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But on the other hand, I want it to be me. I want to be the mother to the Morgan heir, the lover of seven men. I want to feel the brothers pulse between my legs, their semen taking hold deep within. And I want to cuddle a child, nursing him at my breast, loving the babe.
My head shakes ruefully.
Marsha’s gotten to me.
My mom has obviously gone straight off into the deep end with her crazy sinner talk, but maybe she’s right in a way. Maybe these guys are love-em-and-leave-em types. Maybe they chew up and spit out curvy virgins, leaving them as roadkill. Don’t I want to know the truth before going any further? Before I commit to giving them what they want most?
But then again, what if Marsha’s wrong? I mean, she hears gossip among her country club set, sure, but how would they know anything about the Morgan boys and their sexual proclivities? Those country club ladies are vicious bitches. They’ve cast many a stone against women who were allegedly “less than godly” over the years. Good Christians, my ass. More like hypocritical vipers, holding a Bible in one hand and a drink in the other.
So where does that leave me now? My head whirls. Marsha’s probably lying, more concerned about her social status than my well-being. But at the same time, there’s an edge of doubt now.
Mastricci.
That name can’t be too common, right? It sounds Italian American. Can’t hurt to just look.
So with trembling fingers, I google the name, th
en search Facebook. And oh god, but the girl exists. Of course she does, Morgan Enterprises already confirmed that for me.
But the thing is, Heather’s more than just a ghost now. Seeing her picture, the brunette is real, with a nice smile and friendly brown eyes.
Normal.
Kind.
Probably a good person.
Her last post on Facebook was three years ago though. Weird.
Stop now, whispers the voice within. Don’t do this to yourself. You’re just going to uncover a world of hurt.
But I can’t stop. The thing with Internet searches is that you fall into a hole, finding more and more and more, until you’re sick to your stomach. It’s like a drug you can’t stop taking. So staring at the screen, I enter Heather’s name into a site called www.whitepages.com. It’s a version of the old white pages, a digital phone book for the ages.
And there she is. Heather Mastricci, living maybe twenty minutes from where I am now. She’s a real person, this Heather, not a figment of my imagination. What is she like? Does she have a funny laugh? Does she laugh when the Morgans laugh? But no, there are a billion Heathers in the world. Even other Heather Mastriccis, with the unique last name. No reason to think this specific Heather knows my boys. Right?
Honestly, it makes me sick even thinking about it. About there being some other girl like me, smitten by seven alpha males, in thrall to their charisma. If she was like me, she might be curvy, maybe a little shy. Maybe she felt like she didn’t quite belong most days, couldn’t quite figure out who she wanted to be. And then seven men dazzled her, made the woman feel special.
So can I do this?
Or more accurately, do I want to?
Moving in a daze, I leave the house, taking the Mercedes out back. Yeah, the Morgans bought it for me, said I could have any car I wanted. But right now, it makes no difference. Staring like a zombie, my foot hits the accelerator and pretty soon, I’m on the road.
The drive is short but harrowing. Crazy thoughts run through my head. I don’t need to know this. Everyone has previous relationships. Even me. I mean, my past doesn’t come with a huge family fortune or kinky sex, but I’ve had sort-of boyfriends, for sure. But the past stays in the past, right? It’s bad form to bring up ex-lovers with your current lover.
So maybe I should turn around. Of course the Morgans have been with other women. They’re virile men; I’d be totally naïve to think I was the first.
But still, my hands keep gripping the steering wheel, foot on the gas pedal. And before I know it, I’m in front of a two-story house, real fancy. Wow, Heather lives here? Shading my eyes, I stare up at the second floor. There’s a balcony with trim, and big casement windows for light. This is a nice place to live for sure.
But right. I’m here on a mission, not to scope out real estate. So taking a deep breath, I trudge to the door, trying to summon the courage to knock. Oh god, there’s no turning back if I do. Should I? Maybe this was all a bad idea.
But again, Marsha’s words ring in my ears. You think you’re the only one? Try again, comes her screechy voice.
And in slow-motion, my hand raises, knuckles tapping against the wood. There’s no sound for a couple minutes, but then some shuffling comes from inside. I can literally feel someone staring at me through the peephole, an unseeing eye.
The door swings open, and I don’t move, just staring. Because the girl before me is Heather Mastricci from Facebook, sure. But she’s also not. Because this female is bony, skeletal almost. She looks like she’s wasted away and I wonder if I’ve stumbled upon a drug addict, it’s that bad. Her skin is pale and waxy, and long, dirty blonde hair hangs in chunks around her face, stringy and unwashed. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud because why would the Morgan boys want someone so used up?
Or maybe she looks used because of them ….
