Devil's Contract

“Anyway, his mother named him Simon or some pansy name like that. I’ve decided to change his name to just Z.”

I like the name Simon. One of the kids in my ballet class is named Simon.

My arm is getting tired from holding up the baby’s head by the time my pancakes arrive. Even with my arms free, I struggle to cut my own food, but with one arm full I just look at my plate and wonder how I’ll be able to eat.

The fathers are wrapped up in some boring conversation, not noticing my problem.

Without a word, Dex uses his fork and knife and starts cutting up my pancake.

“Do you like butter?” he asks.

“Lots of butter.”

Seconds later, “Syrup?” he asks, nodding at the glass bottle in his hand.

“Lots of syrup,” I say softer, careful not to wake up baby Simon.

I’m surprised Dex is helping me. He seemed so grumpy when we got here.

I’m even more surprised when he uses my fork to poke a bite of yummy pancake and then lifts it to my mouth.

Part of me is angry. I’m not like the baby. Not even Mommy or Jessica feed me anymore.

But part of me is happy because Dex is being nice to me. I’d always wanted Mommy to give me a baby brother, but now that she’s gone, that will never happen.

Maybe I’ll have to settle for having Simon as my little brother and Dex… well he can be the big brother I never had.

After I swallow my first bite, I am careful to say, “Thank you, Dex.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he growls, but I see the small smile on his lips.

It’s nice to have a sort-of brother.

Bonus Scene #2

Dex - Twenty-one Years Old

“I’ll have your car brought around to the front portico, Mr. Cohen. We’ll have your belongings loaded up for you as soon as you’re ready to leave.”

“Thanks, Terrence. I appreciate your help.”

I pull a fifty out of the pocket of my jeans and hand it to the head bellman. His broad grin does little to bolster my sour mood.

After the heavy door to our suite slams closed, I beeline it to the wet bar. I have a four-hour drive ahead of me, but that doesn’t stop me from pouring myself a shot of bourbon.

“You plan on picking up a DUI today?” My father’s booming voice fills the room from the doorway.

I throw back the shot, enjoying the slow burn as it goes down to my empty stomach before he can stop me.

“I’m twenty-one now. It’s legal,” I counter rather lamely.

I half expect him to give me shit, so his request of, “Pour me one,” catches me off-guard.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I take the opportunity to pour two more shots before turning and meeting the old man near the couches.

Taking his shot, he waves his other hand toward the open chair. “Have a seat.”

We’ve done nothing but argue for the last two weeks so I’m not really in the mood to go another round.