Page 4 of Sam to the Rescue
“Breast milk and Oaty-Os.” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the running water.
Drying his face, he reenters my kitchen and makes a sign of the cross. “Do not use that language wid me.”
“What? Oaty-Os?”
“No, the other. Fuck, you should be using a bottle like normal people.”
Laughing it off, I don’t take offense. He had custody of his daughter since infancy and as such, is under-educated in the nursing boobs department.
“Point taken. The monster has front teeth and has started to bite.”
He covers his ears and closes his eyes. “Not listening.”
When he’s finished being a jerk, he hands me a disc to upload. “This is Mr. Streptococcus.”
“Stephanopoulos?” I cover my grin with a palm.
“Yeah, whatever. I caught him on camera with his hairy dick out. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I can’t imagine what she sees in him. I tell you, I’m gonna have nightmares for years. You might not want to watch.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Is there enough here for his lawyer?”
“You doubt me? The king ofDivorces R Us?” He puts both hands to his heart, exaggerating his outrage.
“Never. Thanks Joey.”
As he ducks out the window, he pauses. “Hey, by the way, have you heard from the bum today?”
“You mean Sebastian?” I roll my eyes but the subtlety is lost on my cousin.
“What? You sleeping with some other lowlife I don’t know about?”
“No.” That didn’t come out right but pursuing this conversation guarantees a massive headache.
Joey thrusts his phone in front of my nose and hits play. “… Congresswoman Deena Desmond is uninjured following an attack during a fundraising rally near Ronkonkoma.”
I hold my breath as the video resumes and Suds flies through the air. “…Here we see where her bodyguard spotted the gunman and with his quick action…”
“Shit.” I pick up my Samsung and read his incoming text message.
Suds: Don’t freak out. I’m fine.
Chapter 3
Suds
I’m well on my way to the congresswoman’s Long Island estate when Slate calls and insists I visit the nearest emergency room. He spouts some nonsense about insurance so I do as he says and request an x-ray for my cracked rib. Not that it will do any good but I don’t want him in hot water with Grayson, our billionaire benefactor.
Due to some multiple car pile-up on the expressway, I’m stuck for an eternity on a tiny gurney in a miniature bed with my ass hanging out. They make me wear PJs better suited for a guy half my size and for the last two hours, I’ve needed to take a piss. However, I don’t dare leave with my willy dangling below the hem. As an added bonus, Nurse Retched maintains I must keep my cell phone off because it could interfere with life support systems.
Really? If so, someone should file a complaint with the FCC. A friggin’ smart phone should not stop hearts nor down airplanes. Are y’all with me? Can I hear an amen?
That being said, it’s dark by the time I arrive back to Deena’s mansion. After reporting in with her, I walk the circumference of the two-acres of land, looking for bad guys.
Then, I call my wife. “Hey, sugar.”
“Are you hurt?” A former FBI analyst, my wife knows I was injured and researched every online detail on today’s assault.
This here is what is better known as a wife-test which I purposefully fail.