Big Daddy

Chapter 1

chapter one

winnie

“Oh yeah, come to Mama, you red-bottomed little beauty.” Carefully, I lift the lid off the Louboutin box, plucking the black patent leather pump from the tissue paper prison. I slip the high heel onto my foot and outstretch my leg, admiring the elegance it brings to every outfit. Even sweatpants, which is what I’m currently wearing. “Damn, baby girl,” I tell the shoe because at this point in my life, talking to a shoe is completely reasonable. “You’re so sexy.”

I take it off and turn it over, analyzing the wear scuffed into the grooved bottom. They’ve hardly been worn, but that’s no surprise. Brielle has so many pairs of shoes, some never even make it into her work rotation.

I know that sounds like my bestie is a spoiled snob, but she’s not. I swear. Well, actually she kind of is a spoiled snob, but in a lovable, down to earth way, if that makes sense. I love Brielle, and I accept that she’s lived a privileged life thanks to her rich father. It’s hard to give her grief for being spoiled, especially when I benefit directly from her spoils. I’m at her apartment more than my own, I think I eat more of her groceries than she does—heck, she stocks Diet Coke just for me. And, as you can tell, I also borrow her shoes.

Oh, and I definitely use her Netflix account.

Returning the shoe to its box, I replace the lid and slide it back, in favor of another. This next box is also a Louboutin, but of course. “See, if you were poor,” I say aloud to Brielle, who has already left for work for the day. Because again, that’s where I’m at. “I’d be wearing some discount rack pumps or some second-hand kitten heels. And that just won’t do.”

After sliding the lid off the box, my eyes land on the most unbelievable pair of leather sandals. Louboutin loves leather, doesn’t he? Well, I’m glad he does, because so does Harold.

I slip my foot into the demure black sandal, my freshly painted blue toenails a stark contrast against the delicate straps . I wiggle my toes and outstretch my leg, surveying the fit. “Oh yeah, Harold,” I say, again talking to someone who isn’t there as I get to my feet. Peeking at the profile view of the sandal that costs more than all the things I own, I sigh, “You’re gonna like my dogs in these babies.”

After putting the other sandal on, I pop and plug my phone into the light ring, tilt it toward my feet, and open my laptop. Double-clicking my calendar, I find mine and Harold’s weekly appointment and open it up. While my computer calls him, I turn the light ring on, illuminating my toes in the gorgeous French designer sandals.

“Winnie?” Harold’s voice calls out, snapping my attention to the screen. His camera is off, which is abnormal. In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t think he’s ever joined one of our “ meetings ” with his camera off.

“Hi Harold. Is everything okay?” I greet softly, in my most soft, feminine, erotic voice. “You forgot your camera, sweetie.” Yeah, I know, sweetie is a bit corny but he chose it. He wants it. And Harold gets what he wants. “Sweetie?” I call for him again.

Unease gnaws at me as a moment of silence spills into two, then three, and before I know it, six Mississippis have passed.

“Winnie,” he finally starts, soft and apologetic in tone.

“You like my sandals? Christian Louboutin.” I glance at the box. “85 mm heels. Patent leather. Red bottoms.”

He groans. “I—Yes, they’re beautiful. But I’m gonna turn your side off,” he says, causing my brows to pull together in utter confusion. He never turns the viewing off. I mean, that’s why we’re here. For him to scratch his foot-lovin’ itch. And the first thing he usually does once my camera is on? Unzip .

“Turn viewing off?” I question. “Howard, these are—” I glance back at the box. “These are $895 sandals and this is a $500 session. Why would you?—”

He interrupts me with words I am not prepared to hear. Like, at all . Words that thoroughly bitch slap me and knock the wind from my chest with a baseball bat without a single movement.

“I can’t do this anymore, Winnie.” He clears his throat, awkwardly working his way through what sounds like a very rehearsed speech. “I met someone. And she’s willing to oblige my needs. It no longer feels appropriate to pay you for… this.”

I look down at my feet in the expensive sandals that I myself could never even dream of owning, and then I look at the towel laid out next to me, with all of my supplies.

A stick of butter. A can of whipped cream. A jar of jam. His favorite smear items. My stomach drops. “What?” I heard him just fine, but my mind is reeling. “Howard, I?—”

“I’m sorry, Winnie.” A loud groan erupts from his end of the line. “Those are beautiful sandals. And I thank you for everything. But… I’m sorry.”

At that precise moment, the payment bubble pops up on my screen, alerting me that Howard has paid me my $500, along with a note that simply reads “Farewell my beautiful-footed female friend.”

“Wait—Howard,” I call, panic zipping up my spine as I click his name over and over. “Howie, honey bunny,” I try, acid nearly curdling the already disgusting words. But they’re words he likes. Words he usually loves. Paired with my feetsies? He’s normally all in. It’s how I got my laptop. But today, not so fucking much.

I turn off the ring light, close my laptop, and carefully replace the sandals in the box, returning them to the many rows of boxes in Brielle’s closet.

Howard is done with this. He doesn’t want me. Or my feet.

My chest goes hollow as reality settles heavily in my veins. I just lost the one gig that was keeping my rent, tuition, loans and insurance paid. Howard’s fetish for my beautiful feet and fancy sandals was my entire fucking income.

I’d have to work three jobs to cover my bills the way that Howard did. That was two grand a month for Christ’s sake. I’ve tried to make that much at other jobs, and it’s nearly impossible. Not to mention, I was just getting to the point where I could afford healthcare luxuries, like maybe even an appointment with a shrink.

Not now.

“Fuck you, Howard!” I shout, tears unexpectedly leaking from my eyes. I stare at my bare feet as I drag them through the shag carpet in Brielle’s apartment. I come here a lot because my place sucks. I live in a room with two others, but in the entire apartment, there are seven people. Do you know how disgusting it is at age twenty-six to still be living like its fucking summer camp? It’s crowded and gross and honestly, most of the time it smells like an old Cup o Noodles fucked a Hot Pocket and gave birth to our apartment.

I swipe at the tears, but they start falling faster than I can wipe them away. Sinking into Brielle’s couch, I tip my head back and let my fears go, sobbing uncontrollably until my head aches and my eyes burn.

I met Howard in person once. I was at Rise & Grind, the place where Brielle and I always study. He saw my feet in Adidas slides, chipped pink polish and all. He passed me a card when Brielle was in the restroom, and as much as I’d like to say I didn’t even consider his offer, I called him the literal second I was alone.

I’ve been broke most of my life. Seriously. Social programs, grants, coupon clipping, deal day, loans—all of those things have gotten me this far. But as I finish my graduate degree, I’m up to my eyeballs in loan debt, but I can’t land a high-paying job until after graduate school. If I do at all.

The sobs start up again. With a tissue in my hand, I’m just about to blow my snotty nose when the deadbolt twists, and the apartment door is pushed open.

“Who the fuck are you?” I shout-cry at the older man who steps inside, carefully closing the door behind him. Wearing a tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white dress shirt and royal blue tie, he looks like he fell out of an ad for the mature Men’s Warehouse or some shit. Or maybe a blue dick-pill ad or something. Then again, the piping on that suit is immaculate, and the fade on his haircut is perfection. His jaw is trimmed and shaved neatly, and he fills the apartment with a masculine, heady scent.

Okay, maybe he fell out of a Gucci for grandpas ad. Either way, the sharp dressed intruder eyes me.

“I might ask you the same since you are clearly not Brielle.” He lowers bags to the floor, bags I didn’t notice until now. Grocery bags.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me the moment the door opened, but all of a sudden, I realize exactly who he is.

I swipe beneath my nose and again under my eyes, glaring at him. “It’s not a good time, Big Daddy.” I nod toward his getup. “Nice suit. Got the Men’s Warehouse discount card, or what?” Now that I know it’s Brielle’s father, I know for sure that suit probably cost more than Brielle’s shoe collection, but insinuating his suit is off-the-rack is too much fun.

“This is a custom-tailored suit. The fabric was flown in from Italy,” he snarks, his sharp glare directed my way, pointing and prodding me. “And not a good time? You don’t even live here.”

A sob leftover from Howard erupts from me, but I wipe my tears away. “Neither do you,” I hiccup.

He glares at me while I wipe at my eyes and blow my nose using the hem of my old One Direction t-shirt. “Why are you watching me blow my nose? That’s weird. And gross.” I wave him off. “Hurry up with whatever you’re doing and go.”

He stands there in his stupid fancy suit with his dumb chiseled jawline and coif of hair that screams I trade millions without a second thought and has the audacity to stare at me. It’s annoying, especially when I just want to cry and wallow alone, damn it.

“You know, the longer you stand there, Big Daddy, the more I’m starting to think how fucking weird it is that you come into your grown daughter’s apartment with a key. What if she was here? What if she was fucking someone? Hmm?” I give him a pointed glare back as I continue fighting my tears. “You’re weird. And overbearing.”

“Weird and overbearing?” He blinks at me, then nonchalantly dusts the front of his suit jacket with his very large, very strong, very capable looking hand. “This, coming from a squatter.”

“I am not a squatter,” I retort powerfully, pointedly, even though I’m actively crying and ignoring it. It’s hard to cry and be powerful, but I am so pulling it off. I think. “I am your daughter’s best friend on the entire planet.”

He collects the bags and moves to the kitchen, putting them on the counter. “ Winnie .” Our eyes lock from across the apartment, and I see recognition flash in his eyes, then something unreadable, since I just met him. After that? Back to a dead-eyed bossy businessman.

My stomach drops, leaving behind an unexpected whoosh of adrenaline. That look. It was a split second, but I saw it. I felt it.

Well fuck, another plot twist for the day.

Big Daddy saying my name makes my stomach do some sort of floppy thing.

He’s just wearing a nice suit and being an asshole—something I and millions of other misguided women respond to. Big Daddy is not attractive. Not at all. It’s just the six two build in the fancy suit and the snarky ‘tude.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing my eyes to the TV where a muted episode of The Price Is Right plays. “I’m Winnie.”

He unloads the bags in silence, and I swear to God, he’s watching me. I can feel his eyes sweep over my legs and face, and I hate that my skin flushes and my body heats. When he’s done filling Brielle’s cupboards and fridge, he walks toward me, standing at the foot of the couch.

“You are so desperate for me to pay attention to you,” I huff, sitting up, finally paying him attention.

He narrows his eyes. “You are unwell,” he says, his words a cross between a statement and a question.

I roll my eyes. “Brielle didn’t tell me you’re a real Sherlock Holmes on top of being a massive tight ass.” I get to my feet and snatch the remote from the table, turning the TV off. “Yes, Big Daddy,” I say, squaring off with him, my bare toes pressed to the tops of his shiny leather shoes. “I am unwell. Well people do not cry midday in sweats while watching shitty reruns. Well done. Gold star. Now leave.”

Traces of sandalwood and fresh pressed laundry tickle my senses as Big Daddy glares down at me, a fleck of gold near his pupil glittering with his anger. His nostrils flare as his chest expands, righteous indignation written all over his stupidly handsome face. Brielle doesn’t give him lip, so I’m thinking my attitude is lodged right up his ass.

Good.

Big Daddy is a pain in the ass to Brielle almost always. He can take it if he can dish it. I poke his chest, my core quivering at the way my finger bounces back from the hardness. “Go. You filled the fridge, now go.”

He opens his mouth, and I think he’s going to tell me to go. Or yell at me. Or tell me how he pays for this apartment, and he can tell me who stays or goes. Or something equally sexist and disturbing.

But he doesn’t.

His eyes rake over me one more time before he closes his mouth, turns in his fancy dress shoes and hoity-toity lawyer suit, and slips out of the apartment, using his key to lock it behind him. Locking me in. Safely.

Flopping back down onto the couch, the fear and depression in my chest still linger as my failure lulls me into my first nap of the day. Out of a job or otherwise, I now know that Big Daddy is a silver fucking fox.

But a smile quirks my lips as I drift off, because I got under his skin, and that, for today, feels like a win.