Sustained (The Legal Briefs 2)

Douchebag and I cheer them on, like gamblers at the horse track.

“Go, baby, go!”

“That’s it! Pull away from the pack! Make your move!”

They’re neck and neck . . . until the little boy gets distracted by a massive booger hanging out of his nose. He stops to work on it—and the race is Regan’s.

“Yes! Fuckin’ A!” I yell proudly. I pick her up and hold her high above my head; she laughs and squeals. And somewhere Freddie Mercury sings “We Are the Champions.”

As loser dad passes me the fifty, the teenager busts us. “What is going on? This is a cheerful place—there’s no gambling!”

“Right. Well, we’re gonna head out anyway.”

I grab Ronan in one arm and Regan in the other. On our way out the door, I whisper to her, “Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”

She looks me straight in the face and nods. “Hi.”

I spend my Saturdays with Chelsea and the kids. I bring work with me, sneak in scraps of time when I can focus. Most Saturdays, if there aren’t too many activities to get to, are relaxing. Fun, even. But sometimes . . . well . . . there’re six kids. From a purely statistical standpoint, the odds of a bad day are pretty goddamn high.

One morning, as soon as I got out of the car I knew it was going to be a bad day. It wasn’t any kind of sixth sense that gave it away.

It was the screaming.

I open the front door, and the impressive screeching sound that only a really pissed off two-year-old can make hits me like a blast of hot air. Regan sits on the foyer floor in front of the closet, a mess of tears and screams and stamping feet, surrounded by shoes, flip-flops, and boots. Chelsea squats in front of her, holding out a sparkly sneaker for the toddler’s inspection. Two other pairs of tiny shoes are beside her on the floor.

“This one?” she asks, with a mixture of hope and annoyance.

Regan knocks the sneaker from her aunt’s hand, shakes her head, bangs her hands on the ground, and wails.

Guess that wasn’t the one.

Chelsea notices I’m here. I raise my eyebrows and try really damn hard not to grin. “Everything okay?”

“No,” she hisses. “It’s not.” She yanks her hair back from her face, the haphazard bun ready to fall. There’s stains on her T-shirt—looks like peas—and her cheeks are flushed with color.

That’s when I notice that it’s not just Regan making a shit-ton of noise. It’s a chorus—a symphony of angry young voices coming from the living room. Somewhere upstairs, Ronan’s voice joins the melee. And he does not sound fucking happy.

After another shoe rejection, Chelsea stands up and throws the sandal across the room. “Which one, Regan? What do you want?”

Regan just cries and points at absolutely nothing.

Before I can say a word, the twins come crashing into the foyer, arms locked around one another. They drop to the floor, rolling and grunting, teeth bared.

“You knew I was saving it!” Rory yells.

“It was in the cabinet—it’s free game!” Raymond growls.

“Stop it!” Chelsea screams. “Both of you, cut it out!” She’s kind of screechy now, too.

They totally ignore her.

“You’re a jerk!” one shouts.

“You’re a dick!” the other replies, and I’m betting that one was Rory.

“Stop!” Chelsea shrieks, and she grabs the one on top by the tiny, sensitive hairs at the base of his skull. Then she yanks him up.

Even I fucking flinch.

Rory howls, both hands coving the back of his neck. “What the hell?” he demands from his aunt. “I’m gonna have a frigging bald spot now!”

“Don’t fight with your brother!”

“He ate the last chocolate chunk cookie!” Rory fires back. “He knew I was saving it and he ate it anyway.”

Standing now too, Raymond taunts. “And it was gooood.”

Rory lunges, and I unfreeze from the shock of seeing all hell break loose. I step between the boys, separating them with iron grips on their arms. “Knock it off.”

Then Rosaleen comes tearing around the corner, with a livid Riley right behind her.

Of course.

“Give it back!”

“No, it’s mine!”

“It’s not yours, it’s mine!”

“No it’s not!”

Chelsea instinctively holds out her arms when Rosaleen cowers behind her.

“What is going on?” she shouts to her oldest niece.

“She has my pen!” Riley screams.

“A pen!” Chelsea shrieks back. “Are you kidding me? You’re fighting over a fucking pen!”

Riley pouts in that scathing way teenagers do. “Nice language, Aunt Chelsea.”

Chelsea grinds her teeth. “Give me a break, Riley.”

“No—you’re supposed to be the adult. Look at us! No wonder this is a crazy house!”

“And that’s my fault? That you’re a bunch of selfish, evil heathens?”

Riley gets in her face. “Yes! It is your fault!”

Chelsea raises her hands. “That’s it! I have had enough of this! All of you—go to your rooms!”

Loud with indignation, Rosaleen bellows, “But I didn’t do anything!”

Chelsea spins sharply, facing the little blonde. “I said go! Now!”

Rosaleen draws herself up, her little face scrunched and angry. “You’re mean! I don’t like you!”

Chelsea grabs the seven-year-old by the arm and moves her toward the stairs. “Well, you can not-like me from your room!”

Rosaleen

tears up the stairs, crying. Riley marches up behind her, arms folded and shoulders stubbornly straight. Rory gets in one last shove to his brother, then heads up, too. As Raymond turns to follow, Chelsea adds, “Raymond—you go to the spare room. I don’t want you boys near each other.”

He glares. “This sucks!”

And Chelsea glares right back. “Tell me about it!”

After the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse disappear upstairs, an eerie quiet settles in the house—like a town after a tornado has blown through. Ronan isn’t crying anymore from upstairs, probably succumbing to his mid-morning nap. Regan selects two hot pink flip-flops from the pile of unwanted shoes, slides them on her feet, then—sniffling—shuffles out of the foyer.

Chelsea breathes hard, and I approach her with caution.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

Her blue eyes meet mine for a moment. And then she bursts into tears.

And she looks so damn sweet, even unhinged with frustration, that I choke down a laugh. ’Cause she’ll kill me if it gets past my lips.

I rub her shoulder and guide her down the hall into the kitchen. “It’s all right. Shhh, don’t cry—it’s all right.”

She shakes her head, tears streaming as she settles on an island stool. “It’s not all right. They’re evil. They’re ungrateful little animals.”

And I suddenly have the urge to call my mother, to apologize. Not for anything in particular . . . just the first fifteen years of my life.

I grab the Southern Comfort from the freezer and pour her a glass.

She sobs into her hands.

And I pour a little more.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing!” She looks up at me. “Absolutely nothing! They all just woke up like this.”

Chelsea swipes at her cheeks and takes a long sip. I squeeze her shoulder. She props her elbow on the counter and drops her forehead into her hand. Her voice is laced with guilt. “Oh, God. I can’t believe I pulled Rory’s hair. Rachel never would’ve done that. She and Robbie didn’t believe in corporal punishment.”

“That explains a lot.” Believe me, I’m not a fan of hitting kids. But there are times when a smack on the ass is very much deserved.

“Rosaleen’s right. I am mean!” And she’s crying again.

And my laugh will no longer be contained. It comes out deep and totally sympathetic. “Sweetheart, I know mean. Trust me, you’re not mean.”

She finishes off her drink.

“I’m not telling you how to raise them, but I know from my own experience that kids need discipline. They want it—even if they don’t know it. You should