Big Daddy

Chapter 2

chapter two

quincey

“This is it?” I toss the stapled sheets of paper onto my desk, then drop my hands, palms down.

Suzanne sucks her bottom lip under her teeth, nibbling at the corner of her mouth the way she always does. There very well may be a hole in her lip, as much as she chews at it.

“Quit eating your face and speak,” I shout, causing the veins in my temples to throb. I already had a headache, but suddenly it’s much worse. Incompetence will do that.

“That was all there was in the email,” she stammers, shifting on her feet. “Th-there were just those two pages, I checked twice.”

My eyes drop to the papers on my desk, precisely on the word “continued” on the bottom right. I drop my pointer finger to the word. “What does this say?”

She twists her head slightly, honing her gaze on the singular word. Her eyes come to mine, watery. “It says ‘continued’.”

“Continued,” I repeat. “Meaning, there are more pages.” I shake my head. “I can’t work with you anymore.”

Suzanne blinks at me for a moment before lifting her chin and clearing her throat. “A good boss would teach me how to do it instead of screaming at me all the time then firing me.”

I deliver a charming courtroom smile. “You don’t have a good boss, you have me .” I hand her back the half-printed memo. “You’re fired.”

We stand there for a moment, just staring at one another. She is likely letting reality settle in, and me? I’m waiting. Waiting to feel bad, to reconsider, to feel a kick of pleasure at her demise. Waiting to feel something. Anything .

But nothing comes, and nothingness always breeds anger. Heaps of it.

“I said you’re fired, Suzanne. So unless you need to add fired beneath continued on the list of words you don’t understand,” I hiss, leaning in to bring my fiery words nearer to her face, “then get out of my office. Now.”

As she turns, my partner Davis Pen strolls in, hands shoved into his pockets, stupid bolo tie hanging from his neck. His blonde hair is slicked back, and even though he’s one of the sharpest litigators I’ve ever known, he looks like someone who’d sell you stereo speakers out of the back of a van because his boss “ordered too many.”

Davis’s gaze follows Suzanne right out the door before volleying back to me, full of shock.

“Another one?” He strokes a hand down his poorly grown, spotty beard. “I liked Suzie.”

I’m 99% sure she asked specifically not to be called Suzie, and that sums up Davis Pen, in my opinion.

“She can’t print a memo without making a mistake,” I say, immediately regretting my decision to engage in conversation with Davis. The less contact, the better. He’s a great partner because he manages to lock down huge clients, and he never loses.

But god, I can’t stand him.

“Ah, well, you could’ve sent her my way. I would have given her private printing lessons,” he says, dancing his eyebrows to send home the not-so-subtle subtext that he would’ve sexually harassed my assistant.

“You need a harassment suit like you need a hole in the head.” I nod toward the chair in the corner, where a stack of files rests. “She was going to bring those to the file room, but since she’s gone, send your girl in.”

Davis laughs as he sinks in one of the leather client chairs in front of my desk. Stacking his leather shoes on my mahogany desk, he steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “About that. Looks like we both need new assistants.”

Holding my tie, I take a seat and direct my focus to my computer screen, on my work, where it belongs. “I’m not asking what happened because I don’t need to know,” I reply, typing an email to HR about finding another assistant.

“Maybe this time I’ll get a male assistant. You know, so I won’t be distracted,” he says, twirling the end of his bolo around his finger. “Then again, that doesn’t seem like any fun.”

I glance over at him, finding his smarmy smile pointed my way. “Do whatever you want. Just… leave my office now,” I tell him, refocusing on the email at hand—a letter to Kennedy, our office manager.

Make sure this one is a professional assistant with experience in a law office this time.

I hit send and when I look up, Davis is closing the door behind him. Sinking back against my chair, I let out a hearty, long-suppressed sigh. I should be focused on the brief I’m working on.

Yet all I can think about are the tears.

Winnie’s tears.

As soon as my chest softens and my muscles relax, I remember her smart mouth, and my jaw tenses. I can’t imagine Brielle speaking to a friend’s father the way Winnie spoke to me.

She was a brat.

A big fucking brat.

Still, imagining her alone in my daughter’s apartment, crying… I don’t fucking like it. Brielle doesn’t just sit around crying. At least, I don’t think she does? Glancing out the window of my office, I spot Suzanne gathering things from her desk drawer. I pick up my handset, and ring her desk.

“Come in here a moment,” I tell her, to which she simply nods, knowing I’m watching. A moment later, she stands before me, tears staining her cheeks, hands behind her back.

Interesting . I feel nothing for Suzanne’s tears or emotion. Maybe that’s because I know why she’s crying and therefore know I have zero reason to feel bad.

“Suzanne, do you ever just cry? When you’re alone?” I ask uncomfortably, hoping for some insight into Winnie’s odd behavior. I don’t know the girl, but from the hours of information I’ve been forced to hear about her from my daughter, she doesn’t seem the type. Strong, funny, a “baddie”, if I remember Brielle’s exact words. That doesn’t fall in line with crying alone in the middle of the day. “If nothing’s wrong, do you ever just cry?”

Her face twists with confusion as she drags a hand beneath her nose. “I’m crying because you fired me and you’re really mean,” she says, narrowing her eyes, anger eating up her sadness.

I roll my eyes. “This isn’t about you, Suzanne. Now answer the question.” My eyes dart to her box of belongings. “Please.”

She blinks at me for a second, nostrils flaring with what appears to be righteous indignation.

“Spare me the soap opera act and answer the question.” I clear my throat. “I said please .”

She lifts her hand, extends her middle finger, and smiles. “Fuck you, Quincey Parker.” And with that, she’s gone, snatching her box full of trinkets from her desk, heading straight for the elevators.

I reach for my phone and consider texting Brielle, but I’m not exactly the random text message kind of father. I know that. As much as I desire to be that father, it’s too distant from our current reality. I call and check in, and remind her to work hard, keep her grades up and head on straight. I do that because I’m her only parent—and when you’re the only parent, you have to be both cops. Good cop foots the bill, bad cop does the rest—lectures, warns, etc. But nowhere in that scenario is there a peace officer asking about the emotional health of another woman.

No way.

I set my phone down again and think, staring at my desk full of shit. My eyes wander to the business card on my desk. We handle a lot of high-profile divorce cases at Parker & Pen, and divorces can be hard to mentally and emotionally reconcile. Seeing a therapist or psychiatrist is something we often advise. I saw this doctor years ago when my wife passed, and have stayed in touch with their office for my clients.

Snatching the card, without a second thought, I pick up the handset and make the call.

“Dr. Wilder’s office. This is Ida. How can I help you?”

I clear my throat. “Yes, this is Quincey Parker of Parker & Pen Law, and I’d like to make an appointment for a young woman.”

“Mr. Parker. Great to hear your voice again,” Ida greets. “Client?”

“Hi there, Ida. Ah, no, not a client. She’s actually my daughter’s friend. I’d like to pay, and put my card on file if she chooses to make future appointments.”

Ida asks me a lot of questions about Winnie, most of which I don’t know the answer to. We make the appointment for next week, and I write all the pertinent information down on the back of the business card.

She didn’t ask me for help, nor did she tell me what was wrong, but my daughter needs her best friend. And I need for my daughter to have a sharp, stable best friend in the event that Brielle becomes impressionable. She needs good influences around her.

In that light, I’m making this appointment for Winnie for Brielle , and when it’s put like that, it’s a selfish deed. I’m fine and even comfortable being selfish.

Now I just need to find Winnie and tell her how selfish I’ve been.

Then I can get back to my legal brief.

Where I want my focus.