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    The Aunts Go Marching: Lesbian Adventure Club, #22.5
    The Aunts Go Marching: Lesbian Adventure Club, #22.5
    The Aunts Go Marching: Lesbian Adventure Club, #22.5
    Ebook58 pages2 hours

    The Aunts Go Marching: Lesbian Adventure Club, #22.5

    By Rosalyn Wraight

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    About this ebook

    Marching orders: give birth; give support; wander, worry, and wait and wait and…

    Lesbian Adventure Club, Book 22.5

    Approximate word count: 12,000

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDon't Waste Daylight
    Release dateAug 23, 2019
    ISBN9781932014921
    The Aunts Go Marching: Lesbian Adventure Club, #22.5

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      Book preview

      The Aunts Go Marching - Rosalyn Wraight

      Chapter 1

      The ringing that interrupted our sleep did not startle me as much as the frantic Is she? Is she? Is she? Claudia hissed into her cellphone.

      I tilted an ear to eavesdrop, which proved utterly unnecessary, for I received a slap on my thigh as she informed the entire east-side of Granton, Susan’s in labor!

      An eviction notice had been served to the penthouse resident. Should I have been happy? I wasn’t; at least, I didn’t think I was. Rather, Throat Demon seized me, and I was certain a boa constrictor had found its way into my gut.

      Keep us in the loop, please, and thanks for calling, Claudia said. She disconnected, gently tossed her phone to the nightstand, and then collapsed backward with a big sigh.

      Who called anyway? I asked her.

      Kris, she answered. She just dropped Ginny off at Susan and Maggie’s, although if Maggie already needs her backup coach, Susan’s in trouble.

      She laughed as did I. We knew that Maggie would have to be completely unconscious for her not to be right at Susan’s side.

      I glanced to the clock on the nightstand: 12:17. It was Saturday, barely, and that meant this baby was technically two days late.

      Edgy as hell, I asked, What are we supposed to do, besides wait and cross our fingers?

      "Nothing we can do. She released a breathy growl. Kris is calling everybody else so we can’t even do that. Patting my leg, she suggested, Let’s try to go back to sleep."

      Except, we couldn’t. Ten mind-frickin’-wide-awake minutes later, we were getting dressed.

      She headed to the kitchen for Earl, and I meandered to the far side of the porch.

      Simultaneously, I hit the button on my coffeemaker and the exhaust fan. I grabbed my smokes from the table, lit up, and began to pace.

      I had never been here before. I had never anticipated the birth of a brand-new human being. I had never worried about someone near and dear to me actually doing that birthing. And, owed to one extremely boring day at work, I frickin’ knew the maternal and infant mortality rates—by county, by state, by country, by continent. Shit happens. All over the world, shit happens. Please, don’t let it happen here.

      The flashing blue light on my coffeemaker caught my eye. I slapped down the handle and stabbed the brew button. A moment later, the last few drops spit out, and I seized my cup. A whiff, a blow, and a sip later, my strides were now caffeinated.

      Soon, Claudia appeared, and we smiled at each other in a foreign way, one that melded genuine excitement with the discomfort of knowing such a feeling was untimely. Shit happens.

      You okay? she asked, taking a seat at the table.

      Nervous, I admitted. You?

      I’m trying to side with my excitement more than my nervousness. She smiled and took a sip of her tea. Then, she reminded, and seemingly to her own astonishment, We’re going to be aunts, honey. They specifically said we will be this baby’s aunts.

      That was another place I had never been before, but, damn, I wanted to go there.

      But first, that baby needed to get here—safely, and its mother.

      I sat at the table with her, and we were silent. I could tell her brain whirred as swiftly as mine.

      When my brain cogs began to overheat, I asked, Are you hungry? I could make breakfast.

      Withdrawing her phone from her sweatshirt pouch, she laughed and informed, It’s barely one o’clock.

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