Page 86 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane

Taurus looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses and I shrug, waiting.

From a cranny above the fireplace, a flash of light, and then motion. Within a blink, the unusually colored coal black ferret scampers up the bed and dumps his loot in front of me, almost smiling. Taurus’ eyes widen and he looks ready to implode as I chuckle. “Meet Twist. He’s the first mate’s trusty sidekick.”

“He’s a soddinghatwhen I get my bloody hands on him!”

The growl makes the sleek rodent take off like a shot, filching the watch on his way. I wince, knowing that it is the most expensive item and ferrets, like kitties, love shiny things.

“You hurt his feelings, baby. He’s only doing his job. Filch and pilfer, like the song says.”

The phone rings again and my mate gives me a death stare. “You, my minx, are lucky I love your arse more than breath. Find that rat and appropriate my watch and then teach him some bloody manners before I do.”

I beam up at him and then look up to see Twist on the mantle. He’s standing like a meerkat, waving the watch at me.

Guess Mercury won’t be getting a fruit basket.

The Bird Goes To Church

TAURUS

Icannot bloody believe my luck. The Universe is taunting me; I know it.

I’ve been working my hardest—no pun intended—to keep my foxy feline horizontal and happy for days. I want to make sure we don’t waste a second of time so that we could make our family a reality.

We had to weather a few tiny storms: sharing the good news with our families, the blogger continuing his quest to get closer to Talia, and other various people trying to get in the middle of our lives. You might ask what kind of vacuous nitwits would try that with people like the Minx and I.

Try this one on for size, and you’ll see what I mean.

On Monday, Tamara—who I wouldn’t know if I ran into her on the street—got my number. She started texting me and damn near licked me from head to toe for several hours. I thought my warrior kitty was going to julienne her when she found out.

Next, the gnome and the writer invited me to their place for a chat, seemingly to get involved in naming our wee one. The minx let her extended family know that we are doing some family planning and those two malcontents weasel themselves into an event that is not theirs to commandeer. It was a monumentaleffort not to throttle them on the spot. I can’t help but feel like my minx might let me do it now, but I have Talia’s sodding romance with the two-bit Marlowe to contend with.

After that, I decided that I’m going to annihilate the person who put my private cell on the party page. I ended up having to visit a house full of people I’d never met before while listening to meaningless prattle at Michaela’s. I’m certain there was a lot of talk about cars in the conversation, but it was so incoherent that I’m not sure.

I asked the minx, and she said that early on, Victor adjusted his intelligence algorithms for droids in response to their owners. He had to compensate because many of the heads of household in this ‘burg are not the sharpest swords in the weapons cabinet. Preston was a likable git, but not in the running for MENSA. Still, I have to respect a family of people who seem to adore my lovely mate without the slightest interest in seeing her naked. I could learn to deal with their lack of saucy banter based on that fact alone.

The one bright spot in my shitty week was that Sandwich let me know she’d picked out a nick for me. I’ve been waiting for that and though she swore that she’s never given one without an event triggering it, I was right proud of her.

Her claim is puzzling because I know that she has nicks for every droid and clone that she knows. It was a nightmare figuring out who all the bloody blog posts from the past are about. People being called things like Tyger and Royalty and Flame with no sign of who in the hell they are, made it hard to decipher. Seems pointless to use them when you didn’t come up with them, but around the Resistance, there are many things I don’t get. I quit giving a damn what they are unless they involve my tiger lily.

See that? That’s four nicknames I gave her in one thought train.

I can’t complain, though, because she’s calling me her ‘Forever’ and there’s not a nickname in this world equal to that moniker. I have to find something grandiose to call her now because she’s one-upped me again.

That revelation led us back to our other naming discussion: our wee one to be. Though I have zero patience for the interlopers taking part, I am excited to discuss it with her. I started making a list in my head because neither of us came up with anything that felt right on the spot.

Once we bandied that about for a bit, she asked me where she’ll be having the nipper. I’ll be honest—it stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t considered that. I knew I was going to commandeer a doc from the Company, but I hadn’t gotten further than pre-natal testing.

This whole situation is an unknown, right?

You’d think we were done after that, but she kept going. Since I never once considered the possibility of a wee one because Talia and I aren’t the ‘have kids’ types as much as the ‘have your kids for dinner’ types, I panicked. I’ve never contemplated things like birthing rooms, last names, spit rags, and the long list of things that she now has questions about.

Are women born with this innate knowledge of everything in the known universe they need to do for a baby?

Christ. I don’t even know what the hell a Diaper Genie is, much less if I want to do that or have a service. I doubt Talia does either. How in the hell am I going to learn all this shit?

It’s okay, though. The minx calmed me down. I was slumping into that old chestnut of being anachronistic in this world and even more anachronistic to things like baby accessories. I don’t get the inner workings of the Resistance community, and I sure as hell don’t get the technical part of the baby process. I get the science part of the baby process, as biology is my strong suit. In fact, I excel at that.

However, I don’t have the first clue what we need to do after the test and on through the delivery. I was only joking a little when I talked about cigars and being the big man. I feel like I’ll have a lot to learn and none of it is even a bit as fun as making the baby is. Can’t I hand her the black card and she’ll get it all taken care of? There’s a metric ton of clucking hens around here who would love to help her, right?

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