Marital Bitch (Men with Badges) - By Jc Emery Page 0,24

need to take a vote.” The crowd goes wild with whooping and hollering. I see James and Darla in the center, each holding one of their kids. Where their middle child, my little monster, went I have no idea. He’s probably hanging from some piece of furniture somewhere.

“So,” he rubs my stomach again. I try to bat him away but he holds my hands in place. I see one of his fellow detectives and hear him hoot. I can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s always annoyed me. “Can I get a number?” This is a tradition. The bride and groom ask their guests how many kids they should have. I’m not surprised to hear numbers like five and eight. Brad shouts “higher,” and the crowd goes wild again.

“I’m trying for a baseball team here!” he shouts. I laugh at his enthusiasm and wonder when he got to be such a good liar. But then I remember the conversation before his proposal. Brad wants kids. He’s always wanted kids, so I shouldn’t be surprised. What does surprise me though is that he’s talking about having kids with me. He’s been talking about having kids with me since we got married. I wonder if his biological clock is ticking. We’re both thirty-five now. Neither of us is all that young. At my age I’d be lucky to have one healthy baby, let alone five or eight. My mood worsens as I once again realize that in my pursuit of my career, I have possibly cost myself something very dear to me: becoming a mother. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. We’re not really married, anyway.

I seem to be continually forgetting that little fact. We’re not really married. All of this is fun and it’s easy to get swept up in the hoopla, but it doesn’t change anything. At the end of the day, we’re not really in love. At best, we’re lifelong friends. At worst, our friendship is hanging by a thread. Some days I think nothing can split us up, other days I don’t even know why we still attempt at talking to one another. We’re both volatile and bossy and neither one of us will think twice about hitting below the belt in the heat of the moment. The problem is that the longer we play this little game, the longer that we act like the happy couple, the more I’m starting to believe it myself. I’m an attorney, I’m supposed to have my wits about me, but I can’t help but feel like I’m falling into something that I’ll never dig my way out of.

“It’s decided!” Brad shouts, “we’ll have 12!” I force a choked laugh. The crowd cheers and through the mass, I see Thomas Nate, my boss’ son, making his way towards us.

“Colleen,” Thomas says, in a very formal manner, “Congratulations!” His smile is as fake as his blond hair and white teeth. I smile back as politely as possible and thank him. My body is rigid. Brad gives me a reassuring squeeze. Thomas doesn’t even have the courtesy to address my new husband.

“Well,” he laughs with a condescending smirk, “I’m hope you’re not really planning on having 12 children, Colleen.” The way Thomas says my formal name just pisses me off, but I know better than to show it, it could mean my job to piss him off any more than I already have. First, turning him down for a date (in part because he is married), and now, getting married myself; he is displeased with me, but there’s nothing he can do about is as long as I play the model attorney at work.

Brad snorts, “and why is that, and who are you?” Thomas’s eyes travel up to Brad and they narrow. This is a pissing contest in a civilized form, just barely.

“I’m Thomas Nate,” he holds his hand out, but Brad just stares at it and shakes his head. I want to chastise him and tell him to play nice with the little blond weasel, but I remain silent. I’m enjoying this far too much to stop it. Repercussions be damned!

“Colleen works at my father’s firm,” Thomas raises his eyebrows in challenge. He knows what my job means to me. “Twelve is just a lot. Don’t you think?” he asks Brad. It’s not like twelve children is even a remote possibility—even if we are Catholic—so this conversation is just ridiculous.

Thomas really shouldn’t be asking Brad anything. They are polar opposites. I can’t see