Five Men and a Nanny Read online

  Five Men and a Nanny

  Jess Bentley

  Copyright © 2018 by Jess Bentley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. PREFACE

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  20. EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Prologue

  21. Chapter 1

  22. Chapter 2

  23. Chapter 3

  24. Chapter 4

  25. Chapter 5

  26. Chapter 6

  27. Chapter 7

  28. Chapter 8

  29. Chapter 9

  30. Chapter 10

  31. Chapter 11

  32. Chapter 12

  33. Chapter 13

  34. Chapter 14

  35. Chapter 15

  36. Chapter 16

  37. Chapter 17

  38. Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  PREFACE

  SULLY

  It’s all arranged. I’ve informed the staff that she should be arriving any second now, and then I want her up here to meet Royce in ten minutes, exactly. I think she’s already downstairs. Probably walking toward the elevator.

  The key is convincing Royce. He doesn’t understand that we need this. We need to have a woman in our lives. At first it seemed like a convenient thing, or a financial thing, but now it seems like the only way our family will survive is if we are unified.

  It’s going to take a miracle.

  Royce is predictably annoyed that I set it up without asking him. But August sent me surveillance video of her. There’s something to her. Maybe it’s crazy to think this, but I felt like I really saw something surprising in this one.

  So we are going to try again, come hell or high water.

  Royce is mad. He stands with his hands on his hips, his shirt in a crumpled mass in his hand, his chest streaked with sweat. His nostrils flare and that muscle jumps at the back of his jawline.

  If we had more time, I would take him downstairs and spar in the ring for a little while. Maybe work it out. Because that’s part of who we are: we are physical. We may be the richest men in the country, but we are also just men. We need a physical reality, not just a financial one. Because what is money anyway, some kind of fairytale?

  I hear the elevator mechanism engaging and find a reason to leave the room, ducking into the service hallway to watch from a distance. I shouldn’t do it, but I need to see what happens in person. I need to know if there’s any chance at all.

  She comes in tentatively, wearing a feminine but sporty little dress that accentuates her curvy strength. She’s smaller than I expected, but also wound tight like a gymnast. Her calves flex with every step that she takes toward him. Her fingers pluck nervously at the hem of her skirt.

  Royce is facing the other way, looking for a clean shirt to wear before she gets here, not realizing she is standing right behind him. He takes his sweaty shirt and tosses it over his shoulder, right into her hands. She catches it.

  He turns around.

  Backing away, I stand out of sight again. I don’t want him to know I’m still here, spying on him. I can hear their voices but not the words, yet I can still kind of understand the tone and cadence of their voices. They go from icy to easy in a remarkably short period of time. It sounds like they’re both already flirting.

  She has an interesting, sultry voice. A little gravelly, a little worldly. Not like she’s been worn down, but like she’s an astute observer. She’s seen things.

  She’s no angel, and that’s what we need.

  Angels are too delicate.

  Finally, I can’t wait anymore. I peek around the corner again to see what’s happening.

  “I think you would be really surprised at the content of my wildest dreams,” I hear her say in a sexy purr.

  “Oh really?” Royce challenges. He is intrigued, certainly. His cock stands out in high relief in his track pants. She says something else and sashays forward, reaching right for him.

  She doesn’t know who we are, and I told August to tell her as little as possible. She doesn’t know that she’s stroking one of the richest cocks in the world in her palm. When she falls to her knees in front of him, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back in relief, I feel that spark in the air.

  There’s magic here. I know it. I’m not sure how many of us still believe in magic, but I’m damn sure going to keep trying.

  Chapter 2

  Bunny

  Seems like I am the only person here who knows how to refill the coffee maker. It’s not brain surgery, right? So out of six waitresses, how come I’m the only one who ever seems to be taking the old filter out, banging the basket on the side of the garbage, and setting it all back up again?

  Thirty-eight seconds. That’s all it takes, and I know because I timed myself. Thirty-eight seconds! I guess I’m the only person here who has thirty-eight seconds to spare for fresh coffee.

  Which is extra weird, since people drink coffee all day long. That’s what diners are for, right? You get your regulars, who line up at the counter and just drink cup after cup all day long. It’s their daily habit, sitting on the vintage stools with their elbows propped up on the Formica, dirty plates pushed back so the busboy can scoop them up. They expect to be able to enjoy five or six hours of bottomless coffee and chitchat with the other old fogies.

  They expect their cups to be refilled when they’re down to about 25 percent. They don’t want to ask, and they don’t want to think about it. I’m sure they drink about a pot each while they are comparing war stories and bitching about lawn care or whatever.

  That’s all fine by me. The diner counter is an American institution, and a good one at that.

  And I like it when I have the counter as my station. All I have to do is sweep along, refilling cups as I go, smiling and winking at the old farts. It’s totally worth that seventy-three-cent tip they’re going to leave me at the end of the day, when they have to shuffle on home to watch Judge Judy. Totally worth it.

  In the rest of the dining room, we’re just about evenly split between ladies with their book clubs and people stopping in for lunch from local businesses. Once in a while, I’ll get a hipster or something, but somehow we are not that trendy. This is still very much the old-fashioned greasy spoon it’s always been, and while the doughnut shop two blocks down has a bunch of bearded weirdos hanging out all day, we still just have mostly old dudes. Mostly.

  Which is why I figure everybody knows the coffee pot needs to be constantly remade, and why I’m mystified that I’m the only person who does it. Seriously mystified!

  After a quick jog down the counter, refilling cups as I go and dazzling them with my smile, I go ahead and start the process all over again. After thumbing the orange button, the machine bangs and hums, heating the water up to flash boiling for yet another go-round.

  My manager sidles up to me, turning around to lean his ample butt against the stainless steel counter and crossing his arms. He squints at the dining room, nodding to himself.

  “Yeah,”
he sighs, finishing the conversation that started in his head, “you could just go on home, Bunny. Take the afternoon off.”

  I take a quick breath and hold it, forcing myself to smile.

  “But, Nick? Are you sure? The fence guys usually come in for lunch in just a couple minutes…”

  I grab a towel out of the bucket of sanitizer and squeeze it, wiping the counter that I already cleaned.

  “Yeah," he says again. I watch his profile as he checks out the room, mentally calculating which waitresses he can cut to save money, and which ones he has to keep.

  “I think it’s actually Misty’s turn to go home early,” I offer helpfully. “Nick? She’s probably expecting it. Wouldn’t want to let her down.”

  I have no idea if it’s actually her turn to go home early. What I do know is that I just bought a new pair of Frye boots, and if I don’t make fifty-three more dollars by Saturday, my cell phone will magically transform itself into a mediocre paperweight.

  “Misty’s got kids,” he sniffs.

  Shit. Again with the kids? Can’t a single girl get a break? A single girl with really cool boots?

  “Come on, Nick,” I groan, taking a step backward and relishing the heavy sound of my boot heel against the ceramic tile floor. I pout and puff up my chest, noting the way his eyes dart down into my cleavage.

  He’s always checking me out when he thinks that I’m not looking. I noticed. Of course I noticed. I’ve even considered letting him slobber all on me the way that Tiffany says that he does when he manages to trap her in the deep-freeze. I mean, I don’t think I’m quite that desperate yet. But it’s good to know it’s out there, assuming I would ever really want to have to freeze my ass off and let him smell my hair or whatever his kink is.

  Not the worst thing to have done to you in a restaurant, is what I’m saying. There are all kinds of characters. And while I am usually up for sexy shenanigans of most sorts, Nick is… not my type. But could I make an exception for posh footwear? I could.

  He twists his lips to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tries to squint his way past the barrier of my waitress uniform. These are the old-fashioned type that zip up the front. They’re very cleavage-friendly, almost “sexy nurse” in their own way. Like Halloween costumes, but I have to wear it almost every day.

  “Yeah,” he says with an air of finality, as though he doesn’t want to say it again. “You’re on the schedule tomorrow anyway. Go ahead and clock out.”

  “Nick, that’s not fair!” I blurt out, unable to control myself. “It’s not my turn. I’m sure it’s not my turn. Can’t you just pick somebody else?”

  I feel the guys at the counter all go silent, swiveling on their counter stools to watch. The meaty parts of Nick’s seriously large ears go red, and I know that he can sense we are being watched too.

  “You know what your problem is, Bunny?” he growls, the threat clear in his voice. “You don’t know when to shut up. You don’t know when you got it good.”

  I cross my arms and just stare back at him, figuring I might as well go for it now. If I’m going to be in trouble, what’s a little more?

  “Oh, is that my problem?”

  He licks his teeth under his upper lip, inflating his mouth.

  “Yeah, among other things,” he continues. “A girl like you should be glad you got any job at all. Now go ahead and clock out.”

  “Well, you want to know what your problem is, Nick?” I challenge, raising my eyebrows at him. I feel everybody’s eyes on me for sure now, and it just sort of inspires me. What can I say?

  He narrows his eyes, pausing for two beats.

  “Just clock out, Bunny,” he says in an unnervingly polite way. I hear that he’s actually talking some sense, but somehow I can’t make myself listen.

  “Your problem,” I continue, building up even more steam, “is that you are nasty. Nasty food! Nasty attitude! You’re worse than the cockroaches in the kitchen!”

  Rocking back, he almost looks like he’s floating, like I just disturbed the surface of the water that he’s in or something. His eyes are wide and frantic, clearly shocked that I would talk to him like that.

  “Clock out!” he bellows. “And don’t come back! You’re out of here, Bunny! I’ve had enough of your smart mouth!”

  “And I have had enough of your shitty coffee, Nick!” I yell right back at him. I glance over at the old guys and see them nodding in agreement. See? They know. It really is shitty coffee. They’re on my side; I can feel it.

  “Out of here!” he says again.

  “Fine!” I yell right back, stabbing at the button of the time clock to punch out. Part of me knows this is a huge mistake. I should apologize. He’s kind of right about my big mouth, and I know it. But I can’t do it now. I’m just riding the wave.

  “And you gotta return that uniform!” he blurts out.

  I glance down at the uniform, somehow surprised at this new information. Return it? But, I kinda love it. I feel like a sort of vintage vixen in this thing. I do not want to return it.

  “Yeah… well... you gotta shave the inside of your ears, Nick!”

  There is some kind of sound behind me, a sort of choking noise that means I have got people laughing at him. While that feels exceptionally good, I also know that means that my opportunities for a future apology have just dwindled significantly.

  “Get out!”

  “I am getting out!”

  I make sure to give everybody a little smile on the way out, trying to make sure that they’re on my side, at least for now. I know as soon as the door closes behind me, their allegiance is going to shift, but for now I need this. I need to know that just for a second, I’m the hero of the story, even if I’m the jerk that started it.

  Once I’m out on the sidewalk, I realize I’ve got another problem. I don’t have a ride home. My mother said she would pick me up after her shift, but that’s not for another four hours. My best friend, Dahlia, used to do it for me, but that was before she got all married up and knocked up and whatnot.

  Squinting down the street one way, then the other way, I check out the sparse traffic. There are a few people walking aimlessly under the elm trees in the tiny park. A post office worker rolls a cart from shop to shop in her cool safari hat and blue uniform.

  It’s early afternoon. A perfectly respectable time of day to be walking down the sidewalk in a waitress uniform, right? Sure.

  Perfectly normal. Nothing to see here.

  Even though it’s probably not my best idea, I head for the warehouse district by the railroad tracks. I don’t know where else to go. Dahlia and August’s place is within walking distance. I’m sure they’re up for a friendly visit from their old pal Bunny.

  Or I suppose I’ll find out if they’re up for a visit, after the half hour it will take me to walk there.

  Maybe was Nick was right. I really should learn to keep my mouth shut sometimes.

  Chapter 3

  Bunny

  Berner Security is in one of those brick warehouse buildings that looks like it might be a bomb shelter or secret lair or something. There are windows, but you can’t see them from the street. It’s a fortress.

  As I walk up the sidewalk, my feet absolutely fucking killing me in my kick-ass boots, I scan from side to side. Even though it’s the warehouse district, the cars that are parked here are all Mercedes and Hummers. Reinforced steel and probably bulletproof glass and everything. August has a flair for paramilitary shenanigans, you might say.

  I wonder how much of that is real sometimes, and how much of that is just him being an aggro, macho dude with a savior complex.

  That opinion, at least, I have been smart enough to keep to myself. He is pretty delicious to look at, so I understand why Dahlia was so gaga for him all those years. He was her dad’s BFF and so she got to crush on him up close since she was still in a training bra.

  Still, he’s got to be twice her age. In fact, I think he is exactly twice her age. Kind of gross, if yo
u ask me. But I guess that’s none of my business.

  See, what Nick doesn’t understand is that I am mouthy for justice. I’m not judgmental. I’m not one to look down my nose at Dahlia’s dad-like husband playing GI Joe all the time. But I will speak up to defend people. I’m a good friend like that. That’s the kind of mouthy I am, and he would do better to accept it.

  But August is… well, he snatched my best friend away. So I can throw their relationship a little bit of side eye, right?

  Okay, I’m really going to make an effort to be less mouthy for the rest of the day. Haven’t I learned my lesson or anything?

  There is a simple steel panel next to what looks like an industrial freezer door. This is the entrance. It’s meant to be intimidating, not welcoming. I jam my thumb against the glowing green button at the bottom. A square screen flickers, and up pops a face all distorted and squinting back at me. The face tips from side to side, apparently trying to see behind me to check out if I’m alone.

  “Good afternoon, Berner Security. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t have an appointment,” I huff impatiently. “Is Dahlia here? I’m here to see her.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Is she expecting me?” I repeat, exasperated. “Yes. She’s always expecting me. At least she should be.”

  “Please stand by,” the face sniffs.