Having The Ex-Military Billionaire's Baby

Chapter 1

LATISHA

You know, there comes a time when you’ve got to admit that you’re cursed. No, really.

You’ve got to settle in for a good, long think about how the two precious, black haired, brown eyed, hellions you gave birth to, the twin stars in your sky, the lights of your life, have !nally done it. Finally harnessed whatever magic of childhood we lose as we grow up, and decided, you know what, fuck it, let’s unleash the seven year old version of hell.

The room is covered in !ve colors of glitter and goo. There are streamers of slime hanging from the air conditioning vent, fart-scented smoke drifting along the "oor of the room like a Broadway stage, and real smoke starting to rise from the recently-exploded shredder.

In it are the burning remains of my contract with my ex-monster in law—Evelyn. And they’re not lighting up slowly, either, little tails of orange "ame

2 TYLA WALKER & VIXA VAUGHN

licking up at the blue glitter still trying to settle from the bomb that blew the shredder up in my actual mother’s face.

The wind from the shattered tenth story window across from us doesn’t help much, although my two hellspawn got a decent giggle out of watching the shredder top blast through it in the wake of the nasty stink-bomb they "red. I feel sorry for whatever victim of Evelyn’s is walking in the door of Parkins Tower right now, and I hope they look up to curse her fucking name just in time to avoid the hunk of plastic and blades descending for impact. Or sue her for the biggest chunk of change humans can count if they don’t.

Maybe if I get lucky, the wind will suck Evelyn, all 40 pounds of #eshy skeleton and 50 pounds of botox in her, out over the shards of glass and through whatever portal to pandemonium my girls have unleashed. Maybe she’ll just drift away on the breeze, like the sparkling, stinking, singed shreds of what used to be my life.

That would almost make up for the lawn’s worth of grass clippings and sludge my cackling children chucked into my hair. That would maybe start to make up for the mix of dirt, strawberry jam, and decapitated gummy bears currently clogging the airway of my mother, the four-time elected Congresswoman and noted Civil Rights legend.

But of course, if Evelyn #ies away she’s taking Corbin with her. Corbin, the white knight. Corbin, the HAVING THE EX-MILITARY BILLIONAIRE’S BABY 3 ex-soldier. Corbin, the—boyfriend? Fiance? What are we? Jesus, will we ever be free enough of the stench of Brandy and Shonda’s stink bombs to sit in the same room and !nd out?

I hear the tinkle of glass bottles clinking together behind me as my cackling children prepare another volley of horror.

If it wasn’t for Corbin, the beautiful, black-eye sporting, monster-in-law restraining, twin daughter encouraging, !ve-course meal of a man standing gooed and glittered !ve feet away from me and still managing to look like a fuckin’ porn intro, there wouldn’t be a secretary out in the lobby frantically calling the police on one line and TMZ on the other. There wouldn’t be a horde of bored o"ce workers adjusting their wrist braces and craning their necks to get even a glimpse of Thee LaTisha Baker’sTM family drama caught on their hyper-quality iPhone.

There wouldn’t be an audience to see my precious angels turn into the family curse.