“This baby I’m holding right now has a birthmark on his neck,” I heard another say. “Oh, God. How did I not know?”
I whipped around, not expecting to find a parent there holding a child that was mine.
I knew that baby was mine based solely on the fact that I could see the birthmark from here.
“He’s mine,” I said.
He walked over to me and placed the baby in my arms.
That’s about the time the male nurse chose to take off.
“Oh, fuckin’ no you aren’t.” I heard an outraged woman’s voice.
I turned just in time to see a woman wearing a hospital gown heading down the hall as fast as her nonslip socks could take her.
She was on the man in about half a second flat, and before the male nurse could brace or prepare for impact, the mom was tackling him as if he was a running back going for the winning touchdown.
“My wife is an Olympic sprinter,” the man who’d just given me my baby said. “I thought he looked a little too white, too. But I wasn’t here for the birth. I was in Columbia for a photo shoot.”
I looked down at my son, then looked toward the one that they’d tried to pass off as my son.
The one in the bassinet definitely had more of an olive-toned complexion, denoting him of mixed race.
“He’s cute,” I said, “but yeah, definitely looks more yours than mine.”
Seeing as both Danyetta and I were both pale in complexion, with barely any melanin in our skin whatsoever.
That’s when Danyetta walked into the hallway, looking around warily.
She saw the male nurse on the floor that’d been tackled, then saw the woman sitting on him.
Danyetta’s eyes met mine, and she raised her brows as if I had the answers.
I did, and that felt good that she believed in me.
She walked over with a frown and said, “What the heck happened?”
That’s when I saw her lose control.
• • •
The only problem was, there was no way to tell which kids he’d switched.
I mean, obviously, we’d been able to figure out the two that’d been switched in that moment in time.
However, he’d been working at that place for years, and the only way was for DNA tests to be taken of every single baby that’d been through the doors when he’d been at work.
It’d taken them eighteen long months to figure out that not only had he switched my son with another lady’s on the unit, but he’d also switched thirty-two other children. Thirty. Two.
And his reasoning for doing it when he had his day in court? He’d thought it would be funny.
Funny.
He’d thought it would be fucking funny.
Those words, coming out of his mouth, had been the last thing I could take.
Without thought, I’d hopped over that fuckin’ excuse of a divider between him and me, and I’d taken him down to the floor. Funny enough, it’d been one of the other parents that had their children switched—something in which they’d found out two years after the deed—that had blocked everyone from reaching me and stopping me from beating the absolute shit out of the ex-nurse.
When I was finally pulled off, he’d been beaten within an inch of his life.
He would’ve been completely dead had I had thirty more seconds.
In that time, though, another nurse that I hadn’t realized had been involved in the “switching” as we liked to call it, had tried to sneak out of the fray and disappear, only to be knocked down in the scuffle. In that fall, she’d hit her head on the way down.
In a freak accident that would be harder than fuck to ever re-create, she’d fallen just perfectly and broken her neck. Killing her instantly.
The sad fact after that was, while I’d gotten eight to ten years for my assault and one count of murder for the stupid piece of shit, the still-living nurse had gotten six.
In total, he’d changed the life of thirty-two children and their families. Meanwhile, I’d done the whole damn world a favor by beating the hell out of him. And we’d both practically gotten the same sentence, since I’d been released six years early.
Sadly, since the appeal process had taken so long to process, I’d gotten Bowie for way too short a time period before I’d had to start serving my time in prison.
Even getting out early hadn’t saved our relationship.
It’d also given Danyetta and I the push to realize that we just weren’t meant for each other.
In the years leading up to the day I’d had to go to jail, Danyetta and I had come to be more like roommates than lovers. We’d realized rather quickly that, although we made damn fine children together, we didn’t make good spouses. We started spending more time apart.
She wanted everything that I didn’t, and in the end, we’d chosen to actually separate, and finally divorce, after I’d spent a year in prison.
When I’d gotten out, I hadn’t expected her to launch into her begging me to play her fake boyfriend again. In fact, I’d been adamantly against it, but it’d gotten me some one-on-one time with my son, which I’d pounced on.
However, it became very clear, very soon after we started “fake dating” to make this new guy she wanted jealous, that we couldn’t even do that without getting on each other’s nerves.
Today, after about four months of fake dating on our part, and months of ‘fighting’—something that she’d asked me to do with her also—it became very apparent that I couldn’t do it anymore.
She’d all but begged me to meet her at Morrigan’s coffee shop—again, a place I hadn’t been to since I’d gotten out of jail—to plead with me to “keep going” because it was “working.”
However…with Morrigan back, though…there would be no more pretending with Danyetta. It wouldn’t work. Not now, and not ever again.
Because Morrigan was life changing.
Morrigan being back was the answer to a prayer I hadn’t realized I’d been praying for.
Morrigan being back was the kick in the ass that I needed.
Morrigan being back was the one and only thing I hadn’t allowed myself to ever think about.
I closed my eyes, and once again, Theresa was there with a snide comment.
“If you’re going to stand there all day, at least do me a favor and refill those cups.”
I did her a favor and refilled the cups.
CHAPTER 3
I see your inner snot-nosed child is throwing another whiny little shit fit. I’d be happy to feed her a nice cuppa shut the fuck up.
-Morrigan to Aodhan
MORRIGAN
I’d had a good day.
In fact, I’d had a great day.
I’d had a good three days, if I was being completely honest.
Why?
Because I hadn’t passed out once.
I hadn’t even needed to pass out once.
But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.
I’d made a good run.
Now it was time for my life to remind me who was a bitch. Spoiler alert, it was me.
And not in a “she’s rude and I hate her” bitch way, but in a “you’ll never accomplish living a good life” kind of way.