The Dom’s Submission: Complete Series by Ellis O. Day
CHAPTER 10: Terry
Terry sat at his house, petting Beast and waiting. He was going to see Maggie. He had a reason to, a real reason besides his desire. He’d met with her ex and she was going to get money—lots and lots of money. He couldn’t wait to tell her, but if he went too early the kids would still be up. Not that he was expecting to have sex—hoping yes, but not expecting.
He looked at his watch. It was late enough. He called her. The phone rang and rang before finally going to voice mail. “Hey Maggie, it’s me. I have some good news about…” If he said money, she’d immediately think he meant the money he’d tried to give her. He could explain about the information he’d uncovered about her ex but she still trusted the bastard and leaving that in a message was cruel. Nope. He’d have to tell her in person. “I have some good news,” he repeated. “And I need to see you. Call me.” He hung up and texted her just in case.
He ran his hand over Beast’s fur and waited. And waited. And waited. He was not a patient man. When he wanted something, he went for it, always had. He texted her again.
TERRY: I’m coming over.
He gave Beast a final pat, shoved the first check from David into his pocket and hurried to his car.
As soon as he arrived at Maggie’s he knew something was wrong. The house was lit like she was having a party. She wasn’t, unless no one drove because there were no cars in her driveway.
He walked to the door and knocked, not wanting to wake the kids. He could hear movement and voices but no one answered. He knocked again. “Maggie, it’s me. Open the door.”
Nothing.
He rang the doorbell. The kids could go back to sleep.
Maggie opened the door.
“Holy crap, you look like shit.”
Her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed or washed in days. Her face was pale and she was wearing sweats and a T-shirt that had—he tried not to grimace—something nasty splattered all over it.
“Perfect. I feel like shit.” She started to shut the door but he blocked it with his hand and pushed inside.
“You should go. We have the flu.” She leaned against the wall.
The house was a disaster. The two older kids were on the couch, lying one on each end and watching cartoons. Their little faces were pale and they had big bags under their eyes. A pile of pillows and blankets lay on the floor. The baby was sound asleep on a section of them.
“All of you?” This was a nightmare.
“Yeah. It started with Davy.”
“You need to go to the doctor’s.” He bent and lifted her. They were going to the hospital right now.
“Stop. Put me down.”
“No.” He turned. “Kids wrap in blankets we’re going to the hospital.
“Terry, stop.” Her clammy hand touched his face. “We’ve been to the doctor. It’s the flu. We have to ride it out.”
“Fuck.”
“Mommy, did you hear what he said?” Peter stared at Terry like he was his hero.
“Sorry.” He hadn’t been around small children in years.
“Ignore him, Peter.” She rested her head on Terry’s shoulder. “He’s going to put me down and leave.”
“I’m not doing either of those things.” He strode to her bedroom.
“Don’t. I have to take care of the kids.”
“You have to rest.” He went into her room, swallowing fast because the smell of vomit almost knocked him back two feet. “Good, God.”
“I tried to clean it but…”
Soiled blankets and sheets were strewn about on the floor near the bed. He looked around but couldn’t find anywhere clean to put her. “The kids’ rooms? Are they clean?”
“No.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I tried but I’m so tired.”
“It’s okay.” He sighed and held her closer.
“It’s not. It’s a mess.”
“Shhh.” He took her back into the living room and carefully laid her on the floor. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’m thirsty,” said the little girl.
“Okay, Isabella. I’ll get you something.” Maggie started to get up.
He put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “I’ve got this.”
“But, you don’t ha—”
“Trust me.” He brushed the hair away from her face. “Please. Just this one time.”
She nodded, closing her eyes.
He turned to the little girl. “Can you keep liquid down?”
Isabella nodded. “I want ginger ale.”
“We don’t have any,” muttered Maggie.
“I’ll get you some water.”
The little girl wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like water.”
“Me either,” said her brother.
“Well, that’s what you get and if you’re good, I’ll go get some ginger ale later, but only if you’re good.”
“And soup. Will you get soup?” asked Peter.
“We’re out of that too,” mumbled Maggie. “We’re out of everything.” She sobbed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He faced the kids. “Yes, I’ll get whatever you want, but you need to be quiet and watch cartoons.”
“Whatever we want?” Isabella looked at her brother, a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Yes, but only if you’re good.”
“We’ll be good. We promise.” Isabella nudged Peter.
“Yep. Real good,” said Peter.
“Okay.” He touched Maggie’s cheek. She was burning up. “When was the last time you took something for your fever.”
“Don’t know. A few hours ago, I think.”
“Stay here.” He walked into the kitchen. It was a disaster too with dirty dishes piled on every flat surface and the garbage overflowing but at least it didn’t stink of vomit. He washed two sippy cups and put a little bit of water in them. He looked through the cabinets but there was no bread, no crackers, no soup, nothing but foods that shouldn’t be given to sick children unless he wanted to clean up more puke.
He went into the living room and handed them the cups.
“I’m hungry,” said the little boy.
Terry wanted to groan. Kids were a pain in the ass. “I’ll get you something as soon as I have your mom settled.”
“I’m fine. Take care of them.”
“You are not fine lying on the floor covered in vomit.”
“I’ll get them something.” She started to sit up, but he stopped her.
“Don’t you dare move. I’ll take care of this.” He turned to the kids. “Being good means not complaining. You’re both old enough. I’m going to let you decide.”
The kids stared at him, eyes wide.
“I think that you can both wait to eat.”
“But I’m hungry,” said Peter.
“And your mother, the woman who takes care of you, is on the hard floor, wearing clothes that are splattered with”—he glanced at her—“either her puke or one of yours.”
“His.” The little girl poked her brother. “He couldn’t get to the toilet.”
“I tried,” whined Peter.
“Do you like it when you’re covered in puke?”
“No.” Isabella looked at her brother and stuck out her chin. “We’ll wait.”
He smiled. “Good girl. Good boy. Watch cartoons and I promise I’ll hurry.”
