The bright, colorful ball broadcasted on our TV counts down the seconds—5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

“Happy New Year!” I cheer, shooting to my feet from the oversized chair in our living room. Following suit, Scarlett and Roxie stand from the couch with mild enthusiasm. Taking a few strides toward them, I hook my arms around their necks. Tugging them into a mighty bear hug, I kiss the side of their heads one at a time.

“Mooom,” they drone in unison.

I kiss them again for good luck. “Happy New Year, my munchkins.”

Head tucked against my shoulder in a quasi-headlock, Scarlett chuckles. “Mom, we’re not munchkins anymore. We’re almost as tall as you.”

And whose fault is that? The question tingles on the tip of my tongue. Their father’s, of course. Although, I won’t dare speak his name in front of my kids. Not when it raises more questions and sorrow. It’s not worth it. Not for me, and certainly not for them.

Roxie’s hand rubbing my belly tears me from my thoughts. “Happy New Year, little sis,” she says, pressing her palm firmly to the side of the bump. She does this a lot, trying to coax a reaction out of her baby sister. This time she’s rewarded with some sort of tuck and roll. My new bundle of joy is less active than her sisters ever were. Either that or I’m just older and remember things differently. Who knows?

Kissing their soft, blonde heads again, I release them from their arm-prison. Roxie plops back onto the couch, but not before pecking my cheek. Scarlett, needing more attention, wraps her arm around my lower back, cuddling my side like she’s done since she was teeny. I hug in return, because there’s nothing better than spending New Year’s Eve celebrating with your two most favorite people on the entire planet. We made a day of it, too. Like we’ve done since they were toddlers. We painted our nails garish colors, moisturized our hair with the expensive conditioner I bought and ate heaping ice cream sundaes for lunch. For dinner, I cooked frozen pizzas with extra cheese before we gorged on popcorn and candy as we watched a movie and the New Year bands jam on TV. They’re music nuts, so we had our own booty bumpin’ dance party. It’s fun building ourselves an ark of incredible memories. Ones we’ll remember for a lifetime.

I give Scarlett a lazy one-armed squeeze. “I’m gonna hit the hay, kiddos.”

“You mean you’re gonna read?” Roxie smirks, her eyes glued to the flat screen, a bowl of popcorn on her blanket covered lap. She and Scarlett are wearing these long flowy night dresses that Kade bought them for Christmas. They’re silky but made for children. No scooping necklines or any of that sexy, adult jazz. Nope. Just two fluffy shouldered gowns, one lavender and the other pale blue. Surprisingly, they didn’t fight over who got what. Scarlett took the lavender and Roxie the other. It was nice not having to referee.

“Yes. I’ve got a new book I wanted to try out tonight,” I reply.

“Is this another one of those motorcycle books you’ve been reading?” Roxie, too-smart-for-her-own-good, asks.

That’s the one thing that sucks about being a mom to eight and nine-year-olds. They’re too perceptive. Yesterday, I forgot to wear my A necklace. Both of them noticed and gave me hell. That’s another thing they’re adamant about—that we sport our necklaces as a family. Usually, they wear jewelry a day or two, break it, then I’m stuck tossing another chain or bracelet into the garbage. For whatever reason, these suckers have stood the test of time. Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to carry a memento from the Asshole around my neck. Even if Roxie and Scarlett believe they came from a posh shop in Texas. When they asked me why I’d chosen the A, I lied and said that was the only letter they had left and I didn’t wanna be the odd man out. At least they’re not smart enough to see through that fat lie … yet.

“It’s a biker book,” I confirm with the incline of my head, even though she’s not paying a lick of attention to me. Some cute boy singer on TV is more important than mom. “You’re both welcome to stay up as long as you’d like. But no more pop—water, milk, or juice only. And please let me sleep in, in the morning. I don’t have to work,” I add, kiss Scarlett on the forehead, then go about my household duties before retiring to my room. The dishes get tucked into the washer. I wipe down the counters and throw empty cans in the trash. Yes, I know I should recycle. Don’t lecture me on that.

After I’ve tidied up, I give the girls one last goodnight kiss and retreat to the oasis that is my bedroom. It’s simply perfect—elegant. Just as it should be, since I designed it myself. The walls are the palest robin’s egg blue. The floor, dark hardwood. My favorite part is the bed and its coordinating furniture. It’s one of my few splurges. The bed frame looks like it belongs inside a beach cottage with its stark-white shuttered headboard and footboard. The armoire, which also serves as a hidden TV stand, nearly reaches the ceiling. It, too, matches the same shuttered beach theme. The dresser is much the same—long, white, and charming, with a million different drawers. Okay. Not a million. That’s an exaggeration, more like fifteen. Still, that’s a lot. It takes up an entire wall with a mirror adorning the top. Even the nightstands are all a part of the set.

Stripping down to my skivvies, I do what I do every night—slip under the silky covers, reach into my nightstand, toss my Kindle onto the empty side of the bed, and retrieve my secret phone from the bowels of the drawer. It’s hidden way in the back, kept on silent so the girls can’t hear anything. As I suspected, it’s bursting with texts. Most of them from Kade, and a few from Dad and Bear.

I read through them at warp speed and reply in kind. The majority are wishing us a Happy New Year and asking how the girls are. As for Kade, I’ve told Rox and Scarlett about him. Not that he’s their uncle. Just that he’s a guy I met in Texas and became friends with. I couldn’t very well give them those nightgowns and other gifts without placing a name to them, regardless of who they’re from. If I had to guess, I’d say most are from my dad and Bear. Nobody will cop to the popcorn tins, Barbie sets, or the twenty other gifts they sent. The girls know I’d never spoil them that much so I had to name a source. The safest one being Kade’s. Can you imagine how many questions my mother’s asked about him? Think of that number then multiply it by ten. She’s a nosy broad, that’s for cotton picken sure. And since I’ve returned, she’s been a hundred times nosier. Truth be told, I’m happy she had a date tonight with her new boyfriend so I could spend the evening just my girls and me. We don’t get to do that as much as I’d like. Not with them growing up so fast and me working all the time.

Another text buzzes through.

Kade: Sundaes for lunch, huh? Sounds like a blast!

Grinning at the smartass remark, I go to work on the keypad.

Me: Don’t poke fun, Dickcheese. We did have a blast. I’m sure they’ll be up half the night watching cute boys on TV.

Kade: They’re not allowed to like boys. Tell them Kade said so. And dickcheese? Really?

Me: They’re not going to listen to you if they don’t even listen to me. Scarlett and Rox both swear they have boyfriends already. And, yes, DICKCHEESE. It’s a new nickname. I hope ya like it.

Right before Christmas vacation started, Roxie came home from school with a sticker set from her so-called boyfriend. Scarlett was so jealous they ended up in a yelling match about whose boyfriend’s better. If that’s not proof enough that anything with a ding-a-ling is the devil incarnate, I dunno what is. ‘Cause nobody makes my daughters act like the crazy bitch from The Exorcist without having some kinda superpowers. They’re not typically that cutthroat. Petty sometimes, yes. But not downright aggressive. See, men bring out the worst in all of us. I blame it on the D. Ya can’t live with it, and ya can’t live without it.

Kade: Woman! My shit is circumcised, so I don’t have any dick cheese. I suggest you pick a better nickname unless you want me to start calling you watermelon tits.

I bark a laugh, shaking my head at his silliness, then remove my glasses, placing them on the nightstand. Snuggling deeper under my feather comforter, my arms rest over the edge, so I can text as the snow continues to coat the ground outside. If it doesn’t stop soon, the girls won’t go back to school in three days. That’ll be fun. What kid doesn’t love a snow day? However, my mom will be on babysitting duty. Not sure if her new beau is kid friendly or not. Guess we’ll find out sooner or later. Let’s pray he’s not as weird as the last creep, who had a habit of staring at me all the time. To the point that my mother noticed.

Me: Watermelon tits is a compliment. Not an insult. What kinda chick would be offended by that? How does Dirty Sánchez sound instead? For you; not me.

Pressing send, I can’t keep a straight face as I imagine the thoughts flipping through Kade’s inebriated brain at this very instant. Dirty Sánchez ... I’m sure he’s cracking the hell up.

I giggle, a smile transforming my face.

It’s twenty minutes ‘til their New Year, and by the text Dad sent, it sounds like they’re having one helluva bash. Not that I’m jealous or anything. I’m not. Even if I can’t stop my mind from wandering to things it shouldn’t—like Ryker and Vanessa being there, and how they’re getting along. I’m not rooting for them to break up. That’d make me a monster. No. I’m just … well … envious. There. I said it. After our heartfelt moment in the bathroom, I figured he’d communicate with me somehow, someway. Part of me desperately wished he would’ve driven to the airport to see me off. None of that happened, obviously. There’s been no texts, calls, or mail from him—aside from a pre-Christmas stack of crisp hundreds. He’s always sent a little more money around the holidays and their birthdays. This year’s no exception.

Kade: Haha! Fuck you! Dirty Sánchez is worse. I’m not into all that kinky shit.

Me: Just dick sucking? Them sucking you. Not the kinky Dad and Bear stuff.

Kade: Will you stop? Just talk to me like a normal person. Are you still reading those motorcycle club books you’ve been tellin me about?

What the heck is it with people caring what I read? I’ve read shifter books who fuck vampires and all kinds of deliciously dirty erotica. I’m a librarian for Christ sake. We’re supposed to read a great deal. Now, all of a sudden, people care what I choose to immerse myself in—namely biker books. Okay. So I’d only ever read Tillie Cole before I went to Texas, and since then I’ve binged a ton of MC authors: from AC Bextor, K. Renee, Autumn Jones Lake, Sapphire Knight, Lila Rose, and Kristina Canady, all the way to Kristen Ashley’s biker books. Which led me to her other series, and that Tatum Jackson guy is … a hunka-hunka alpha burnin’ love. Too bad they don’t make men like that in real life. Am I right?

Truthfully, I’m reading them so I can get a better perspective of what my dad’s life is like. Not that I can learn a ton from fictional stories. But, I’m willing to try. They’re entertaining, at the very least. With oodles of drama, and club whores, or sweetbutts, as some of them call loose chicks. I also learned that they refer to those vests they wear as cuts or colors. See, I’m educating myself.

Me: I’m reading one tonight. What’s it to ya?

Kade: All that romance bullshit is gonna rot your brain.

Me: All that alcohol you’re drinking is gonna give ya whiskey dick.

Which is likely a lie. He can probably get it up no matter what. I just like toying with the dickcheese. We have this kind of fun banter every time we chat. It’s our thing. It works for us. We’re like brother and sister, if you could find your sibling insanely attractive without it being incestuously gross. Guess it’s a good thing there’s no blood relation.

Kade: I’ll have you know I’m not drunk.

My fingers speed over the keys.

Me: Yet … is the apt word. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your harem tonight.

Kade: Jealous? And who the fuck says apt, unless you’re referring to apartment in short form?

Me: Jealous of your puny penis going in their vaginas? Ha. Ha. That’s funny. And apt is a perfectly acceptable word. You should try and read a book some time to expand that diminutive vocabulary. So what’s going on there anyhow?

The last thing I want to picture is Kade’s not-so-small dick in another person’s snatch. Not that he’s ugly. Like I said, he’s not. It’s the thought that creeps me out. When I said we’re like brother and sister, I wasn’t kidding. I’ve seen a woman deep throat his cock, and that was more than enough to process. Admitting he’s got a sexy body is one thing, dick watching is a whole different level.

Kade: Duly fuckin noted. Adding brain eating romance novels to my to-do list.

Me: Funny, Dickcheese! Now tell me what you’re doing before I give you a wet willie through the phone.

Kade: I surrender. I surrender. Not the wet willie! It’s the same shit, different party. Shootin pool. Drinkin. Lots of pussy to pick from. Pops had one of the chicks fix snacks, so we’ve got food. Nothing special. And I’m sure I know what you’ve been thinkin about. No. Ryker’s not here with Vanessa. She’s out with her girlfriends tonight.

Kade: (Image)

Gasping, I cover my mouth and stare at Ryker hunched over, seated on a folding chair in the corner of the room, elbows perched on his knees, head hanging low with a red cup loosely clasped between his sagging fingertips.

My heart clenches.

Me: Is he okay?

I’m not sure why I ask. It’s not like I’m supposed to care about the jackass. Albeit, it’s hard not to, when your mind screams you hate him as your heart says other things, officially sucking you into feelings purgatory.

Kade: I tried talking to him, but all I got were grunts. Pops dragged him over to shoot pool. That lasted a round before he gave up and took that chair again. He won’t talk to anyone, and that beer’s gotta be warm as hell.

Me: You think he’s missing Vanessa? That’s kind of rude to leave her husband on New Year’s. Who’s he gonna kiss at midnight? There’s only seven minutes until the ball drops there.

The few New Year’s we spent together we always celebrated at home. We had pancakes for lunch, watched a movie, and ate popcorn whenever the countdown shows started. Once the new year chimed, we made out for a whole minute, as a good luck charm of sorts, which led to a night full of passionate, toe-curling sex.

I squeeze my thighs together at the memory, reveling in the spark that engulfs my neglected clit. Unfortunately, I haven’t come in days. Mr. Showerhead or Mr. Hand are my only orgasmic tools at this time, so I make due whenever the itch arises. Since mine and Ryker’s little bathroom episode, I’ve been hornier than I’ve been in years, so those apparatuses have been working overtime. It’s pathetic, I know. Then again, a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

Kade: I don’t think he wanted her here. He’s been depressed. Pops is worried about him.

What?! Why hasn’t this been mentioned before? We hardly speak about Ryker. Sure, I wanna ask a million stupid questions but don’t. It’s irresponsible and does nothing for my overactive brain. The less I think about him, the better it is for everyone. If only my fingers and shower head would get the memo, because every time I’ve gotten off, it’s been to his face and that glorious body. Please don’t tell anyone else. I’m ashamed enough as it is. Trust me, I’ve tried superimposing The Rock’s face or Vin Diesel’s over Ryker’s, and nothing works. Yeah … I get it … I’ve got a bald man fetish. You can blame that on the Asshole, too. I know I do. Fucker.

Me: Why haven’t you said anything?

Kade: It’s not like we talk about him much.

Me: You told me what you got him for Christmas. You even said he brought mashed potatoes to the house that day, and that Dad and he didn’t fight. That they’ve been getting along a little better. You could have told me then, that he’s depressed.

Kade gifted Ryker a new knife for Christmas. He even had Sacred Sinners engraved on the handle and his name on the blade. With Kade’s knife obsession, it didn’t surprise me that’s what he bought his brother. The personalization I thought was sweet. He sent me a photo before tossing it into a used Christmas bag with no tissue paper or card. My inner elf went batshit when he told me that. Most presents deserve the tender love and care of being wrapped. Bags are for oversized and weird shaped gifts. Yeah. I know I’m a Christmas Nazi. I never said I was perfect. At least he had the decency to have the girls’ presents wrapped beforehand. From the looks of them, they were done by my father. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who could out wrap me. He’s so precise that he brings out the ruler and a fancy pair of sheers to get every angle perfect. That’s probably where I got my obsession from…

Shit…

I’m rambling, aren’t I? I am … I know it. This is what happens when I don’t wanna look down at my phone to see what else Kade has to say about Ryker and his feelings that I … once again … should give two fucks to the wind about. Perhaps, it’s this holiday season that has me overly sentimental. Who the hell knows? I just pray it stops, and soon.

Taking a deep breath, I glance down.

Oh goodie. Four texts…

Kade: Kat, this isn’t something you need to worry yourself with. He’s a grown ass man who did ya dirty. I shouldn’t have even sent ya that picture. I’m a dumbass. Just ignore him and move on. Find yourself a better man. Have you went on that date yet?

Kade: You’re ignoring me now, aren’t ya? I see how it is. You’re gonna make me cry. Here come the waterworks.

Kade: Happy New Year! :kiss emoji:

Kade: Please don’t be mad at me the rest of the night. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell ya about him because you don’t need to know. He’s made his bed and is lyin’ in it. His misery doesn’t need your company. I love my bro, but this is his own doing. You don’t need to deal with it. I know you think about him a lot. But ya gotta move on. Date that guy. You said he was hot. That’s one step in the dicking-you-good direction.

Uhhh! Why does he have to be such a loveable dumbass? One that knows how to make me smile and wanna cry in equal measure. I wish I could squeeze him right now. I could use a good hug.

Me: Happy New Years! You’re not crying, you big fucking baby. The only way you’d cry is if you’re looking for a sympathy fuck. And, fine, I suppose you’re forgiven. But you know I can’t help that I think about him. Not talking to him has made this time harder. Not easier. You’re right. I need to go out. I promise I’ll text Curt tomorrow and try to go on a date with him, but I’m not promising anything will come of it. And, there will be no dicking to speak of so get that outta your dickcheesy brain.

Kade: Fuck yeah! She forgives me. All is right in the world again! Except now I gotta go get me some pussy since all these assholes are too drunk and I don’t wanna babysit. Talk to ya tomorrow. Go read your brain rotting romance and forget about my brother. Later toots.

Me: Later, and make sure you wrap your package. We don’t need to worry about you knocking anyone up. I’m enough of a mess for the both of us.

Kade: You’re the sanest outta us two. Don’t worry, MOM, no glove no love. I don’t need any mini Kade’s runnin around til I’m ready for some.

Me: K. I’ll talk with ya tomorrow.

Kade: Tomorrow. And don’t forget to text Curt. :Tongue out emoji:

Me: I won’t, bossy Dickcheese.

Kade: Good, Watermelon tits.

Chuckling, I shake my head at our insanity. I’m not sure how I’ve lived without him all these years. He’s like the Clyde to my Bonnie. I love that silly man, and made a promise to him that I intend to keep… Even if I don’t wanna.

Curt, my daughters’, tall, lean, and nerdy, in a hot way, vice principal has had eyes for me since last school year. He’s asked me out more than a handful of times. It’s not like I won’t go out with him because he’s got four eyeballs and a hunch back. Actually, he’s sorta dreamy. I haven’t conceded yet because he’s my daughter’s vice principal and that’s like shitting where ya eat—you’re not supposed to do that. Except now, since I just agreed to take Curt aka Mr. MacIntyre up on his latest dinner offer.

The week before holiday break I dropped off Roxie’s gym shoes she’d forgotten at home. He’d been coming out of his office when the secretary took them. Needless to say, my three-minute drop-in turned into twenty because he bragged about how wonderful my daughters are, which led to a date proposal. Smooth, is the best word to describe him—since everyone knows buttering up a mother by telling her how fantastic her kids are is a surefire way to get what ya want. So I left the school with his business card tucked in my purse, which he handed me after scrolling his personal phone number on the back. I haven’t texted yet, and that won’t come ’til tomorrow. First, I’ve got a date with an extra yummy biker named Horse, who won’t break my heart, ’cause we all know book alphas rarely do that. If only real men were the same.