That’s nothing, however, compared to the real fears that scare the shit out of you—like heartbreak, loneliness, failure, and death…The four true fears of humanity.
Up until a couple of days ago, I wasn’t afraid of anything.
It sounds fake, but it’s true.
My heart hardened so much at a young age that it became as strong as tungsten. Never bending or breaking under the pressure of a loveless home. I’m a tinman in spirit and a silver mirror to the rest of the world.
I’ve learned that failing is the key to learning. Loneliness is relative, plus I have my band. My brothers. We’re as tight as a family and nothing will tear us apart. Death…listen, I work for a high-security intelligence company. If I fuck up, I’ll probably die. The math is simple. I don’t screw around during work, though. The important part is that I believe in my team and myself. If I die, well, everyone has their time.
The four main fears of humanity have nothing on me.
The wailing baby I’m currently holding does scare the shit out of me.
He’s Satan's spawn.
The fucking antichrist.
A vampire that’s sucking my soul.
He’s some eldritch beast who’s blown my brains to kingdom come with his mere presence.
I think I might be genuinely afraid of infants. They’re like a high-tech security system with a fine-hair trigger and a surround system as loud as a fighter jet. Yet…they’re so fragile. If you’re not careful, they can bruise and break just as easily as crystals.
The little demon has been sucking all the energy out of me since he arrived. I think I’ll die a slow, painful death before anyone finds me.
I can already read tomorrow’s headlines: Fisher Hannigan, famous keyboardist of Too Far From Grace died of a child-induced panic attack.
Surely, I won’t be the first to croak from lack of paternal instincts?
I always expected to go out in the middle of a dangerous operation or plane crash. Nope. This baby is going to be my ultimate demise. I look at him attentively. Maybe if I don’t take my eyes away from him, his head won’t start spinning. What’s next? Green acid vomit?
I’m not afraid of dying but of all the things he’s going to do to me before he kills me.
A few years ago, I was in the middle of Red Square. One of my best friends had a laser pointed at him, and we were surrounded by terrorists. That shit didn’t scare me.
Fuck, I wish I was back there. I’d know who to shoot, how to evade the enemy, and my team would have my back.
Right now, I’m out of ideas and alone.
“Listen, if you stop, I’ll give you my entire fortune.” I attempt to negotiate. He doens’t respond.
He can smell my fear and thus the wailing increases.
What did I do to deserve this kind of punishment?
I believe that every relationship arrives at a critical moment. They usually happen when you come to a crossroads, but my life isn’t at a juncture. There’s no reason for this baby to appear in my life.
Yet here I am, at three in the fucking morning, bouncing him up and down hoping he’ll stop torturing me. Where are my friends when I need them? Those assholes swore to take a bullet for me.
Why am I in this situation, fearing for my personal safety, in a small town where I can’t just call anyone for help?
An impressively loud knock rattles my door.
“You better be dying or worse, Fisher.” Her voice echoes through my living room.
Okay, so maybe there is hope.
I stare at the small baby. “Listen, dude, she’s our only hope so you better look the part and convince her to give us a hand.”
When I open the door, my only lifeline is right behind it, looking hot in just a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. If I didn’t have the demon-bundle, I’d be pushing her against the door and slanting my mouth over hers. Which probably would be a bad idea because the woman hates my guts.
Her blazing brown eyes glare at me, then at the baby. “So, you stole a child, huh? Just so you know, I refuse to become an accessory to whatever you did.”
As she turns around to leave I plead, “I need your help, please.”
If I wasn’t carrying the baby, I’d hug her legs and beg her to save me.
She looks over her shoulder. “I swear, coming to Luna Harbor was the worst idea I’ve had in my entire life. Every night I ask myself how I ended up here.”
I couldn’t agree more with her. How did I end up in this pandemonium?
Chapter One
Nathalie
“Look at her. Isn’t she adorable?” Tracy hands me another picture. I glance back at the one she just passed to Christina. They’re identical images of Baby Tara sucking her little fist.
“I swear, she’s so smart,” Tracy assures us.
Christina rolls her eyes discreetly. We love Tracy, but according to Christina, she’s gotten…too mommy. She sends us at least seven daily 23 texts with new pictures of her baby. She tags us on social media when she posts a new video of her. Since I don’t check social media often, I personally can’t complain much.
I’m trying to be supportive of them both. Christina isn’t a fan of children, while Tracy is a proud mama. If Tara was my baby, I’d be taking pictures of her and showing them to everyone I know—maybe even strangers.
Who knows if I’ll ever have children—or a husband?
My life is just constantly up in the air.
Most men in New York are either too busy making money, already taken, or sleeping with all the single women in the city. Ugh, Noreen, the head ER nurse, is right. I’m jaded. She can’t blame me, though. Just last Monday, I found my boyfriend sleeping with my roommate.
It wasn’t as if I imagined myself standing in front of a plastic crib watching my newborn along with Frank Wellington. I just, wrongly, assumed that the son of the foremost epidemiologist in the city would have the class to break up with me before he fucked my roommate on every surface of my apartment.
Shake it off, Nathalie. So what if you just helped bring a baby girl into the world a couple of hours ago? Sure, it was small, cute, and you wanted to hold her forever, but you don’t need a baby to be happy.
I don’t know what I need to be happy, though. I look again at the picture of Mark holding Tara, and my ovaries start weeping. There’s nothing hotter than a man who cradles a baby well.
“Nathalie, did you hear?”
I shake my head, looking up at Amber.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said we need more alcohol.”
I lift my martini glass, finishing my lemon drop, and say, “I couldn’t agree more.”
“We love you, Tracy, but tonight isn’t about Tara. It’s about purifying the week from hell.” Christina pats her hand.
I agree. It was one hell of a week. I’m not sure if there’s enough alcohol in the world to erase the week from my memory, but I’m willing to try.
This is what we’ve been doing since high school. Well, the purifying with alcohol started in college, but before that, we had slumber parties where we overindulged ourselves with ice cream, cookies, chips, and pizza. We drank the occasional root beer float to push us into a sugar coma. Now, we use wine, tequila, vodka, and the occasional whiskey.