“We’re screwed really,” Justice says,
joining me at the chili. “Becca gave her kids old people names. If we don’t
want the kids to feel even worse about having lame names, we have to give new
siblings old people names too. It’s a cruel cycle.”

“Becca is a cruel woman,” I say,
thinking of Otto at his grandmother’s house for the evening. “Corinne and
Henrietta are better than any silly names we might come up with.”

“You mean like Justice and Journey?”
Poppy asks, still hiding behind her history book.

Christine shoots a dirty look at her
youngest daughter, but the kid isn’t paying enough attention to notice.

“She has a point,” I tell our mom. “You
did choose to call the biggest turd in the family something close to Poopy.”

We all look at Christine who considers
her mothering choices. Shrugging, she reaches into the fridge to find a beer.

“It’ll be a long night,” she says when
we collectively frown.

“Don’t even think of getting drunk off
your ass and leaving us to entertain Zeb. I can’t promise he’ll make it out of
that experience alive.”

Assuming the worst from my grandfather,
I’m unprepared for the dapper fellow at the door an hour later. Zeb’s long gray
hair is pulled back in a tidy ponytail, and he’s wearing what smells like
recently washed clothes. His blue eyes shine when he sees Christine.

“I brought beer,” he says, handing me
the peace offering. “Might want to keep it to one bottle now that you’re with
child.”

“Thanks, Grandpa,” I mutter, frowning
down at where he pats my stomach. “My eyes are up here.”

“I’ve seen your eyes. The baby is new.
Boy or girl?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s still early.”

“I hope it’s a boy. We need more men in
this family.”

Opening my mouth to say something
snide, I force my lips closed. Zeb is trying his best to behave, and Christine
really wants him in her life. No need for me to bait him into returning to his
usual jerk self.

Justice doesn’t get the message,
choosing to play with his ponytail while asking who styles his hair. Zeb mocks
her messy pixie.

“I’m letting it grow out.”

“Did too many people think you were a
man?”

“Mom made chili,” I announce before
Justice can reply.

Zeb frowns at the idea of his daughter
cooking, so I add, “I helped.”

“A woman good in the kitchen is bound
to land a man,” he says and then looks at Justice. “You should remember that.”

“I’m already married, Father Time.”

“Oh, yeah, to the thug. I forget
sometimes. Which one of you hasn’t got a man yet?”

We look at Poppy who refuses to look up
from her book. Zeb goads her with a comment about her fat dad. Poppy refuses to
fall for his bait, so he returns to smiling at Christine. She offers him a
beer, and they head outside to talk about old times.

“That was very mature of you,” Justice
tells Poppy.

“I’m doing school work. Not everything
is about this family’s drama. Some of us have responsibilities.”

Justice and I laugh at Poppy’s earnest
declaration. She ignores us like she did with Zeb. By the time Donovan and
Court arrive, I’m concerned Poppy’s finished puberty early. Please don’t let
this sullen person be the permanent her.

“How are my babies?” Donovan asks,
looking me in the eyes while caressing my stomach.

“Zeb is being nice, so don’t say too
much to set him off. Poppy might be broken, though. She hasn’t said or done
anything obnoxious in hours.”

“I’m sure she’s going through a mood,”
he says, leaning down to kiss me.

Before our lips can meet, I feel a
shock of cold wetness on my face. Poppy stands nearby, firing wildly at us with
her water pistol.

“And to think I was worried about you,”
I say, going after her.

“Don’t run. It’s bad for the baby!” she
cries, taking off toward the backyard.

Poppy is fast, but she’s alone while I
have a partner in crime. Donovan runs around the opposite side of the house,
blocking her escape. She cries foul when I take away the water pistol and
drench her. Of course when Felix and Otto are around, she has them gang up on
the rest of us. Now she reaps our wet retribution.

Journey

T
he Autumn Harvest Festival occurs in
the more upscale Rockwell, meaning they piss away a lot of money to make
neighboring communities feel inferior. The town pulls out all the stops with
rides, food, and décor. I don’t know if anyone in Tumbling Rock or Rock Top
Falls feels less awesome because the Festival has more carved pumpkins than
both towns combined. I know my self-esteem remains intact during my first
visit.

Donovan looks embarrassed by the
overkill. I nudge him and smile.

“Let them have their fun. They spend
the money and do the work while we enjoy it for free.”

Grinning, he wraps an arm around my
shoulders and glances at Otto. “What do you want to do first?”

“I don’t care.”

Otto is sulking today. If Donovan
wasn’t around, Otto could enjoy the festival alone with me.
Why, oh, why,
have I brought along this interloper?

The kid’s not particularly thrilled
about his shorter hair cut either. I decide to mimic Donovan by wrapping an arm
around Otto. “This is nice. Three and a half peas in a pod.”

Otto wants to be angry, but he’s an
eight-year-old boy at a colorful festival with rides and a mountain of junk
food. I’m surprised he isn’t drooling in excitement.

“Come with me,” Donovan says to Otto.

The boy doesn’t move immediately, but
Donovan’s stern look causes Otto’s resolve to crumble. They walk to a shooting
gallery. I watch Donovan show Otto how to aim the dinky rifle and explain the
best way to actually hit the hole since the games are rigged.

The mother in me doesn’t like how
brusque Donovan can be with Otto, but I also notice the boy listens better now.
The first few shots he makes go wild, and Donovan helps him steady the rifle.
Otto acts like he doesn’t want the assistance, but they’re clearly wagging
dicks over who’s the tougher guy.

By the time the boy wins a little prize
and more importantly has gotten Donovan’s approval, Otto is all smiles. He
shows me the little plastic action figure he won.

“You kicked its bum.”

“She doesn’t want to cuss,” Otto tells
Donovan.

“She’s a good mom that way.”

Otto thinks about Donovan’s words and
takes my hand. “Yeah, she is. Can we get hot dogs?”

“Did you know what disgusting things
they put in hot dogs?” Donovan asks.

“No,” Otto says, clearly thinking he’s
being told we can’t eat hot dogs.

“Let’s look at the pictures of the
gross stuff while we eat the hot dogs.”

Otto tightens his grip on my hand and
pulls me along while they head to the food stand. Donovan looks up on his phone
the gross things apparently added to hot dogs. They groan and laugh together,
enjoying the idea of eating nasty crap. I roll my eyes at their enjoyment, assuming
it’s a guy thing. I might have been a tomboy growing up, but I never craved
bugs or rat droppings.

“I don’t like the name Coral,” Otto
says, surprising me by his change in tone. “Or Corinne.”

“What name do you like?” Donovan asks.

“Edith.”

“Why Edith?” I mutter, patting my
stomach.

“Like the singer, Edith Piaf.”

“Pilaf like the rice?”

Otto shakes his head. “It’s Piaf,” he
says, spelling it for me. “She’s a singer my grandma listens to. Pretty songs
in some language. My grandma really likes the singer. Isn’t Edith an old woman
name?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Grandma wanted to use the name Edith
when Mom was having Matilda. I remember her saying that.”

Smiling, I hug him closer. “Edith is a
pretty name.”

“Really?”

“No, but it’s a special name to you
because you love your grandma and she loves you. I think it’s a good name if I
have a girl,” I say and then ask Donovan, “Thoughts?”

“She sings French songs.”

“How do you know?”

“I used Google,” he says, showing me
his phone.

“Of course, you did, queef.”

Donovan grins. “I don’t care what we
name the baby. I don’t think names matter that much. Pick what you like.”

“Well, all right then. I do prefer
being the last word on things.”

Otto smiles at the thought of a sister
named Edith. Donovan smiles at the boy’s happy expression. I try to smile too,
but I’m a hormonal mess. Between the holiday season and all of our bonding
today, I’m nearly in tears.

I watch the two most important people
in my life and imagine us together in a year with a new addition to our family.
We’ll return to the Harvest Festival and eat more bad food and play more silly
games. Every year, we’ll come back, even when Otto is a teenager too cool to
hang out with his parents. Our lives can be that simple. No worries about Becca
returning or Otto turning into her.

We can have whatever we make for
ourselves. I decide to believe life will bow to our wishes. Justice dreams big
and smiles often. I want the same thing with Donovan and Otto. No rational
worries, only blessings and lofty hopes.