“She was very fond of John Atencio,” he said to me as he forked into a piece of my soured chocolate cake (to die for) with milk chocolate buttercream icing. Dade, I’d learned since Olivia left and he became a regular at Tessa’s Cakes, was a chocolate cake man. “I’m certain she can make her frequent trips to that store work for her.”

John Atencio was a fabulous, exclusive jewelry store and I figured Dade meant that Olivia was going to be spending some time in a pawn shop, or perhaps learning how to sell things on on-line auctions.

Needless to say, although things had worked out for Brock and the boys, and the boys, to my surprise (and delight, and it must be said, Brock’s too), had settled in quickly and easily, relaxing in my house and making themselves at home within days (or more like hours, since I made a carrot cake for Rex and a chocolate cake for Joel and this obviously screamed “You’re home!” to now eleven- and thirteen-year-old boys), this did not mean our nightmare was over.

No.

Not at all.

Because Olivia was a bitch, and I was learning, when none of the games bitches could play were swinging their way, they scrambled.

Therefore, Olivia was a regular at the station and her name was on the display of Brock’s phone so often, it was a wonder it hadn’t etched itself into the screen.

When she phoned or visited him at work, she did not want to talk to or about the boys. No. She needed Brock to hang shelves. She needed Brock to look over legal documents Dade was sending her. She needed Brock to look at a sink that had a drip (even though she was in a freaking apartment complex with a freaking maintenance man). She was selling her Mercedes (something Dade allowed her to have) and she needed him to help her. She was buying a new car and she needed him to go with her so she didn’t get screwed.

She told him (and Brock told me) that she was turning to him as the mother of his children to help her out in a bad situation.

And, also by Brock’s report, she’d gone saccharine sweet.

“She’s got her nose so far up my ass, babe, I swear I feel that bitch in my throat,” Brock, unfortunately, gave me a rather disgusting visual while we were lying in bed one night, his head to the pillows, his hands rubbing his face, his tone frustrated, his mood heavy in the air.