The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos (6 page)

Max rolled onto his stomach, one arm hooked around his pillow. Dim light from the street shone in through his window. Not a single car moved through the dark street, yet he couldn’t sleep. He glanced at the time on his alarm clock and groaned. He had to be up for work in two hours.

Fatigue tugged at him, yet when he closed his eyes again, sleep still did not come. He turned onto his back and stared up at the dark ceiling. His mind raced, his thoughts jumping from work to school to his daughter to Savannah. At the thought of her name, his heart slammed even faster in his chest.

Even though he had felt a connection with her, he had let days slip by without making a move. At first, he wasn’t sure why. She continued to put dinner on the table for him every night, and he loved seeing her with Chloe. As the days passed, though, and early December turned to mid-December, he started to think his hesitation had less to do with nerves.

With the next semester starting soon, and Christmas right around the corner, he didn’t have time for dating. He needed to focus so that he could work as many hours as possible and take care of his daughter. He needed to concentrate on school so that he could give Chloe a better life. The last thing he needed to do was worry about dating.

Plus, with the holiday only a week away, he had forced himself to take as many hours at work as possible. Chloe deserved a fantastic Christmas morning. Without his parents helping him anymore, he needed to save as much money as possible. Guilt roiled through his stomach. He probably should have started shopping weeks ago. At the rate he was going, he would be shopping nearly empty stores on Christmas Eve, fighting throngs of other last-minute shoppers and picking through the leftovers.

He sighed. He had no idea how he had gone from live-at-home college student and single father to totally broke and screwed. Even worse, neither of his parents had bothered to ask how he was doing. He assumed his mother was busy with her new business, and his father was probably harassing his brothers about the law firm. At least Max had dodged
that
bullet.

He hadn’t heard from Riley in a while, either. He knew she was working a lot of hours at the department store, but still. She hadn’t even bothered to return any of his calls or texts.

He definitely couldn’t rely on Nicole. Even though she had proved time and time again that she didn’t want anything to do with Chloe, he still hoped, deep down, that she would change her mind and at least want to spend some time with their daughter.

If he screwed up his relationship with Savannah, the only person who was helping him with Chloe, Max surmised, he would have to drop out of school for sure. Without school, he couldn’t foresee much of a life for Chloe. His own social life didn’t matter, even though it hardly existed. The second he decided to fight for custody of her, he had given up any chance at having a life.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he groaned. He hated how whiny his own thoughts were sounding. He pictured his daughter’s face. Even though she was two years old, she was pretty well behaved. He couldn’t ask for a better kid. Other people he had gone to high school with had bratty children who were out of control. Considering his circumstances, he was pretty lucky.

He just needed to keep his eyes on the prize—or, in his case, his textbooks. He needed to forget about his feelings for Savannah. Those feelings hardly counted as more than a crush, anyway. It was completely normal for him to be attracted to her. She was gorgeous, and he was lonely. He needed to stop being so desperate.

Max rolled back onto his side, clamping his eyes closed. If he didn’t hurry up and fall asleep, the next day was going to be brutal. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about Savannah and how she had decorated Chloe’s room. That one small gesture meant more to him than anything else. Maybe it was stupid. At the very least, he was sexually deprived.

He snorted. The last time he had sex with anyone was before he found out that he was going to be a father. That was more than two years ago. Heat blazed across his cheeks. Two years was a long time.

“Listen to yourself, dude,” he said out loud. He rolled onto his stomach and reached for his phone on the nightstand. Opening up a game of
Plants vs. Zombies
, he gave up on trying to sleep.

* * * * *

Max closed his fingers around the warm metal of the Thermos of coffee. Lifting it to his lips, he took a long sip, eyes closing briefly. He scrunched up his nose at the taste. Apparently buying the store brand instant coffee hadn’t been the right choice. He made a mental note to ask his father what his parents drank or, better yet, to ask Savannah what she recommended.

Forcing one more sip down, he shoved the Thermos into the back of his locker. No amount of caffeine was worth that taste. It reminded him of dirty feet, even though he had never licked anyone’s feet—as far as he knew. Shutting his locker, he turned and dragged his exhausted body toward the break room.

The owner of the music store stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by employees. “Good morning, folks,” Bill said, running a hand through his greying hair. A bald spot marked the back of his head like a bullseye.

“Morning,” several people mumbled.

Max joined the circle. A few glances at his coworkers’ faces told him that he wasn’t the only one who was tired. Several of them had bags under their eyes. He didn’t want to know what his own face looked like. He hadn’t bothered shaving that morning—not that he needed to. At almost twenty-one years old, he barely grew enough facial hair to warrant shaving, yet a thick jungle of black, wiry hair covered his legs. Maybe he needed to stop drinking coffee altogether.

“I’ve got some bad news and good news, folks,” Bill said. He sighed. “Bad news is, we lost a delivery truck. There have been a lot of reports on the news about trucks being broken into and having their merchandise stolen. From what I can tell, looks like that’s what happened to us.”

A gasp rippled through the room. People shuffled their feet, shocked cries tumbling from their lips.

“Hold on, folks,” Bill said. “Gets worse. See, basic math goes like this: the more merchandise we have, the more stuff we sell, and the more money we make. It’s the last week before Christmas, and this is our busiest week. Looks like we won’t have enough stock to keep up with the demand.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee from a steaming paper cup.

“What does that mean?” Joe, a scrawny seventy-year-old man, asked, his voice shaking.

Max ran a hand through his hair, his nerves tightening. He knew that Joe’s wife had cancer and the old man was always worried about money. Maybe there was no need for concern.

“It means, folks,” Bill said, “that to save money and pay the store’s bills, we’re going to have to cut some hours.”

Another gasp shot through the room, louder. Panic erupted.

“Cutting hours?” Joe asked at the same time as a woman in her forties said, “I’ve got four kids at home.”

Max swallowed hard.

“Wait, wait,” Bill said. “I know a lot of you folks are concerned. You’re all hard workers, and making this decision was not easy for me. I tried to be as fair as possible, folks, but at the end of the day, we’ve gotta save a little money now so we can all keep our jobs. You understand?”

The room quieted. Max’s shoulders remained tense, though. He shoved sweaty hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“What I did here, folks, was look at who’s been here the longest. Those are the people I’ve given priority to.” He jerked a thumb toward a piece of paper taped to the wall that Max hadn’t noticed. “I’ve made some changes to the schedule, but those folks have at least ten hours this week.” Before he could say anything else, people rushed to the wall. Max trailed behind them, his heart slamming in his chest. He had been working at the music store since high school, for a total of four years. That had to count as seniority.

Several people breathed sighs of relief while others cursed.

“I have four hours next week?” the woman with the four children said. She stomped over to the owner of the store. “Bill, I’ve been here for six years!”

Max’s heart sank. The area in front of the new schedule cleared enough for him to slip in. His eyes scanned the page, searching for his name. It wasn’t hard to find. Bill always listed the schedule in alphabetical order. In the row for Max Batista, all seven days of that week were blank—including the shift he was supposed to be working that morning.

“I’m sorry, folks,” Bill was saying, “but I’m going to have to ask everyone who isn’t scheduled today to please head on home.”

Heart thudding in his chest, Max continued to stare at the schedule.

“Sweet,” a teenage girl next to him breathed. “I’ve got no hours this week.” She whooped. “I’m going back to sleep!”

As the room emptied, Max felt his knees weaken. He looked at the schedule again, blinking hard. It couldn’t be.

“I thought four hours was bad,” the mother of the four children said from beside him. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Guess I better count my blessings, right?” She squeezed his shoulder and moved away. Max listened as her footsteps grew more and more distant. The door to the sales floor squeaked open, and then he was the only person left in the break room.

“Shit,” he said, still staring at the schedule.

He drove home with Christmas carols he barely heard playing in the background, his mind whirling. At least he had paid his rent and other bills already, he surmised. If nothing else, there was a bright side. Still, his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, his heart slamming in his chest. He and Savannah had agreed on a monthly paycheck for her, making it easier for him. He had planned on paying her with his last check of the month and using what was left to buy Chloe’s Christmas presents.

His foot slammed on the brake pedal, and the Taurus slid on the slippery street. The car stopped inches from the plastic bumper of a Hyundai. Max barely noticed. Tears sprang to his eyes. He blinked them away, his eyebrows furrowing.

Without that last paycheck, Chloe wouldn’t get a Christmas at all.

Max squeezed his eyes shut against the cold grey morning light and yanked his pillow over his face. He should be sleeping in and enjoying his unexpected day off, but the last thing he wanted to do was get out of bed. He groaned, pressing the pillow harder against his face, as if not breathing would let him travel back in time. He should have saved more money, he surmised, or even signed up for help through the Salvation Army. Hell, he mused with a sigh, he could have even started attending church. Several of his high school friends had received donated Christmas gifts in the past for their kids. He had let his stupid pride get in the way, he decided, and instead of planning ahead, he had relied on his stupid job.

He groaned again. He didn’t want to blame Bill. No one could have predicted that one of their delivery trucks would get robbed. His boss was only doing what he had to do to keep his store open. Still, Max wished things were different.

If he he had more time and were one of Santa’s elves, he could have built Chloe’s Christmas gifts with his two hands. His bank account was completely empty, though, and he refused to ask his parents for help. They would probably tell him that it was too late or, even worse, lecture him on saving money. Unless a Christmas miracle happened, it was too late, anyway. He had run out of time.

At least Chloe would get presents from his family. She probably wouldn’t remember her second Christmas, anyway. When she was older, though, she would probably ask him about the lack of Christmas morning photos.

Max wrenched the pillow off of his face and launched it across the bedroom. It hit the wall and fell to the floor. He snatched his phone from the end table and looked at the time. It was already almost eight in the morning. Chloe would be awake soon—if she wasn’t already—and it was Christmas Eve. He couldn’t expect Savannah to work when she probably had plans of her own.

Forcing himself to sit up, he slid out of bed. Cool air swirled around his bare feet from the drafty window, and he shivered. He hadn’t done laundry yet, and he had no clean socks. With any luck, he could sneak in a load at his parents’ during Christmas Day dinner.

Padding across the room, he retrieved his pillow from the floor and tossed it back onto the bed. Then, taking a deep breath, he left his bedroom.

He found Chloe and Savannah on the couch in the living room, watching a Christmas movie on his laptop. “Are you streaming that illegally?” he asked.

Savannah turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. “Are you gonna turn me in?” she asked, her dimples showing.

“I just want a heads up, in case we have to hire a lawyer,” he said, smiling.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Scrooge,” Savannah said, sitting up. She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “I figured I’d make pancakes this morning. Now that you’re awake, I’ll get started.”

Max lifted a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m sure you have somewhere better to be today.” He scooped Chloe from the couch and kissed her cheeks. She giggled and pushed his face away, squirming in his arms to see the computer screen.

Savannah frowned. “You don’t want any of my famous pancakes?”

“It’s okay, really,” he said. “You can have today and tomorrow off.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Trying to get rid of me, huh?”

“It’s not like that. I mean, don’t you wanna be with your family today?” He released Chloe. She toddled back over to the couch, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Savannah snorted. “Yeah, so I can go to church with them? I’m good, thanks.”

“It’s Christmas,” he said.

“So?” She put her hands on her hips. “Are you gonna be with your family today?”

“No,” Max said. He sighed. “My day is wide open.”

“Then you’re going to need a good breakfast,” she said, brushing past him into the kitchen.

Shaking his head, he followed her. Lately, all of their conversations seemed to happen in the kitchen. Every day, she was more and more like his girlfriend. He cleared his throat. “What about tomorrow?”

“What about it?” she asked as she pulled out flour, milk, and eggs.

“Do you have any plans with your family for tomorrow?” Max held the refrigerator door for her. When she moved to the counter, he snatched the canister of coffee from the shelf.

“I’m sort of on a hiatus from family stuff,” she said, rolling up her sleeves.

“It wouldn’t be your charming personality, would it?” he teased.

“Oh,
papi
, I can show you charming.” She cupped two eggs in her hand, arching an eyebrow at him.

Heat blazed through Max’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Seriously, though,” he said, as he measured coffee grounds with a spoon. His hands shook. “Why aren’t you going to be with your family tomorrow?”

“We don’t exactly see eye to eye.” Savannah turned her back to him. She cracked an egg and split it open. Yolk oozed from it. She poured the egg into the bowl.

Max turned on the coffee maker. As it gurgled to life, he leaned against the counter. “So what? It’s Christmas.”

She shrugged. “It’s just another day.” Grabbing a spoon from the drawer, she began mixing the ingredients in the bowl. “So,” she said in a tone that suggested she was about to change the subject, and that he should go along with it. “Are you all set for tomorrow morning?”

Brown liquid dripped into the coffee pot, the burner sizzling. Max ran a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow morning?” he repeated.

“You know,” she said, lowering her voice. “Santa.”

“Oh,” he said, forcing a smile. “Yeah, that. Totally.” He crossed his arms.

“Do you need help wrapping anything?” she asked as she put a frying pan on the stove.

“Why would I need help wrapping?” Max asked. “Do you think that I can’t wrap, just because I’m a guy?”

Savannah laughed. “I
know
you can’t,
papi
.”

“Well, you would totally be right,” he said, “if I had anything
to
wrap.” He sighed.

As the pan on the stove heated, Savannah turned to face him. “You didn’t get her anything?” Her brown eyes were large and round.

He shook his head. “I paid all the bills and everything, but I didn’t put any other money aside.”

She frowned. “
Bendito
,” she said. “You’re such a good dad.” Turning back to the stove, she added, “I’m going to help you.”

Max laughed. “Oh really? On Christmas Eve? With your millions?”

She turned, waving a spatula at him. “Do
not
underestimate the shopping power of a woman,” she said.

“Oh, I’d never do anything that stupid,” he said, “but I can’t let you do that.”

Snorting, she swatted at him with the spatula. “You do
not
get to tell me what to do with my money. I’m going to help you.”

Max sighed. “I feel so bad for the guy you marry,” he muttered.

“¿
Que
?” She swung at him again, the spatula connecting lightly with his arm.

Holding up his hands, he jumped back. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just saying.” The coffee pot sizzled, clicked one final time, then went silent. He grabbed two mugs out of the drying rack and filled them both.

“That’s the Folgers, right?” she asked, both eyebrows lifted.

Max nodded. “I learned my lesson.” He handed her a mug, and she clinked hers against his.

“So, here’s the plan. After breakfast, I’ll go shopping. Later on, when Chloe goes to bed, we can wrap and set up. Sound good?” She took a sip of her coffee.

“You really don’t need to do this,” he said.

“I
want
to.” Savannah set her mug down and returned to the pancakes.

“Don’t you have to shop for your own family?” he asked, studying her.

She shook her head. “You guys are the closest thing I’ve got to a family right now.”

Setting his coffee on the table, Max pulled a chair out. “I’m sure your family really wants to see you.”

“Please don’t make assumptions about me,” she said.

He held his hands up. “Look, as the Batista family fuckup, I know a little about these things. Just because you dropped out of school, it doesn’t mean they don’t love you. Sometimes parents think their kids need tough love.” He took another sip of coffee. “Chloe used to mess around near the stove all the time. I kept telling her to get away from it, but she never listened. So the next time she tried to touch the oven door, I let her. She didn’t get hurt, but it was hot enough that she remembered the next time I told her to get away.”

Pouring some of the pancake mix into the pan, Savannah shook her head. “It’s not like that, Max. I know my parents love me. They just don’t get me. We live on two totally different planets.”

“Everyone feels that way about their parents,” Max said.

“Trust me, it’s different.”

Silence fell over the kitchen, the only sounds coming from the stove as Savannah flipped pancakes and the cartoon that Chloe watched in the living room. Max stared into his cup of coffee. Every time he thought he understood Savannah, he was totally wrong. It was yet more proof that he needed to move past his silly crush and focus on real life.

“These two are done,” Savannah said, flipping two pancakes onto a plate. “Do you want them?”

“I’ll share them with Chloe,” Max said, standing from the table.

“I’m making her mini ones,” she said, thrusting the plate at him. “Eat.”

Taking the plate, Max faked a salute. “Okay, boss.” He set the plate down on the table and went to the refrigerator for maple syrup. Yanking the door open, he peered inside. The only condiments on the door were ketchup and a packet of duck sauce from the last time he had ordered Chinese food. “Shit,” he said. “No maple syrup.”

“Are you kidding?” Savannah asked. She crossed the kitchen and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. The scent of her perfume, though faint from the day before, enveloped him. He swallowed hard, very aware of how warm her skin was. She stared into the refrigerator and swore in Spanish.

“It’s okay,” Max said, straightening. “They’re just as good with butter.”

She snorted. “Thanks, but you totally can’t have pancakes without syrup.” She jerked a thumb toward her bedroom. “Top drawer, there’s some cash. Run across the street and see if the bodega has any.”

“Aw, Savannah, I can’t take any more of your money,” he said, backing away.

“I want syrup just as much as you do. I’d go myself, but someone’s gotta watch these pancakes.” She returned to the stove and flipped Chloe’s mini pancakes. “We all know you can’t cook to save your life.”

“Hey,” he said, but trotted out of the kitchen. He moved down the hall toward her room, his heart thudding. He hadn’t been in that bedroom since the night she moved in. Sweat coated the palms of his hands as he reached toward the door knob.

Feeling ridiculous, he turned it and pushed the door open slowly. The bedroom might be Savannah’s, but the apartment was his. Besides, she had given him permission. He stood in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the bright winter light coming in through the window. An air mattress sat in the center of the room, covered only by a single, thin blanket. He hadn’t even heard her inflate it. At some point, she had brought in two more boxes and a plastic cart of drawers. From where he stood in the doorway, all of the boxes looked empty. In the corner of the room, though, stood an easel. A drying canvas rested on it, and Max gasped in recognition. Painted on the canvas was a perfect copy of his daughter’s face.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to take a step toward the plastic drawers. As he entered the room, though, he realized that more canvases lined the walls, all in various stages. Some were blank, as pure as freshly fallen snow. Others were half-finished portraits of people that he had never met. Most of them, though, were colorful skulls identical to the ones on Savannah’s arm.

Whistling in surprise, he took another step toward the cart. He didn’t want Savannah to think he was snooping. Pulling open the top drawer, he peered inside. A wad of bills sat wedged between a stack of neatly folded laundry. He whistled, wondering how much money was there. Staring at the rolled up bills, he tried to remember if Savannah had ever mentioned having a second job. Then he noticed the silky underwear and bras surrounding her stash.

Max felt heat sweep across his cheeks and the back of his neck. Wondering if she had made him go into her underwear drawer on purpose, he snatched out a five dollar bill and slammed the drawer shut. Hurrying out of the room, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” Then, grabbing his coat, he rushed outside.

The winter air cooled his blazing cheeks, and he sucked in an icy blast of air. Glancing to the left and then the right, he darted across the street, shoving his hands into his pockets. Already, the cold burrowed deep into his bones. He made a face. New England—especially Connecticut—didn’t usually get that windy, deep cold until around January or February. It looked like they were in for a brutal winter.

The thought didn’t bother him too much, though. He ducked inside the bodega. With Savannah around, the weather outside didn’t really matter. His lips curled into a loose smile. Even though it was totally wrong to have a crush on her, he was starting to get used to the idea.

He wove through the aisles, eyes scanning for maple syrup. His cheeks warmed as he replayed their conversation in the kitchen. He didn’t speak Spanish, but he had caught the
papi
she threw at him—the nickname Puerto Rican women reserved for their men. His mother never used it for his father, but some of the girls he went to high school with had used it for their boyfriends.

Spotting the syrup, he plucked it from the shelf and moved to the front of the store. A balding man with black hair, a thick mustache, and deep olive skin eyed him from behind the counter. He said something in gruff Spanish. Rolls of lottery tickets and shelves of cigarettes boxed the counter in, creating a small window-like opening that the man peered out of. More shelves held cigars and condoms behind him.

Max winced. He put the syrup on the counter and dug in his pocket for the five dollar bill that Savannah gave him. He slid it across the counter to the man, who raised an eyebrow at him and said something else. It sounded like a question.