Big Daddy

Chapter 5

chapter five

winnie

I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that it only took two sessions with Dr. Wilder for him to prescribe me something for my depression, but either way, here I am. In the line at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up my bottle of serotonin.

After an old woman with a grocery sack full of pill bottles is done, I step up, passing the folded paper to the unhappy technician on the other side of the counter.

He reads it, and without making eye contact says, “It’ll be twenty minutes” and begins inputting my information at the speed of light. The keyboard rattles against the desk as he types with authority, making me anxious to ask my question. But it’s pretty important that I do.

“Do you, uh, know how much that will cost? Without insurance?” I keep my voice low.

The breath he sucks in between his teeth paired with the way his eyebrows lift easily to his hairline has my stomach in knots.

I sold some photos to pay for therapy, yes, but that was pretty lucky. Selling enough to pay for anything of substance takes repeat customers, loyalty, time. I’d been wasting all of that shit on Harold, and now I’m chomping at the FeetFans scraps.

The man in the white coat types. If it’s under fifty, I can do it. Anything over that, and I’m going to be in a pinch.

“Eighty-seven dollars and ninety-three cents,” he deadpans.

“Almost 90 dollars for one prescription?” I balk, unwilling to accept that mental health has such a steep price tag. I’d been feeling darkly directionless for so long, and the health center on campus is only available (and free) to undergrads. I really thought I could ice cream and TV my way out of it.

Then came Quincey and his damn assumptions and his fancy doctor.

And I enjoyed therapy. Really fucking felt better after. I liked Dr. Wilder. He made me feel heard and normal, and after just the first session, I already felt more at peace with working through my sadness than ever before. After two? I’m feeling like I can’t quit therapy, or Dr. Wilder’s advice. It’s really working.

The man in the white coat lifts his gaze over my head to the customer next in line. “Next,” he calls, completely done with me.

Walking to the blue plastic chairs in the waiting area, I take a seat and dig out my phone, all while my pulse echoes in my ears.

Therapy gave me hope. The idea of releasing that hope now feels cruel and unfair. I need this prescription.

But what if I can pay for it this month then not the next? What’s the point then?

Quickly, I pull my phone from my purse and unlock it, opening the FeetFans app immediately.

NO NEW REQUESTS.

Fuck. I have no requests, which isn’t completely unusual since I’ve had my profile marked “matched” for the last year. Everyone in this little foot kink community believes I’m spoken for. It will take time for word to spread that 54035forYOU is available again.

Tears well in my eyes, but before I can have a complete mental breakdown in the Rite Aid next to a man with no shoes on, I spot a red number one over my private messages.

Clicking it, a name appears next to the message request.

BIG DADDY wants to send you a message. Do you accept?

I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, the corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk. Brielle is always complaining about what a controlling asshole he is. And, I’ve witnessed the fallout of his antics, after which Brielle has been a mess to be put back together too many times.

Yet I click accept without a second thought.

“Do not send any more photos.”

Beneath the message, there’s an attachment. When patrons make donations, they’re attached to messages just like this, along with some stupid FeetFans graphic with a reminder that should we choose to meet up, FeetFans is not responsible for what happens.

BIG DADDY has donated money.

I’m almost scared to click it, because the truth is, I want another reason to talk to him. Another reason to barge into his office and suck up his sexy as fuck rich man smell and give myself a little more to cling to when I squeeze my eyes shut and touch myself later. Again.

Yep, I’ve already double-clicked the mouse a few times to the memory of him barging in with groceries, absolutely owning that fitted suit.

I click Big Daddy’s donation link, and scream out loud at what I see.

BIG DADDY HAS MADE A DONATION OF 5000.00 US DOLLARS.

BIG DADDY HAS PAID PLATFORM FEES OF 50.00 DOLLARS.

Holy shit. The scream I scrumpt! Loud and obnoxious, according to the glares I’m receiving by the others waiting for meds. But I don’t care, because again–

Holy fucking shit.

Holy fucking shit on a stick.

Letting my phone rest on my lap, I dig out my wallet and retrieve the business card he gave me. I want to say I kept it for the appointment information, but that would make me a big old liar. I kept it because I wanted to have his number.

Stupid.

I could just Google him. And having this card puts me at risk to be caught by Brielle.

But I wanted it. My gut, full of old take out and Diet Coke, told me to keep the card. And now I’m so glad I did.

Quickly, I dial his number.

A woman answers on the fourth ring. “Parker & Pen, Mr. Parker’s Office. Kennedy speaking, how may I help you?”

Kennedy. That must’ve been the terrified woman trying to keep me out of Big Daddy’s office.

“Put me through to Quincey right this second,” I demand, whisper hissing into the phone like an angry housewife who found a fingernail in her husband’s pants pocket and is calling to blow her whole life up. “Right this second,” I hiss into the phone as Kennedy falls silent.

“B-Brielle?” she questions, whispering, her voice shaking with nerves. Jesus, how big of a prick is Big Daddy to have this woman this terrified of simply sending a phone call to his office?

I make a snap decision. “Yes, it’s Brielle,” I say, stuffing some haughtiness into my tone as I lie through my teeth. Going to see Big Daddy was thrilling, but left me feeling slightly guilty. This is the second thing that I feel guilty about, because if Brielle found out, it would be hard to explain.

Still, I lie.

“Wait, Kennedy, can I ask you something?”

“Uhh,” she draws out, and I can just see her looking around, making sure Quincey doesn’t see her wasting company time gossiping about him.

“Is Big D—,” I correct course, “is my father an asshole that terrifies you?”

She’s silent, and I reword my question, realizing she’s too scared to answer something so pointed. Especially to his daughter.

“I mean, is my father hard to work with? Don’t worry, Ken, ovary owners stick together. I’m not throwing you under the bus. I swear.”

A beat passes. “He can be, yes.”

“How often?” I press.

“Uhh,” she hedges nervously.

“If he’s a jerk nonstop, say, I’ll transfer you , then transfer me, and we’ll both know that he’s a jerk nonstop, and I’ll get to talk to my father.”

Another quiet beat, then, “I’ll transfer you.”

I shake my head, sending a dose of resting bitch face to a nosey woman in the chair adjacent to me. What is with Quincey? I should have known he has his office terrified if his own daughter ghosts his calls.

This makes perfect sense. After all, I’m attracted to jerks and I’m finding myself attracted to Big?—

“Brielle?” Quincey’s voice shreds through the silence on the line. “You’re supposed to be at the apprenticeship right now. This is week six. If you falter on your obligations on week six, in the meat of things?—”

I mean, I know I’m not Brielle but Jesus Christ, really? Quincey did not want Brielle to accept the apprenticeship at Crave & Cure, the top adult film company in the nation. He said porn is beneath her and not what he paid for, and hassled her endlessly about getting assigned somewhere else. Now he’s dragging her for calling him midday on a workday?

“Jesus Christ, pick a lane. For weeks it’s all ‘ my daughter will not work there! I paid for my daughter to receive the best, not porn! ’ and now you’re spanking me for calling you midday? I could be calling you from work you know, asshole.”

A heavy sigh feathers over the phone speaker, followed by a gruff and husky, “Winnie.”

“Yeah,” I reply, chewing the inside of my mouth as I send another warning glare to the nosey woman in the Ugg boots. “It’s Winnie. It’s Winnie pretending to be Brielle because that poor woman that works for you is too fucking scared to send anyone else through because you’re mean! You’re so mean to everyone, Big Daddy!”

My temples pound with each truth I hurl at him, and I don’t know if I’m upset on Brielle’s behalf, or on Kennedy’s, or what. I glance up at the counter, remembering where I am and why I’m here, then, in a lower, calmer tone, I add, “ and thank you for the money .”

He erupts in laughter, so loud and boisterous that I can’t help but press my fist to my lips to absorb the laughter he pulls from me. “You realize I gave you money to make your life less dangerous and you called to tell me I’m mean to everyone.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s smirking or scowling, because his voice is so husky and rich, it’s hard to tell. Commanding, that’s what his voice is. Commanding. Bumps spread down my arms and legs, and suddenly, the waiting area feels cold. It must be getting cold. Since my nipples are hard now, too.

“Two things can be true at once,” I argue softly, struggling to focus on the conversation and not the pulsing that has emerged from between my thighs.

“Are you calling to reject the money?” he asks.

“Did you tell Brielle you gave me the money?” I ask, but I know the answer. I also know what I’m doing by asking, and since Big Daddy is seven thousand years old, I’m gonna wager that he knows what I’m doing, too.

I’m saying, we’ve done nothing physically inappropriate, or verbally either. But we’re doing things behind Brielle’s back, and that can’t be denied. If we continue, we fall deeper into something together. Whatever it is. Even if he just wants to truly help me because of my proximity to Brielle, still, we’re sharing a secret.

I hate having a secret from Brielle. But Big Daddy’s heavy breaths flank the phone, and I find myself squirming in the plastic chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

I want a secret with Big Daddy, as much as I don’t want to hurt Brielle.

I’m a horrible friend.

Finally, he answers. “I did not.”

I lick my lips, studying the worn tops of my sneakers. “I’m gonna keep it,” I finally say, ashamed of the fact that I want and need it badly enough that I simply cannot turn it down.

“No more photos?” he asks, his voice quieter, almost like the question is private or… secret.

“Why do you care?” I ask, then grow bold as I get to my feet and begin pacing next to the wall of Band-Aids and blood pressure cuffs. “And don’t say it’s because of Brielle. Brielle doesn’t know. I’ve never told her.”

“I thought Brielle is your best friend,” he adds, and though he isn’t being condescending, my guilty conscience turns me defensive.

“She is my best friend. I’m just… embarrassed,” I admit, saying it aloud for the first time. I don’t judge the people who come to FeetFans , that get off to feet, or anything like that. I’m embarrassed that at age 26, with a bachelor’s degree and almost a master’s degree, I have nothing but debt to show for myself. I don’t have a long-time partner, goals or plans for the future, my own place, a handle on my student loans, or parents to help guide me. I feel empty, a lone vessel waiting for someone to stumble across and fill. And that embarrasses me.

But I don’t explain any of that. Instead, I say, “I don’t want her to think less of me.”

Big Daddy laughs humorlessly, almost with irony. “The porn director judging the woman who sells photos of her feet.” He clicks his tongue, and my eyes flutter closed at the sound of his big office chair tipping back. I can imagine those solid thighs, one draped over the other, feet stacked on desk, San Francisco skyline behind him painting the moment in ethereal romance.

“I won’t be able to pay you back for a long time,” I tell him, adding, “because I’m going to keep seeing Dr. Wilder, and as you know, he’s expensive.” The news of my medication is on my tongue, but telling him that I started antidepressants exposes a layer of me I do very well hiding. And, for all intents and purposes, I don’t think he needs to know.

“I don’t need you to pay me back at all,” he says.

The man in the white coat at the counter lowers to the little microphone. “Winnie Collins, your prescription is ready.”