Personal: The Extended Edition (Private #3)

Chapter 2

Brynley

Yeah.

I’m that mom.

And I gonna blame my mom for me being that mom because she was this mom.

In fact, technically she still is.

Except now her lack of sympathy involving swings is more adult based.

But like how I was supposed to know I was too heavy for the fucking thing?!

I mean…yeah, I’ve kept a little extra weight since Wy was born – my tits look even more amazing now – but it isn’t like an extra fifty pounds!

There’s no reason that flimsy contraption should’ve broken after one use.

I was so pissed that I tried to call Wilcox headquarters to see about buying the shitty sex toy company just to fire everyone involved in its design, which totally made me look like a power-hungry monster when really I was just a sexually frustrated new mom fresh out of that uncomfortable headspace where I not only didn’t feel attractive, I really did worry that my husband would start sleeping with our very young – albeit slightly airheaded – nanny.

He hasn’t.

He wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Not because she has an aversion to older men but because he’s not old enough unlike Lurch who I would bet my Next Gen 3-D chessboard that J.T. got me as a wedding gift that she’s banging during Wy’s naps.

“On your ass, Little Fins, or you will fall,” I scold at the same time I point to where my butt is wedged into the swing seat.

Pretty sure this shit is more comfortable for him than it is me.

He should have no fucking complaints about sitting like this.

These damn things were literally made for people his size.

“ Bottom ,” the nearby woman that’s poorly encouraging her frightened child to venture down the slide chastises.

There’s no hesitation to flash her my middle finger along with a bitter smirk.

She scoffs loudly, clutches her chest in shock, and sends her attention back to the tiny troll she’s calling her son, most likely pre-writing in her head what to post all over social media about me as well as my parenting skills.

Or… lack thereof.

Swallowing my groans of frustration doesn’t exactly go according to plan which results in snarling sounds slipping free.

“Monder,” Wy loudly belittles from beside me, shit eating grin growing obnoxiously brighter.

I am not a monster.

Despite my inability to do anything right in the media – eat a bagel, wear a cocktail dress, play with my son – I am not a fucking Romulan. Sure, I refuse to bury my emotions and completely play the doting, perfect socialite wife who has no life outside of the last name she married into, but that doesn’t make me some sci-fi villain never to be appreciated for doing her goddamn best.

And I am doing my best.

It’s not easy being head of an entire division at The Bower and Powell Aquatic Institute regardless of the fact I’m now – technically – one of the organization’s biggest donors.

I actually think it makes it fucking harder.

I know exactly where the funding is going.

Who isn’t doing their part to ensure the money that’s being invested isn’t wasted on useless director retreats and holiday bonuses for people who can’t even name one creature we helped rescue for the year.

Raquel sucked at her job.

She sucked even more than I originally thought, which is why from the time I sat in her chair until the day I popped – literally my water broke while I was feeding Bruce – I worked my ass off to fix the nightmare she didn’t blink twice at.

Not to mention the fact I had to hire a new R however, to no surprise they’re short lived.

Extremely so .

Wy – predictably – manages to miss his footing and fall backwards onto his ass split seconds prior to the swing knocking him square in his light freckled chin. While the impact isn’t hard enough to do detrimental damage – or even fucking bruise – it’s just traumatic enough to cause an earth-shaking meltdown.

It’s my turn to let arrogance saunter across my face. “ Called it. ”

An unbearable howling of wails begins yet rather than cuddle or coddle or express care, I do what I’m sure the lurking paparazzi will label as “callous” and calmly walk away towards the strawberry blonde whose ovaries crack every time she hears him cry.

Finding Jessie Rous was Kirk coming in contact with Scotty while banished to the ice planet level of miracle.

We were arriving at Wy’s early childhood education academy for his first day – he had just turned three months – and she was leaving. Evidently, the position she thought she had wasn’t actually available anymore due to the woman changing her mind because of an unexpected divorce, leaving the poor scholarship student jobless as well as starving because the choice between putting gas in your car or food in your stomach is obvious.

Hiring her right then and there seemed like a no fucking brainer.

She didn’t recoil at the sight of my husband – something that unfortunately still happens over his burn scars – had already been vetted by the school – which in itself was a gold medal worthy feat – was enrolled in Ashwin University for early childhood education – with an emphasis of art integration – and could start immediately ; therefore saving me the hassle of having to resume interviewing – all by myself – overqualified older women Mom didn’t seem to vibe with or underqualified younger women too anxious to IG their big moment .

And it was by myself because my husband always had other shit that was a tad more pressing.

The pitch for expanding into non-alcoholic beer and mocktails.

Oddly timed calls with Prince Kellan Kenningston courtesy of different time zones.

Extensive investigating and restructuring of any and all shell corporations to ensure there are no more tasseled wobbegongs skirting along his family’s ocean floor.

Oh!

And sobriety assessments.

Those are less rigid than they once were but still fairly demanding.

There’s only so many hours in a day, and of them, I’m first to give up mine whether I want to or not.

Jessie’s porcelain complexion pales in panic prompting her to reach a hand forward, the same hand that I less than gently bat away. “ Don’t even think about it, Red. ”

“But-”

“No.”

“But-”

“Still no.”

“But-”

“What’s the rule?”

Her gothic, Muppet Babies crop top t-shirt covered shoulders sink in defeat. “Two-minutes or less, it’s all for show , anything more and it’s all a go .”

“And it rhymes so it must be true.”

She fights the urge to let her rose pink matte painted lip spread into a smile.

“Trust me. That asshole’s not hurt.”

“Don’t think you’re supposed to call him an asshole.”

“He’s being an asshole. What else would I call him?”

Uncertainty causes her mouth to twitch yet nothing to come out.

“Age doesn’t exempt you from being an asshole, Jessie.”

“Brain chemistry in development should exempt you from being called an asshole though.”

“That’s just textbook talk for you to feel guilty about calling an orca a dolphin.”

“Aren’t those different animals?”

“Taxonomy, say no.” One glimpse over my shoulder reveals to me that not only is my son not crying, but that he also seems appalled by everyone’s lack of concern, including Lurch who is casually casing the perimeter of the extensive extending playground. “And momonomy-”

“Is that a real thing?”

“-says his ego is hurt.” Our blue gazes lock once more. “His body is fine.”

Jessie grabs her own glance of my headstrong offspring before whispering, “ I just hate hearing him so upset. ”

“Yeah,” I sweetly smirk, “that’s what he’s banking on.”

“It’s not totally my fault,” she rushes to defend while retrieving her vibrating cell. “According to my biology class – that specializes in focusing on the brain’s chemical developments and responses to offspring stimuli – women have an instinctual reaction to respond to crying children whether it’s their own or someone else’s.”

“And here I thought aquatic chemical ecology was the most boring class to ever skip.”

“I don’t skip classes.”

There’s no stopping my head from sarcastically tilting.

“ Often ,” snickers my son’s nanny prior to unlocking her device. “ I don’t skip classes often. ”

“Good because if you didn’t skip classes ever , I’d have to fire you.”

She pauses the phone checking movement to present me with a quirked eyebrow.

“I can’t have that shit around my kid.” Amusement ambles itself around my expression. “He has to learn irresponsibility.”

“You mean responsibility?”

“No, I mean figuring out that you can’t spend the night before your big intro to bioinformatic exam challenging the cute freshman from Deer Groove, Texas to a tequila tornado competition you know you’re going to win.”

“And did you?”

“I sure did win the prize of puking between answering statistical questions about algae and someday…my son will win it too.”

Laughter leaves her again prompting me to glance in my little stubborn cadet’s direction to see him now “tying” his shoe again aka buying him more time to see if anyone is coming to his rescue.

We’re not.

And my lack of Carol Brady attitude keeps most of the other moms around this busy place from trying to play hero.

I’m not mean.

I’m just trying not to raise him into an asshole.

Er.

Into more of an asshole than he already is.

Which he gets from Wes.

It’s genetic.

Pretty sure.

A disgusted grunt pulls my attention back to where Jessie is shoving her phone into her cutoff jeans back pocket. “Problem?”

“Annoyance.”

It’s my turn to lift my eyebrows.

“I thought it was an email about our quiz grades being posted, but nope. Just another text – this one from Christine – asking me if the older guy I’m hooking up with is my boss.”

“Why would she ask that?” Holding my own irritation at the shore isn’t easy. “You say some shit about how hot his ass looks in his suit pants or something?”

“While they do ,” she casually agrees in a way that gets me smirking, “the answer to that is, no. I rarely text anyone other than my bestie about shit like that. I don’t trust people. And trash tabs like Global Laundry – who is the one printing lies about me and Wes hooking up – sooooo doesn’t help that shit. I swear one of their interns is like…stalking me. Anytime I go to Loca Mocha Casabloca with Astrid, this chick is always right behind us in line, like she’s just waiting for me to let something slip out about you guys.”

Ah.

A trick I wish I wasn’t so fucking familiar with them using.

“Except there’s nothing to slip. Even if I wanted to hook up with Wes – which again I don’t – it wouldn’t matter. Wes only has eyes for you .”

Despite all my efforts, a tiny smile slides into place.

“Like break his neck to watch you walk anywhere in the building shit.”

The expression grows.

“It so cute, it’s gross.”

At least there’s no denying he still finds me attractive even when I’m not slobbing on his knob.

Shout out to Hill for listening to more Three 6 Mafia and less Cooper Copeland.

I mean I love that fine ass cowboy’s music, but a little variety is appreciated.

Especially when hearing that song leads to an impromptu reenacting of it in the middle of your husband’s workday.

“No cap?” She lets her head tip to one side. “I don’t wanna bang my boss. I’m not banging my boss. I have no interest in banging my boss.”

“Just the member of his security team, you’re already banging.”

“Exactly!”

Triumphant over getting my confirmation causes me to grin wide but Jessie to panic.

“ Ohshit ,” she squeaks, both hands flying over her mouth. “ Thatwasntsupposedtocomeout! ”

“Relax,” I casually brush off courtesy of the tiny tugs occurring on my dress. “I won’t say anything.” The continuous pulling eventually has my crystal gaze falling to meet the one I passed it along to. “Can I help you?”

His bottom lip pokes itself out as far as it can go. “Got ouchie.”

“I know.”

“Ouchie hurt.”

“That’s why we call them ouchies, Little Fins.”

“No like.”

“And I don’t like when you don’t wanna listen to me.”

“Sowrryzies.”

At that, I lower myself down to a squat so we’re eye level. “What do you think you should try next time you’re on the swings?”

“Boddom. Not tummy.”

“Good plan.”

Wy dramatically sticks his bottom lip out again and taps a pointed finger near the tiny red mark on his chin. “ See ouchie? ”

It’s almost impossible to keep my emotionless expression. “I do.”

“Hurts.”

“Really bad?”

“Weally, weally bad, Mom.”

“Guess we’ll just have to snip it off.”

Jessie dramatically gasps to amplify the effect and considering how wide his gaze grows, it’s safe to assume it worked. “Should I get the emergency scissors?!”

“No…” Wy quickly shakes his head, tiny palm stretched out in her direction. “No, thank you.”

“You sure, Little Fins?” Swallowing my snickers increases in difficulty. “Snip, snap, snop, and that pain’ll stop.”

“I sure.”

“Really, really sure?”

“ Stuper. Sure. ”

“Hm,” I playfully hum while winding my arms around his tiny frame. “Should we try something else?”

“Kisses!”

“You want me to kiss your ouchie better?”

Wy proudly nods as though his manipulation tactic is working.

“I don’t know, Little Fins.” Seriousness slinks back into my stare. “Should you get kisses when you get hurt doing what Mom told you not to do?”

His little jaw bobs in objection, an expression that looks identical to Wes’s.

Ugh.

Talk about painfully precious.

“How about you give Mom hugs for hurting her feelings by not listening to her when she was trying to keep you safe, and she’ll give you kisses to help make the ouchie go away because she loves you even while you’re learning to listen?”

“Deal!” His tiny arms fly around my neck while his head thumps harshly against my shoulder upon landing. From the first tiny squeeze, all previous annoyance over his inability to follow instructions, his disregard for my opinion, and his refusal to be wrong, disappears leaving behind only love.

Undeniable.

Unbreakable.

Unconditional.

Love.

I flex my arms and cradle him closer.

Breath in the unmatched joy he brings.

Exhale the untouched exhaustion he delivers.

This kid – my kid – is a mini-Captain Kirk.

Too smart for his own good.

Too stubborn for his own safety.

Too sly for his own best interest.

He knows every button on our ship to push, that he shouldn’t push, that he’ll probably regret pushing, and yet it all only makes me love him more, especially when he’s snuggled against me like this.

With him in my arms, nothing else matters.

Not bullshit lies or tabloid rumors.

Not painfully early mornings after a sleepless night with him in our bed or headache inducing dinners because he doesn’t feel like having asparagus.

Not even my deepest, darkest, bottom of the ocean fears that I’m royally fucking him up by simply being his mom.

No.

Whenever Wy’s tiny body is curled around mine, all is right in the world.

Exactly as it should be.

Funny enough, whenever Wes holds me in a similar position, I think the same shit.

There’s just something about being wrapped up in the arms of my Wilcoxes that brings an undeniable, sunset serenity to my entire existence.

Even when they’ve been total assholes.

“I wuv you, Mom,” Wy warmly says when he pulls back to look at me in the eyes.

“I love you too, Wy.”

He swiftly makes a demand after hearing me say it back, “Kiss ouchie.”

“ Manners, Little Fins. ”

“ Pwease. ”

My lips plant the tiniest peck on the area; however, he melts like he was just cured of Anchilles fever. “Better?”

“All bedder.” Wiggling completely out of my grasp occurs prior to him pointing. “Slide?”

“Go on,” I sweetly encourage, hearing my cell ring from the nearby bench Hill is guarding. “I’ll race you down it in a minute.”

“ Now. ”

“Phone first. Race second.”

His eyebrows dart down in displeasure.

“That’s the deal, Little Fins. Take or leave it.”

“Deal,” is muttered in exasperation under his breath.

“Come on, Wy,” Jessie warmly encourages with a smile. “You can practice race with me while you wait for Mom.”

“Tatch me!”

Like someone turned on the Bat signal, my son takes off for the playground with his nanny tightly on his heels.

The trek over to the bench that’s occupying Wy’s backpack, his go bag – potty training is a bitch – and my clutch is short; however, mere steps away from closing the distance, Hill touches his earpiece, indicating he’s receiving a message.

And that message twitches his eyebrows.

Tightens his jaw.

Has his hand heading for his holster which is what prompts me to turn back towards the playground just in time to hear, “ Noooooooooooo! ”

“ Wyland ,” leaves me in a whisper as I take off to find him.

“Wyland!” Jessie screams while weaving around active children. “Wyland!”

“ Where the fuck is my son?! ” I screech sprinting to the space where he should be but clearly isn’t. “ Where the fuck did he go?! ”

“I-I-I-I don’t know!” his nanny frantically exclaims body dropping to its knees to search the hiding spaces underneath the structure. “We split in opposite directions to race for the stairs, but when I got there-”

“ Wylanndddddd!!!! ”

“-he wasn’t there! And I didn’t see him!” She frenziedly crawls around while I search higher ground. “I immediately called out for Jeff-”

“Jeff?!”

“ Hurst ,” Jessie cringe corrects. “I immediately called for Hurst who alerted Hill.”

Who unbeknownst to himself alerted me.

Still not seeing or hearing or even sensing him pushes me to holler again, “ Wylannnddddd!!! ”

“Wyland!” Lurch bellows during his own sweeping of the premises. “Out! Now!”

Other children scatter, some towards their parents, some simply towards other playground equipment, yet there’s no sign of my son.

And I heard him.

I know that was him.

I would know that voice…that scream …anywhere.

Any time.

“ Wyyyyyyy! ” seeps loose again as I continue the world’s shittiest game of hide-and-seek. “ Forfuckssake, please come out! ”

“Language,” hisses another mother at the same time she cups her daughter’s ears. “That’s a swear jar word.”

Irritation has me stopping to chomp her ass out like I’m about to star in some Sharknado spinoff yet instinct has me swallowing my pride to inquire, “Have you seen my son? He’s two and half, might look three? An adorable little boy in a bright yellow bowtie and Batman chucks? He’s missing.”

Compassion – thankfully – conquers over her criticisms, “Someone called him over there.” Her chin kicks in the direction of the small, connected botanical garden. “I didn’t see who, but they said his name like they knew him.”

But they didn’t.

Because if they did then I would know who they were.

And where they were.

And where to find my fucking kid.

“ No! No! No! ” his tiny familiar voice barks in the distance propelling me away from the bobbed hair woman towards the shrieking that seems to becoming from the left. “ No! ”

The right.

“ No! ”

Behind me.

“ No! ”

Confusion clashes into consternation causing me to spin in pointless circles, anxious to spot a clue, a tiny inkling regarding the direction I should be taking to get my baby back.

“ Nonono! ” comes slightly more clearly from the area she referenced and the instant my attention snaps to it, I manage to catch a glimpse of son’s profile. “ Mommmmmmmm! ”

“ Wyland! ” I shriek in tandem with sprinting. “ I’m coming! Mom’s coming! ” Without care or concern about the others in my path, I aggressively knock them out of my way, every instinct inside of me screaming that nothing else matters. No one else matters. Just my son. Just Wy. “ I’m cominggggg! ”

The sight of his little face disappearing behind the thick foliage of the garden’s side entry pushes my body to move faster than I ever imagined possible. Ignoring the pain from running in these stupid designer sandals is easy knowing that little dude’s life depends on it, just like it is to forget how insane I appear flailing and shouting to onlookers to stop the black hooded figure that’s snaking around bushes and benches with a crying child in tow.

“ Stop them! ” Jumping over a low to the ground hedge occurs in tandem with me proclaiming, “ That’s my fucking son! ”

Despite my running and hollering and profanity, no one does anything.

Not.

A.

Fucking.

Thing.

I dash past bird watchers moaning about sandhill cranes and bump into texting tweens fangirling over some college hockey player responding to one of their comments.

The young girls scoff at the inconvenience yet still make no effort to help.

Or call out to anyone else to help.

Or offer to dial the cops.

“ Bryn! ” shouts Lurch from somewhere behind me.

“ Stop them! ” I repeatedly plead to every onlooker in their path. “ Forfuckssakethatsmyson! ”

Nothing changes.

“Mommmmmm! ”

Nothing stops.

“ Mommmmmm! ”

Whether it’s fear or horror or pure stupidity, I don’t know.

Nor do I care.

All that matters is I’m running towards one of the only things worth waking up for every morning and no one is lifting a goddamn finger to assist.

“ Mommmmmmmm! ”

Scrapes and scratches from brushing against bark and rough leaves litter themselves along my pumping arms as I finally manage to close in on the kidnapper, airy promises being pitched in the process, “ I’m coming, Wy! Mom’s coming! ”

Unfortunately for me, the assailant makes a sudden side dodge to the left through shrubbery not intended for passing through forcing me to stumble in my tracks in order to change trajectory.

“ Bryn! ” Lurch loudly barks, anxious for my attention.

My stare.

“ Left! ” I indicate with a two-finger military wave. “ Towards the street! ”

Picking up my pace leads to the unknown foe doing the same resulting in my kicking and screaming and wailing child’s frame being grated against the pavement like an unwanted ragdoll through a theme park.

Our new environment of the busy, crowded downtown Highland sidewalk, not only changes our terrain, it shifts our speeds as well as provides me with more deterrents to prevent Wy from ending up wherever it is they’re determined to take him.

Fuck!

What if this was some random plan to get paid ransom money gone wrong?!

What if this is a trial run?!

What if this is all about finding the holes in our security plans and strategies?!

What if this is just the beginning of some much more fucked up, Khan approved, plot in which they plan to eradicate the entire Wilcox bloodline?!

“ Stop! ” Lurch suddenly shouts, booming voice instantly parting the sea of people. “ Stop or I’ll shoot! ”

The threat of bullets flying – predictably – creates a panic and said panic becomes the perfect curtain for the attacker to try to cloak themselves in.

More grumbles and grunts and roars escape my guard, yet I choose the opposite strategy.

I camouflage myself into the crowd.

Allow the kidnapper the false sense that they’re in the clear.

And just like I hope they slowly separate themselves from the crowd by attempting to cross the street at which point I promptly follow.

“ Mommmm! ” Wy cries out, tiny flailing arm reaching for me, ripping at my heart in the process. “ Gemmmme! ”

Abruptly abandoning him in the middle of the street for my rescue momentarily fills me with relief; however, the sight of an impatient or unaware driver heading straight towards his sprawled-out frame immediately drains it. “Noooooo! ”

Getting from where I am to where he is doesn’t seem feasible.

Or probable.

Or even fucking possible until I’ve got him swooped up into my arms with his tear ridden face smashed against my chest.

“ Moommmmm ,” he continues his unholy wail, tiny fingers clawing on the straps of my dress.

“ I’ve gotchu, Little Fins. ” Shutting my eyes and squeezing them tightly is done in tandem with my arms flexing. “ Mom’s gotchu. ”

“ Brynnnnn! ” a faint voice unexpectedly yells pushing me to lift my lids just in time to see a different vehicle trying to skid to a stop.

Wy’s screams escalate upon our joined bodies being forcibly knocked over while I simply strengthen my hold.

Wind every inch of me around him.

Bubble wrap his tiny figure with mine to guarantee he comes out unharmed.

Unscathed.

Alive.

Even if I don’t.