CHAPTER TWELVE
Macy
The phone jerks with a sharp brrriiing!
Oh shit!
It’s too early!
I’m not ready!
Quickly, my thumb stabs the off button, breath coming fast.
But an inner voice speaks then. You gotta get with it Macy. You can’t just sit here staring at the bedspread forever like a lump of lard.
So with trembling fingers, I dial once more, heart beating fast, nerves on edge. But it’s a letdown because an automated system at Morgan Enterprises picks up.
“Enter the extension of the party you wish to reach,” says a friendly robot-lady on the other end of the line. “Dial three for a directory by name.”
I dial three. And then my fingers fumble to press four-three-two-eight-four-three-seven, spelling out H-E-A-T-H-E-R. My heart is about to beat through my chest, I’m so nervous. What if it sends me to some random Heather who has nothing to do with this insanity? What if it sends me to the Heather? What if there is no Heather at all?
“No matches found,” says the voice flatly. “Dial zero for operator.”
I let out a relieved breath and dial zero, asking for the human resources office. It goes through in an instant, and a woman named Jill answers, chirpy and sweet.
“Hi,” I stammer, trying to think on my feet. What do I say? How can I get the information I need? I wanted to use the company directory, but that was a bust. So what do I do now?
“Um,” I improvise quickly. “I work for Jones Incorporated and I, um, have an application for a Heather but the last name is illegible. Her last place of employment listed was Morgan Enterprises and I hoped you could maybe help me confirm the name?”
Wow. Good one. I mentally pat myself on the back.
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” Jill asks in a sweet voice.
“Macy Jones,” I say. “I’m a chef and I’m opening a new restaurant downtown. She applied to work in our business office.”
“Oh, okay Ms. Jones,” she says. “I can’t confirm any contact information but the most recent Heather we had on staff was Heather Mastricci.”
Bingo.
“Mastricci,” I repeat, saying the name like it’s already familiar. I have her spell it out for me, then thank her for her time. That was easier than I thought. Too easy, to be honest. I guess anyone can find anyone in our interconnected world these days.
But oh no. This opens up a new can of worms. Do I really want to go down this path? Do I really want to meet a woman who might have been me not so long ago, completely nuts for these seven gorgeous, talented brothers? What if she’s crazy and tries to kill me? Or what if she’s pregnant?
I don’t know what I’d do then.
My stomach drops, throat growing tight.
All these conflicted feelings run through my frame. I should be happy if she’s pregnant right? If this Heather chick is pregnant, then I’m off the hook. Everything my mom said is true, and I can count my blessings it’s not me.
But on the other hand, I want it to be me. I want to be the mother to the Morgan heir, the lover of seven men. I want to feel the brothers pulse between my legs, their semen taking hold deep within. And I want to cuddle a child, nursing him at my breast, loving the babe.
My head shakes ruefully.
Marsha’s gotten to me.
My mom has obviously gone straight off into the deep end with her crazy sinner talk, but maybe she’s right in a way. Maybe these guys are love-em-and-leave-em types. Maybe they chew up and spit out curvy virgins, leaving them as roadkill. Don’t I want to know the truth before going any further? Before I commit to giving them what they want most?
But then again, what if Marsha’s wrong? I mean, she hears gossip among her country club set, sure, but how would they know anything about the Morgan boys and their sexual proclivities? Those country club ladies are vicious bitches. They’ve cast many a stone against women who were allegedly “less than godly” over the years. Good Christians, my ass. More like hypocritical vipers, holding a Bible in one hand and a drink in the other.
So where does that leave me now? My head whirls. Marsha’s probably lying, more concerned about her social status than my well-being. But at the same time, there’s an edge of doubt now.
Mastricci.
That name can’t be too common, right? It sounds Italian American. Can’t hurt to just look.
So with trembling fingers, I google the name, then search Facebook. And oh god, but the girl exists. Of course she does, Morgan Enterprises already confirmed that for me.
But the thing is, Heather’s more than just a ghost now. Seeing her picture, the brunette is real, with a nice smile and friendly brown eyes.
Normal.
Kind.
Probably a good person.
Her last post on Facebook was three years ago though. Weird.
Stop now, whispers the voice within. Don’t do this to yourself. You’re just going to uncover a world of hurt.
But I can’t stop. The thing with Internet searches is that you fall into a hole, finding more and more and more, until you’re sick to your stomach. It’s like a drug you can’t stop taking. So staring at the screen, I enter Heather’s name into a site called . It’s a version of the old white pages, a digital phone book for the ages.
And there she is. Heather Mastricci, living maybe twenty minutes from where I am now. She’s a real person, this Heather, not a figment of my imagination. What is she like? Does she have a funny laugh? Does she laugh when the Morgans laugh? But no, there are a billion Heathers in the world. Even other Heather Mastriccis, with the unique last name. No reason to think this specific Heather knows my boys. Right?
Honestly, it makes me sick even thinking about it. About there being some other girl like me, smitten by seven alpha males, in thrall to their charisma. If she was like me, she might be curvy, maybe a little shy. Maybe she felt like she didn’t quite belong most days, couldn’t quite figure out who she wanted to be. And then seven men dazzled her, made the woman feel special.
So can I do this?
Or more accurately, do I want to?
Moving in a daze, I leave the house, taking the Mercedes out back. Yeah, the Morgans bought it for me, said I could have any car I wanted. But right now, it makes no difference. Staring like a zombie, my foot hits the accelerator and pretty soon, I’m on the road.
The drive is short but harrowing. Crazy thoughts run through my head. I don’t need to know this. Everyone has previous relationships. Even me. I mean, my past doesn’t come with a huge family fortune or kinky sex, but I’ve had sort-of boyfriends, for sure. But the past stays in the past, right? It’s bad form to bring up ex-lovers with your current lover.
So maybe I should turn around. Of course the Morgans have been with other women. They’re virile men; I’d be totally naïve to think I was the first.
But still, my hands keep gripping the steering wheel, foot on the gas pedal. And before I know it, I’m in front of a two-story house, real fancy. Wow, Heather lives here? Shading my eyes, I stare up at the second floor. There’s a balcony with trim, and big casement windows for light. This is a nice place to live for sure.
But right. I’m here on a mission, not to scope out real estate. So taking a deep breath, I trudge to the door, trying to summon the courage to knock. Oh god, there’s no turning back if I do. Should I? Maybe this was all a bad idea.
But again, Marsha’s words ring in my ears. You think you’re the only one? Try again, comes her screechy voice.
And in slow-motion, my hand raises, knuckles tapping against the wood. There’s no sound for a couple minutes, but then some shuffling comes from inside. I can literally feel someone staring at me through the peephole, an unseeing eye.
The door swings open, and I don’t move, just staring. Because the girl before me is Heather Mastricci from Facebook, sure. But she’s also not. Because this female is bony, skeletal almost. She looks like she’s wasted away and I wonder if I’ve stumbled upon a drug addict, it’s that bad. Her skin is pale and waxy, and long, dirty blonde hair hangs in chunks around her face, stringy and unwashed. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud because why would the Morgan boys want someone so used up?
Or maybe she looks used because of them ….
My nervous stammer breaks the silence.
“Hi. Um, are you, um, Heather? By any chance?”
The blonde squints my way, shielding her eyes against bright sunlight. Is she a hermit? It’s like she hasn’t been outdoors in weeks, if not months.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “And you are?”
“I’m Macy,” is my hurried reply. “I, um, wondered if I could talk to you about something. Like the Morgan brothers?” My voice ends on a hopeful note, the question dangling in the air.
And that gets a reaction from the corpse in front of me. Her eyes widen, big blue orbs in her thin face, before stepping aside to let me into her house. We make our way to a living room, and my stomach sinks with every step. I could leave now, without asking even one question. I can close my eyes and live in happy oblivion, with no problems whatsoever.
But it’s impossible. Because signs of the men are all over this place, from the dark wood to the strong, simple lines of the furnishings. Even the artwork reminds me of them, sensuous and complicated.
Suddenly, understanding strikes my brain like lightning. This place is nice. Too nice. The boys must be paying for it, forking over rent every month.
And it’s like Heather knows why I’m here. She seats herself on a pristine white couch before squinting at me blearily.
“You said you had some questions about the Morgan brothers?” come her raspy words.
Right. She doesn’t even ask who I am. It’s like she knows.
“I do. I, um, wondered what your relationship was to them? Or with them?” My voice stumbles. “If you don’t mind sharing, that is,” comes my murmur on a small, humble note.
She shakes her head, eyes blazing with memory, almost too bright if you ask me.
“I don’t mind,” she says slowly. “I used to work for their company, Morgan Enterprises. Specifically, I was an assistant to the twins, Will and Tim. It was an awesome job because they’re the creative minds behind the company. And as a new graduate, it was amazing to be their personal assistant.”
I cut in then.
“But you don’t work there anymore?”
Heather swallows heavily, looking down.
“No,” she says, staring at her hands, bony fingers gripping each other tight. “It was a crazy situation because maybe three months into the job, the twins swept me off my feet. It’s hard to resist you know,” she said in a low voice, unable to meet my eyes. “They’re incredible men, handsome, rich, powerful, the whole shebang. So I kind of lost it,” she says, shrugging those frail shoulders. “Blame it on being young and naive, but I started an affair with my bosses.”
I couldn’t look away then, absolutely transfixed by her tale. Heather definitely wasn’t shy about sharing with a stranger, but then again, maybe she hadn’t had a chance to interact with a human in a long while.
“And then?” prompted my voice. “And then?”
“And then Will and Tim introduced me to their brothers,” she said, a faraway look coming into those blue eyes. “And I fell head over heels for the Morgans, my heart theirs.”
Everything inside me turns to acid as the words drop. I have to look away to keep tears from burning in my eyes.
But Heather’s in her own world and speaks again.
“I should be embarrassed to admit it, but I liked being with them. With all of them. I was never very sexually adventurous. I wasn’t a virgin by any means, but my past was vanilla, you know? It was all high school boys who had no idea what they were doing. These guys on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting out a small, bitter laugh. “They sure do.”
We lock gazes and I can see Heather knows who I am, and why I’m here.
“I was in thrall to them,” she says. “Utterly enchanted. I’d have done anything for the Morgans because they promised me so much. Jump off a bridge? Yes sir. Bear a child? How many? Give up everything? Not a second too soon. I loved them so much and was willing to transform myself into whatever they needed.”
The words are stuck in my throat, but I force them out.
“So what happened?” The question comes out in a croak.
“What do you think happened? I couldn’t get pregnant,” she answers bitterly, bowing that head. Her face is hidden but a telltale wet spot splatters on her hand, the tear dissolving. “We tried and tried so many times. I wanted it. They wanted it. And I was only eighteen! But some things just aren’t meant to be,” she said, voice breaking. “Who knew I was infertile? Me, with spunk streaming out of me night and day.”
I can barely breathe, lungs tight.
“And then what happened?” comes my choked query. For some reason, this is the most important part of all. The hardest and yet the most difficult because how they treated Heather is indicative of how they’ll treat me.
The blonde doesn’t mince her words.
“They got impatient, what else? We tried everything,” she says, her words in a rush now, spilling like a fountain. “I quit my job because maybe it was work stress keeping me from getting pregnant. So there I was on my back for basically three months straight, legs spread, praying and praying. But when you’re nervous and worried, the sex isn’t as good. So they were frustrated, I was frustrated and we were all trying to relax. But how can you relax when you want something this bad? And every time my period came, it was like another iron door clanging shut.”
I stare at her as she recounts the tale, emotions warring on that thin, twisted face. Heather’s angry and discouraged and sad all at once, a woman folding in on herself. She stops talking for a minute, eyes faraway again.
“When it still didn’t happen, the Morgans sent me to a specialist. We tried all kind of treatments and pills and procedures but nothing took. And on my twentieth birthday, that’s when the nail in the coffin came. They took me to a nice dinner and told me it wasn’t going to work.”
“What wasn’t going to work?” I ask tremulously.
“Us,” she answers flatly. “Our relationship. They said they’d get me a place to live, put money in the bank for me. They promised I’d be set for life. They wished me luck. Can you believe it? After everything we went through, all I got was a pat on the back, and a ‘take care.’” Her tone turns bitter then.
“So this,” I said, taking a deep breath and gesturing to the surroundings. The furnishings, the house, all of it. “This is courtesy of the Morgans?”
“Yes. But they were done with me. Just gone from my life. It was like I ceased to exist, vanished into thin air. And me? I was left alone and confused and fucked up from all of the medical procedures and injections, all the poking and prodding. I shouldn’t have still wanted them, but I did, like a junkie going cold turkey.”
“How long ago was that?”
She chews her bottom lip, thinking for a moment.
“Maybe eighteen months? I’m not sure. I’ve been depressed, if you can’t tell,” she says bitterly, flipping a string of straw-like hair behind her back. “I gave everything to those men, and for what? They left me when I was of no use anymore. But I guess that’s how it works huh? When your time’s up, peace out, sayonara.”
“I’m sure it’s not like that,” come my quiet words. “I’m sure it’s not.”
She shakes her head.
“No, you don’t know. It is. And I’m still here, rotting in place, waiting.”
Oh god, no.
“Because they might come around again?” come my timorous words.
Heather nods, another tear falling down her hollow cheek. “I thought they might. But they don’t come. They don’t want me anymore. I’m used up and done for.”
I duck my head, ashamed for the way she was treated.
“I’m really sorry,” comes my mumble. “I had no idea.”
“Really?” she asks, her face a snarl of frustration. “You didn’t think maybe they’d tried this out with someone else? Or many someones, for that matter? I mean, you think they just came up with this bright idea yesterday?”
Her words are like a slap in the face.
“No,” I stammer. “I – I just assumed they’d had other women in their lives. It didn’t seem relevant, though. At the time. It was all in the past.”
Heather glares at me with disgust.
“Yeah, it’s easy to pretend, isn’t it?” she asks bitterly. But then those blue eyes seize mine, burning with ice fire. “Between all of the medical procedures and weight loss, I’m not anyone they would consider anymore. But you,” she spits, looking me up and down, “you’re just what they like. Youthful, curvy, healthy. You have that long hair and big ass. Your tits probably hang like pendulums when they fuck you from behind. They probably love those wide, baby-making hips. Oh yeah, I can see why they like you, all ripe and ready, bursting with fertility.”
“Um, um …,” comes my stammer. But no words come out. Instead, I ask to use the restroom and disappear down the hall, locking myself in privacy.
Oh god, oh god. What’s going on? Inside, I stare blindly in the mirror and hyperventilate, trying to get my bearings. What the hell? First, Heather is clearly bat-shit crazy. But is it her fault? The Morgans used her up until she’s just a shell of a human.
And then they left her when she couldn’t give them what they wanted. I’m sick with the realization. The Morgans swooped in and took advantage of a young girl the same way they did to me. And now she’s lost to the world, angry and bitter and hideous. Ruined. And here I am, caught in the swamp, too dumb to get myself out. If I don’t produce, will I end up like this too?
The question echoes in my mind, ramifications horrendous. Because Heather’s story doesn’t speak well of the men I love, and I can’t move, frozen in place.
But I have to. Hiding in this bathroom forever is not an option. So working hard, I try to breathe normally, a deep breath in, then out. Tears sting my eyes and my body aches with tension.
But again, I have to come out. So hand trembling, I fumble with the doorknob before making my way back to the living room. But Heather’s not there. There’s a tinkling sound, and jerking my head, I see her in the kitchen, looking blankly out the window. She turns slowly, as if coming out of a trance, then blinks and turns off the faucet, emptying a glass into the sink.
Her eyes sharpen with recognition.
“I used to be young and fresh like you,” she bites out. “Beautiful. I was gorgeous and they couldn’t take their eyes off me. Couldn’t stop touching me, kissing me, fucking me. And I can be beautiful again. I can give them pleasure,” she says, lips pressed together so tight they’re almost white. “But they won’t want me because I can’t give them a baby.”
Her voice breaks harshly, painful to hear. And I don’t know what to say, hands gesturing futilely as my mouth opens, no words coming out.
But Heather’s on a roll, staring at my poochy midsection now.
“You’ll overflow with life soon,” come her slow words. “They’ll want you even more. They’ll shower you with clothes, a car, whatever you want. But mark my words. If you can’t give them an heir, then you’re nothing more than trash. Look at me,” she spits, gesturing to her wasted form. “Look how they threw me out when I couldn’t perform.”
My hand claps over my mouth to keep from crying.
Heather leans back against the kitchen counter, folding skinny arms over a nonexistent chest. “I won’t have to work another day in my life. I’ve got this place. I’ve got a full bank account. A nice car. Someone who cleans for me once a week. But I can’t get out of bed most mornings. It hurts. Have you ever walked around with a plastic bag over your head? That’s what it’s like to be me,” she says fiercely, eyes glaring. “I can’t breathe most days, can’t even take a deep breath.”
I have to help her somehow. Holding my hands out, my voice starts.
“I’ll talk to them,” come my rushed words. “I’m sure the Morgans don’t know, there’s an explanation for all this – “
But the woman cuts me off.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” come her clear, enunciated words, chock full of poison. “You heard me. Go fuck yourself.”
And whirling on my heel, I turn and run out of the house, muffled sobs bursting from my chest.
Oh god, oh god, how did this happen? I don’t know what to think, hurling myself into the car, sitting slumped in the driver’s seat. But at the same time, there’s an unmistakable truth to Heather’s words. Because she said the Morgans would give me everything, and they have. This Mercedes. The fantastic apartment. The professional-grade cookware.
But what if I don’t produce? What if I can’t get pregnant? Is it the door for me then? Have I been reduced to nothing but a womb?
And a sob tears through my chest again, so painful that I bend over double, clutching my stomach. Oh god, oh god. I’ve been so stupid.
Because I get it now. The Morgans are master businessmen and master manipulators. This plan of theirs, to share one woman and sire one heir, is a key part of their business operation. If I can’t provide them that, I’ll be out on my ass just like Heather Mastricci.
It’s disturbingly ruthless, Machiavellian to the max. Because children are human beings, and yet for them, an heir is also a wealth management tool. Can I live with that? Can I accept my role as a fertility goddess, a means to an end in this master plan? After all, the Morgans had it spelled out to a tee. Find a hot, horny chick to bear a child, one able to accommodate their endless sexual appetites.
So what do I do now? The dilemma wrecks my mind. On the one hand, I’ve already missed two periods, and that never happens, my monthly flow comes like clockwork. So I must be pregnant already, right?
But on the other, there are doubts raging through my mind, a wild cacophony that makes it difficult to think. Because maybe I’m nothing but a tool in their life plan. Maybe the Morgans even have a powerpoint presentation laying it all out, and my role’s set forth on slides sixteen and seventeen. Oh god, oh god. Am I okay with that? Am I okay being nothing more than a vessel, used for my womb? Because it’s not too late. There are still options … or so I hope.