Page 5 of The Nanny Game Plan
Exist without pain and rage and wanting to claw out the eyeballs of the man who hit my car and ran away.
Months later, the police haven’t gotten any closer to finding him or holding him accountable.
My hacker friend, Plato, and I have been doing our own digging—trying to find the allegedly lost traffic camera footage or some clue as to who was driving the truck—but at this point, I’m pretty sure the NOPD has given up trying to solve my case and moved on to bigger and “badder” crimes.
But for me, there is nothing “bigger” or “badder” than this.
And yes, I know many,manypeople are suffering far more than I am right now, and I hate that for them, I really do. But, according to my TikTok therapist, that doesn’t make my ownsuffering any less valid or less of a bitter pill to swallow. And if someone doesn’t catch this guy, I would bet my good leg he’ll end up hurting someone else. So, it’s really not cool that the police don’t even seem to betryingto put his ass behind bars.
Okay, fine, Iwouldn’tbet my good leg.
My remaining functional limbs are precious to me.
But Iwouldbet every penny in my bank account, a whopping two-hundred, eleven dollars and fifteen cents, minus the two dollars I spent on poster board and glitter to make a “Welcome Home Beatrice and Charlie Bean” sign that Ishouldbe hanging on the bookshelves at the apartment right now, instead of heading to a dive bar with an off-limits man.
My friend Cristina gave me all the Dean gossip last fall after he saved me from a savage pet crow that tried to mug me for my rhinestone tiara. Dean is at least a decade my senior, maybe more, aka way too old. He also has two kids—another dealbreaker for me—and tonight, I realized that he plays for the Voodoo. Our social lives are way too interconnected to make a one-night stand anything but messy.
But…
But, for the first time since the accident, I have the apartment all to myself. A one-night stand is actually a possibility, though I know I should make better choices.
I could go home, dance naked through the house to the show tunes Beatrice hates, and eat ice cream straight out of the container. Or, I could order Thai food frombothof the twenty-four-hour places I like and rewatchPersuasion. (The Dakota Johnson version is way better than anyone gives it credit for. Her dry, comedic despair is the despair of my heart.)
Or…I could fetch my vibrator, have a steamy fantasy session featuring Dean the Sexy Single Dad, pop an extra-strength ibuprofen, and get myself and Nutasha P. Bettersquirrel to bedby midnight. (My stuffed squirrel gets fussy when I stay out too late.)
FantasyDean is much safer than real-life Dean.
Fantasy Dean won’t make me cry into my Ben and Jerry’s when he realizes I’m too young to be a stepmom. AndIwon’t makeFantasyDean cry when I tell him I have a strict “no dating men with children” policy.
I spent enough years in a miserable “blended family” to know that it isn’t the path for me. I would never wish that level of stress or discomfort on a child, and I honestly have no idea how to avoid it. I love kids, don’t get me wrong—I was licensed to teach preschool in Missouri and worked at a daycare for years—but I’m a cool Auntie or band-camp-teacher kind of girl, not step-mommy material.
The thought of trying to perform motherhood for some kid who just wants to be left the heck alone, while feeling like a complete fraud, makes my titanium plate itch.
And no, dating Dean wouldn’t necessarily mean we were bound for the altar. We could break up long before he decides he’s ready to introduce me to his kids.
Hell, he might not evenwantto date.
He might just want to wreck my body with pleasure, then slip away like a pussy thief in the night while I’m passed out, snoring.
Please, please…let him just want to wreck my body,I think as Dean opens the passenger’s side door, offering me a hand out of his truck once he’s found a spot behind McLeary’s.
My body needs a wrecking.
It needs it so bad that my nipples tighten simply from the feel of his fingers wrapping around mine.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice breathy. I pull my hand away, reaching for my cane—and my composure. “Is it just me, or has the temperature dropped five degrees since we left the party?”
“Not just you. It’s supposed to get cold again this week,” he says, making my pulse speed as he brushes my hair from my face, fighting the January wind. “There’s a chance of snow on Tuesday.”
My eyes widen. “Really? Wow…you know the weather in advance. You’re like a real grown-up.”
He laughs. “Yeah, well, only because my kids will be devastated if itdoesn’tsnow, and they don’t get to make a snowman.” He cocks his head to the side, his hand dropping as he adds in a slightly apologetic voice, “I have two little girls, three and four years old. Probably should have told you that before I asked you for a drink.”
“I askedyoufor a drink,” I remind him. “I bullied you into a drink with a fake bet, in fact.” Grateful for the whiskey still swimming in my blood, boosting my courage, I add with a flirty grin, “And we’re not getting married, are we? We’re just…having a good time.”
