Page 89 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“Would you like to see something else that we should keep between the two of us?” she asked, going all sly sailor.
That was a no brainer.
“Hell yes!” he exclaimed.
“Would you like to see my pageant act?”
His eyes went wide.
She giggled. “It’s nothing naughty, Seaman Marks. Just listen,” she instructed, then clicked her heels and started tapping out the tune to “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat.”
He reared back, damn impressed and about to tell her so when a sharp ping cut through themerrily, merrilypart.
He glanced around the room. “What is that? Did you turn on the oven, or is that the kitchen timer?”
She shook her head. “No, this morning, I stuck to organizing my historical romances by period. I don’t know what that noise is.”
“Commence Hospital Practice Run. Commence Hospital Practice Run,” came the same creepy robotic voice he’d heard during their VR grocery store nightmare.
They turned as the eerie robotic voice continued repeating the phrase, and he damn near fell off the bed when he figured out where it was coming from.
“Faby?” he cried, staring at the fake baby, whose head glowed red—its baby eyes flashing like a beacon to hell.
“The timer has started. Commence Hospital Practice Run,” the possessed Faby commanded.
Of all the times for this challenge to happen—this had to be the worst!
“Georgie, we have to get to the hospital!”
Lenny and Stu had mentioned they’d need to complete a hospital practice run. But what they’d failed to disclose was that the command would be sent by their infant care simulation doll.
They must have activated Faby while he and Georgie were getting crapped on by the VR baby.
Georgie sprang to her feet and scooped up the glowing fake baby. “Have you always been able to talk, Faby? Can you hear me?”
“We have to get moving. This is for the Battle of the Births,” he said, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
“I have to change,” she cried, looking around the room.
“Fifteen minutes remaining,” Faby instructed.
Fifteen minutes!
“Babe, there’s no time. This is the drill. We have to make it to the hospital in—”
“Fourteen minutes,” Faby answered.
He broke out into a cold sweat, then forced himself to take a breath. Georgie’s bag was packed. The car was gassed up. They had a plan.
“I’ll keep Faby with me and make sure Mr. Tuesday is safe in his crate,” Georgie offered.
He nodded. “And I’ll get the bag and pull up the car.”
“Thirteen minutes,” Faby announced.
“Go, go, go!” he cried, the competitive part of him, pumped and ready to crush this challenge.
The hospital was nine minutes away. They could do this.
