Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Well, if the timing works out, tell ’em to come to the promotional thing at the nightclub. I’ll put ’em on the VIP list. Will and the Thai boys are gonna perform their new song, plus they’ll all do ‘Crash’ together. The crowd’s gonna go apeshit—’Crash’ is number one in Thailand right now.”
“Where isn’t ‘Crash’ number one?”
“In countries filled with stupid people.”
I laugh. “Yeah, put Jonas and Sarah on your VIP list, for sure. Sarah loves hip-hop. She’ll freak out.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll text you the details when I have ’em. You can forward the info to your brother.”
“Awesome. Thanks. Just be warned, though, Jonas might try to break your pretty face for torturing him—as much as Sarah loves hip-hop, Jonas absolutely abhors it. Plus, Jonas hates nightclubs—so he’ll be extra grouchy for you.”
“Eh, I’ll be okay. If Jonas tries to attack me, I’ll sic Barry on him.”
“Oh, Barry will be there? Say hi to him for me. I love that guy.”
“Will do. So, hey, I gotta go—we’re at the after-party with the SNL cast—I just stepped outside for a smoke.”
“You’re already partying? Will just performed a few minutes ago.”
“Three-hour-tape-delay for the West Coast, numnuts.”
“Oh, yeah. Duh. Well, have fun, man—enjoy every minute of your success. You deserve it. You’re totally winning at The Game of Life, man. It’s awesome to watch.”
“Hey, that’s the idea, man—as you well know. Win, win, win, as much as humanly possible—and then die taking none of it with you. Speaking of winning at The Game of Life, say hi to Stubborn Kat for me and tell Little G her Über-Cool Uncle Reed loves her like crazy.”
“I will. Text me the info about Bangkok when you have it.”
“Sure thing. Bye, bro. Enjoy changing shitty diapers. Peace.”
I hang up my phone and walk back into my bedroom—and I’m met with Arma-fucking-geddon currently in progress: Mademoiselle Terrorist is wailing her head off and Kat is leaping desperately around the room like a kangaroo, bouncing Gracie up and down frantically, obviously trying her mighty best (and failing miserably) to quiet our mini-beast. When Kat sees me, she flashes me a look of such desperation, I almost laugh out loud.
“I don’t know what’s pissing her off so much,” Kat whimpers. “I’ve tried everything.”
“Give her to me, babe.” I hold out my arms. “I’ll hit her with the Playboy Razzle-Dazzle.”
“It won’t work,” Kat whines. “I fed her. I changed her. I burped her. I sang to her. She just cries and cries and cries. Oh my God.”
“Give her to me, babe. She likes the smell of my skin.” I take Gracie’s writhing, shrieking body from Kat and hold her against my bare chest—and not four seconds later, Gracie’s head does three complete revolutions on her neck and she pukes breast milk all over me.
“Gah!” I shout.
“Whoa, that’s a lot of puke,” Kat says, laughing.
I look down at my puked-covered chest, grimacing. “Fuck.”
“Poor baby worked herself up into a puking frenzy,” Kat says.
“Gee, I wonder where she gets that?” I ask.
Kat laughs. “Give her to me so you can shower, babe.” She puts out her arms.
“No, just grab me a towel. I’ll shower after I get her calmed down.”
“Nothing will calm her down, like I said,” Kat says, throwing me a burping towel. “I’ve tried everything, trust me.”
“Not everything—you haven’t playboyed her.” I gently wipe the puke off Gracie’s chin, right off the little cleft I love so much, and then off the “G-R-A” in my “GRACE” tattoo, and bring Gracie to the makeshift diaper-changing table on top of our dresser. I gently lay Gracie down on her back, stroking her screaming face with my fingertip. “I’m sure my baby just needs a fresh diaper, that’s all,” I say soothingly.
“No, I just changed it,” Kat says. “It’s something else.”
“Is your diaper bothering you, little one?” I coo to Gracie, ignoring Kat’s skepticism. I lean over Gracie’s face, shooting her my most serene and soothing smile—and, instantly, Gracie stops crying on a dime, even before I’ve opened her diaper, and stares at my face, completely transfixed.
“That’s right, my little Scorpio,” I soothe. “Look into my eyes. That’s it, baby girl.”
Gracie reaches up and touches my nose and I kiss her little fingertips, eliciting dove-like coos from her.
“No freaking way,” Kat says. “I tried everything—and one smile from her handsome daddy and she’s blissfully happy?”
I touch the teeny-tiny indentation on Gracie’s chin and stroke the soft, blonde peach fuzz on top of her head. “She’s just a daddy’s girl, that’s all,” I say softly, my voice low and calm. “Isn’t that right, Little G?” Gracie gurgles at me and pulls on the scruff on my chin and I rub my nose against hers. “My baby girl just needed a little Playboy Razzle-Dazzle, that’s all,” I say quietly. “Isn’t that right, angel?” I shoot a snarky look at Kat. “It’s the same tactic I use to soothe another Scorpio I know when she goes off the rails and starts acting like a demon spawn.”