Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“They’re nice.” Logan mutters sleepily. “I wish they were my dads.”
My heart stutters. He hardly ever talks about having a father, but since starting pre-school, it comes up more often. He’s starting to recognize that even the kids who don’t have daddies to pick them up, still see them sometimes, or at least know who they are. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s thinking about it.
“They are nice, honey.” I’m not even going to touch the idea of Logan and his three dads, and I really hope he doesn’t repeat it at pre-school.
I could certainly see the appeal for me. Single parenthood kind of landed in my lap, and I don’t regret it, but I’m the CEO, the janitor, the chef, and the entertainment department all at once. Splitting even some of that responsibility sounds like heaven, thank you very much.
I yawn and my eyes drift closed. What would it be like to share some of the load? Playing pinball with Stiff while the others kept Logan busy was so nice. And for as much as I like to tell myself that I can handle all of my own needs, it’s not the same.
I’d be naive to think it means forever, but I’m going to enjoy their company for as long as it lasts, and maybe it would be a good idea to start cautiously dating again. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the little stuff like flirting, or being held. Kissing. The feel of another body beneath my hands. Being wanted.
Before I completely fall asleep, I slip out of Logan’s bed and carefully close the door. I walk through the apartment, tidying up as I go, and getting the dishes into the dishwasher to run in the morning.
The echoing sound of something hitting the railing in the stairwell outside my door gets my attention. It’s a quiet building, and at almost midnight on a weekday, it’s usually completely dead. Not that I begrudge anyone coming home late, but it’s unusual. Curious, I flip open the peephole, only to realize I’m looking straight into the shadow of someone standing on the landing outside my door.
I flip the cover back and double check the locks to make sure they’re secure, both the regular and the safety bolt. Heart pounding, I wait for whoever it is to knock or ring the bell. It’s probably just a middle of the night delivery driver looking for the right door.
Probably.
In addition to all my other roles, I’m also the chief of security. I shuffle to the hall closet and slip out the aluminum baseball bat I keep in there for emergencies. I’m not the strongest person in the world, but with enough motivation, I’m pretty sure I can do some damage.
I stand still, right next to the door. There are soft sounds of shuffling out there, but nothing else. I hold my breath and listen. It’s like my door is being stalked, but no sign of them trying to break in.
Should I yell something? Try to scare them away?
There’s no good reason for someone to be right outside my door for this long. But my throat is closed up in terror. What if making noise just tells them what they need to know before forcing their way in? The longer I wait, the more jumbled my thoughts get. I turn one of the kitchen chairs towards the door and sit, baseball bat over my lap. I set my phone in front of me, ready to dial 911.
The lock jiggles and I hit ‘call’ out of pure reflex.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
As quiet as I can manage while the operator can still hear me, I explain.
“We have a unit nearby. They’re on their way. Keep this line open in case we need to call you back.”
“Sure, thank you.” The line goes dead.
I was hoping they’d stay on the line with me, but apparently this isn’t enough of an emergency for that. Steeling myself for what I hope is a short wait, I keep a good grip on the bat. My leg bounces like I’m the drummer at a heavy metal concert, and I’m so full of adrenaline that I almost wish they’d just break in so I can actually do something.
Almost.
My defense plan is pretty much ‘see skull, hit skull’, so I don’t think my chances are great against anyone who actually knows what they’re doing. Something scrapes against the door frame. Metal clicks.
It’ll be fine. The police are coming.
I called 911 out of habit, but maybe I should’ve called the bikers.
No. They’ve done so much for me already, and I can’t expect them to drop everything every time I have a problem. And I can’t call them now, the police are on their way.
More scraping, and the door rattles, louder this time. Like the person on the other side is making progress. Where the heck are the police?