Big Daddy

Chapter 7

chapter seven

quincey

“And you explained the obvious risk involved with going to trial?” I ask, hand pinched at my hips as I hover above the speaker unit on the conference room table.

The associates around me fill legal pads with loads of information as they, too, wait for a response. A moment later, my partner, who is with our client in a holding cell, replies.

“He’s aware. But he refuses to take a plea deal.” He lets out a sigh. “Another innocent man.”

“He drove fucking drunk and killed two people!” I shout, the veins in my temples bulging with each aggressive word. “How can he be innocent of that when it’s on camera?”

I shake my head, realizing this isn’t the time or the place. And quite frankly, not even part of the job. If the client wants to go to trial, we’ll go. We’ll prepare and we’ll fight and we’ll get paid either way. I am no man’s moral compass, I’m only a legal shield. Period. “Never mind. We’ll discuss this when you’re back.”

I click the big red END button, severing the conversation between Pen and myself. I look between the associates. “You heard the man. Prepare for trial.”

I didn’t get into law to guide people into virtue and morality. People are going to do what they want, what serves their ego and their narrative. Plain and simple. I got into law for money because money is security and security allows you freedom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for my family.

I never expected to raise my daughter alone, to be a hard ass and a grouch, to be the dad that yells instead of listens but somewhere along the line, soft parenting while chasing a law career just didn’t mix.

Back in my office, I slam the door closed and sink into my leather chair, my eyes sliding to the framed photo of Brielle and myself.

She’s thriving the way she always has, and this very job has helped give her many opportunities. That’s how it works, after all. Money buys opportunities, and I want my girl to have everything she can.

Guilt curls my shoulders, squeezing me for a moment while I stare at a photo of my daughter as her best friend slips into my mind.

Winnie’s parents died when she was young, that much I remember.

She’s had to hustle her way through school, and earning good grades for Winnie likely came down to going to college or not. She’s had a ton of pressure and stress on her shoulders from a young age. She hasn’t had the life my daughter has.

And for some reason, that disturbs me. Greatly.

Drumming my fingers along the desk, I stare at the computer screen. Icons, saved documents, folders full of unorganized bullshit.

I could open my email and start answering everything I’ve missed for the last hour. I could make a few phone calls or even review the stack of secretary applicants Pen snuck in here earlier.

But what do I do?

The one fucking thing I shouldn’t.

I open the internet and navigate to FeetFans , typing in her handle.

54035forYOU

Staring at the numeric keypad on my keyboard, waiting for the results to load, I can’t help but smirk. 54035forYOU. Shoes for you. Cute. I see what she did there.

I don’t expect to see anything. She quit. Her main client left her. I guess I’m just hungry for some trace of Winnie, because even though I know it’s ridiculous and wrong, looking at her site feels like the only way of hiding my shame while getting a little fix.

Except I’m sitting upright with anger swarming my veins the moment her page loads.

There’s a green bubble next to her name. The green bubble that displays activity status, indicating she’s online.

Why the fuck is Winnie on her FeetFans account? Just yesterday she told me she quit. She got the money, she went to her appointment, everything was fine.

My hands curl into fists and I’m slamming them against my desk before I can stop myself. My paperweight rattles, and the photo of myself and Brielle topples, crashing onto the carpeted floor.

Why is she back on FeetFans ?

Her crossed legs in those tall boots flit through my mind. The day I was at Brielle’s, Winnie’s hair was in a messy bun but for one tendril continually falling over her eyes. I think of that tendril, of wrapping it around my finger while her full lips dust the head of my straining cock.

I’ve got my cell to my ear in a matter of seconds, dialing what I now know is her phone number. Because she called me, and yes, I saved that number. I put it in my phone. She’s my daughter’s best friend—it would be stupid not to have her number programmed into my phone.

She answers, groggy, soft, like maybe I woke her up. “Hello?”

Something about the idea of her sleeping midday makes me frown.

“You said no more FeetFans ,” I hiss, keeping my mouth as closed as possible, not wanting the words FeetFans to echo through my place of fucking work. There would be zero risk of that if she’d obeyed me.

“Oh. Hi Big Daddy,” she drawls, her tone turning playful. That should bring some ease to my discomfort, but instead, I grow angrier.

My desk rattles again as I slam just one fist down against it. “You said no more,” I growl, an actual chasm of jealousy and anger opening up somewhere deep inside me, using a tone I haven’t used in years. Possessive and feral, neither of which I am entitled to when it comes to Winnie Collins.

Yet they are two emotions I undeniably feel.

“I did say no more. You’re right. And then, guess what I did with my female brain?”

Why is my dick pressed against my fly like a prisoner waiting to fucking escape?

“What?” I growl, playing into her little game. I know it’s a game, because she’s a brat, and brats love to play.

“I changed my mind.”

“That wasn’t our agreement,” I manage to get out, a dull ache blooming in my jaw from how hard I’m clenching.

“Did we have an agreement? I don’t remember that,” she says.

“Where are you?” I ask, everything laid out in my mind for the rest of the work day completely gone.

Winnie.

That’s all I see when my eyes flutter closed and I suck in a deep, long breath through my nose. Winnie. That fucking messy, adorable curly hair, that smart goddamn mouth rimmed with the plumpest lips, her wide eyes, those freckles, that ass…

“Where are you?” I hear myself asking again, when I am not the man that needs to ask things twice.

She’s not here, yet I’m strangely and acutely aware of the way she holds me firmly by the balls.

“At my shitty apartment, if you must know,” she says, her confidence swallowed by a whisper.

“Where?”

She’s hesitant, and that angers me even more. “I asked you a question,” I remind her, loosening the knotted tie at my throat as I now pace the worn strip of carpet behind my desk.

“Why? What are you gonna do, storm over here and spank me for being on FeetFans ?”

We both fall silent at that remark, and I have to grip my erection a moment to calibrate. “Send me your fucking address, Winnie.”

Her silence sets loose a string of panic in my brain. The idea that I cannot see her today—right this fucking second—makes me want to flip my desk and scream, goddamn it. “I can get it from Brielle, you know.”

“Oh yeah? And what would be the reason you ask your twenty-six-year-old daughter where her twenty-six-year-old best friend lives? Hmm? Answer me that, Quincey,” she says, drawing out my name like a piece of bubble gum stretched from her lips to fingertips. It’s fucking irritating and sexy, and does nothing for my aching cock in my hand. I grip myself harder, tugging once over the Italian wool slacks.

“I’ll tell her that I gave you money under the condition that you don’t sell photos of your feet, and I caught you in a lie,” I say, waiting for her to call my bluff. But as much as I know she won't, she knows I won’t either.

“Okay, cool. And after you tell her all that, remind me how you’re gonna break the news that you figured out I was lying. Are you gonna show her screenshots of my FeetFans account? You know, the one you looked up? Hmm?”

Fucking. Brat.

I grab my wallet and stuff it into my back pocket. Snatching my keys and suit jacket, I march toward the door, yanking it open so hard it hits the wall. The door stop was fucking toast two months into this office being established.

Kennedy is at Pen’s desk, so I don’t bother speaking to her. She eyes me as I tread to the elevator, and as I step in, she appears.

“Out for the day?” she asks, out of breath from trailing me.

“Just… out,” I say, giving her zero answers. I don’t care. I can’t think of my schedule right now because all I can think of is Winnie fucking Collins.

“Are you… are you leaving work right now?” Winnie asks, whisper-yelling at me through the line. Now I have her attention.

“Where do you live, Winnie?” I ask, knowing it’s the last time I’m gonna be nice about it. I smash the down button several times before the lift finally sinks twenty-seven floors, bringing me to the parking garage.

She stays quiet. The doors open and my personal doorman is there, waiting. Ken must’ve tipped him off. I usually call but today I’m clearly tied up.

“Mr. Parker,” the doorman says, taking my keys from me. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Have my driver on standby as well, please,” I tell him, refocusing on Winnie as the young man disappears into the parking garage to retrieve my car.

“I live with a lot of other people,” she says quietly, almost shamefully. “I don’t have my own room. I have nowhere private.”

I hate that. I hate that so much I could fucking scream. “Why are you sharing an apartment with so many people? You’re in grad school. You should have your own place by now.”

“Think about why you called me,” she snaps back, salty and sharp. “I have no spare money and tons of debt. I live like this to save money, asshole.”

“I’m sorry,” I retort so quickly it nearly surprises me. I struggle apologizing to Brielle, to Pen, to anyone really. But with Winnie, there it is. Immediately. Zero hesitancy. “It’s… unsafe.”

She snorts. “Isn’t it the opposite? I mean, if someone is gonna break into our apartment, they’re gonna have to murder like four other people before they even make it to the room I sleep in. By then, I’ll have woken up and slipped out the window with a knife between my teeth, you know, just in case.”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, unfortunately having the gift of an imagination. “That’s not funny.”

“No one’s laughing, Big Daddy.” She pops a bubble with her chewing gum. “I’m not telling you where I live.”

A question rolls around in my mouth but I never ask it, because I think it will make her feel bad and apparently, I don’t want Winnie Collins to feel bad.

“Tell my driver. He will pick you up. We need to speak.”

“What? Your driver is picking me up? Why? No! No, I’m not doing that,” she says, proverbially folding her arms over her chest.

“Yes, you are. Or I will call Brielle. I’ll tell her everything.”

“Don’t threaten me,” she balks.

“Don’t make me,” I defend.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re a brat,” I say, slipping out the parking garage door after the attendant returns, giving me the nod.

I slip into the driver’s seat and hit the Bluetooth button, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. With another press of a button, I dial my driver, letting Winnie hear the entire conversation.

“Who are you calling? Wait, you have two phone lines in your car?”

I ignore her, steering my way onto the busy city streets as Ralph picks up.

“Mr. Parker, hello.”

“Ralph, when I hang up, please call 555-425-8791. She is going to give you an address, and you are going to pick her up and bring her back to my home, please. Thank you.”

I end the call before Ralph agrees, because he will agree. That’s his job.

“I’m not—” she stops. “I have a call on the other line.”

I can’t help but smirk. “Answer it, Winnie.”

She hangs up, and I navigate home, drumming my fingers on the wheel, ignoring the world passing by my windows as I think of Winnie at my house.

It’s wrong.

Brielle would lose her fucking mind.

Winnie is way too fucking young for me. When she was toddling around in a diaper with a balloon tied to her wrist and first birthday icing all over her nose, I was crushing beer cans, celebrating my 23 rd birthday.

She is too goddamn young.

Still, I drive to my house with my hand on my cock, unable to stop myself.