Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)(17)

Anyhow, it's time to whoop some metaphorical ass here.

I gather the kids up and get them all in the car while the baby and the twins squirm and scream and cry about being woken up. Of course, by the time I get to Brooke's they're all asleep and I have to start the entire process all over again.

The house is … kind of shitty, but it's definitely an upgrade over the duplex with the Bible-thumper on one side and the pot dealer on the other. I mean, Jesus, a trailer would be an upgrade over that place.

“Let's go,” I say and notice that Kinzie's flat-out refusing to leave the car. Fine then. I lock her in, confident that the child safety locks will keep her there, and head to the front door, knocking twice before it swings open and Brooke's standing there with two lines of dark mascara tears running down her cheeks.

Holy … shit.

My knight in shining armor meter starts pinging.

“Yo, Brooke, what's wrong, doll?” She shakes her head and sniffles, running her arm under her nose as she steps back to let us in. I carry the baby into a shabby little living room with a single couch, a love seat and a coffee table. Other than the TV and the rug, that's pretty much it. Not a lot of art or decorations or even toys. But at least there's space. And there's not a baby-hating asshole on the other side of the wall. I am going to murder that man, I swear to Christ. “I have to go back out and grab Satan's spawn. You gonna be alright for a second?”

“I'm seriously fine,” Brooke says, but her voice is a goopy sob and her makeup's a mess. Her very, very thick stage makeup that looks nothing like what she's been wearing to the park these last few days. Where the hell is she working tonight?

A second before I drag myself away—cannot stand to see a pretty girl cry like that—Kinzie appears at the front door and slams it behind her, sitting down hard on the couch and folding her arms cross her chest.

Well, shit. At least she didn't run off.

“I've got to go finish getting ready,” Brooke says as her girls appear on the steps and the brunette one, Bella I think it is, gets her first look at Kinzie. The two of them haven't exactly been playing together at the park. In fact, based on the looks they've been tossing each other's way … I think there's a good chance that they're rivals.

Great. Nothing I love more than seven-year-old-girl drama.

“Ugh, this is gonna suck,” Kinzie spits, kicking the coffee table.

“Hey,” I snap, but I'm slightly distracted by Brooke as she moves up the stairs, sniffling and shaking like she's about to have a panic attack. Jesus.

“Boys,” I dig my phone from my pocket and pass it into their grasping hands. “Play Angry Birds or poop game or something, that one where it bounces and giggles and shit.”

“Curse jar,” Kinzie mutters as I lock the chain on the front door—would not put it past my niece to take off—and grab the baby, moving up the staircase to search for Brooke.

I find her in the bathroom attached to the master bedroom, a curler in her hand, her long silky hair twisting around the curled metal end as her hands continue to shake.

Sadie goes on the floor, still strapped into the car seat (because I learned from Google that it's like, totally unsafe to leave a baby unstrapped in one). Some blessing from an ancient god keeps her asleep as I lean my forearm against the door frame and watch Brooke getting ready inside.

“What's the matter? And don't tell me nothing because I don't buy that shit.” Brooke glances at me in the mirror, but she doesn't stop curling her hair. Downstairs, I hear a TV turn on. A quick tiptoe down the hallway and a glance at the living room shows the twins mesmerized by my phone and the three girls settled in various parts of the living room to watch some weird ass cartoon with glittering purple ponies. Ooookay.

I head back to Brooke and cross my arms over my chest.

“Well?”

“It doesn't matter,” she says as she sniffles one last time and squares her shoulders, feet spread apart in a warrior's pose. “Telling you won't change anything.”

“You won't know that until you actually conjure the words to speak, huh?” Brooke whirls around, still clutching the iron and glaring at me with those vibrant eyes of hers. The color might be pale, but the intensity is … just wow.

“Let me have some pride, okay? If I tell you then everyone will know. I don't want everyone to know.” Her eyes water again, but she glances away before the tears can fall. When she pulls the curling iron away from her face, a bouncy brown curl drops onto her forehead.

“It can't be all that bad, right?” I ask and then wish I hadn't said it as her breath catches hard in her throat and she tosses the curler into the sink, leaning forward to put her hands on the counter. I step into the room, putting a hand on her lower back and rubbing in circles. It feels good to touch her, like my hand's on fire, the palm licking flames against the small band of exposed flesh between her pants and shirt.