Big Daddy

Chapter 11

chapter eleven

quincey

What am I, a child before the first day of school? A girl before her first boy band concert? I feel like a goddamn fool, tossing and turning all night with an impish grin on my idiotic lips.

I have no business looking forward to Winnie being in the office tomorrow. Absolutely zero business at all. Yet here I am, rolling onto my side for the hundredth fucking time, thinking about her while avoiding the gun pointed toward me poking out of my waistband.

For some illogical reason, I’ve taken a moral stance against jerking off while thinking about Winnie, even though I ate her pussy and fingered her little asshole. Somehow, jerking off to her makes me feel like a creepy older man. Makes me feel like one of her clients or something.

Around four in the morning, I give up hope of getting a wink, and sit up in bed, ready to start the day. As I’m slipping my robe on, my phone illuminates on the side table.

A text. From Winnie.

I was just laying in bed thinking about how you accused Dante of being a creep because you thought he was a FeetFans client

Kink shaming isn’t cool, Big Daddy

I think you owe me an apology

My lips quirk to the side as I groggily blink down at the screen. Does she start her day at 4 in the morning or has she too been bitten by the excitement bug? I get to work on a reply.

Bratty at 4am? You never turn it off, do you?

Why are you up?

You need eight hours of sleep.

I always lecture Brielle about the very same thing. In fact, knowing she was so busy she couldn’t fit me in for dinner makes me worry she’s burning the candle at both ends.

Fuck.

Now Brielle is dancing through my mind, reminding me of my most important relationship and all the damage I’ve done to it. And, apparently, continuing to do.

I slept like shit last night.

Dante and Guy snored the ENTIRE night and I couldn’t find my ear plugs

My eyes attach to Dante and Guy .

It’s bad enough she shares an apartment with men, but two? I don’t fucking like this. Not at all. Carrying my phone in my robe pocket, I head downstairs to the kitchen and begin making an espresso.

My hand shakes as I level the ground beans into the press. Espresso grinds scatter along the counter, further annoying me.

When it’s finally brewed, I take my drink to the living room and sit in front of the fireplace. With a press of a button, it ignites, flooding the space with a comfortable ambience and a dull roar.

I sip my drink, trying to find a reason why I should actually have a right to be mad. I can’t be mad. Winnie is my daughter’s best friend, and where and how she lives is none of my business.

Just because she makes me lose control when I’m around her does not mean that she is mine, or my responsibility.

It doesn’t matter where she lives.

I repeat that a few times before I place the empty cup of espresso on the coffee table and snag my phone from my pocket.

Guy?

That’s his name

I worked that part out on my own.

Another one of the random men you feel so comfortable living with?

Dots appear, and I reread my message as I wait for her reply. It’s a bit condescending, and perhaps that wasn’t the best play. I recognize that I need control, and with Winnie, that’s hard to achieve, since she’s just a girl I know. Not being able to flex my control makes me grouchy.

My phone rings and I’m not able to even say hello after accepting the call, because Winnie goes off immediately.

“What part of me being poor do you seriously not understand? Honestly, Big Daddy, I’m starting to want to give you the world’s biggest titty twister then kick you in your big balls!”

“You didn’t mention Guy last night,” I hedge, defending my condescension when I should probably just apologize.

“No, I didn’t. I also didn’t mention Kasen, Luciano or Noah, either. You asked me pointedly about Dante, so I answered about Dante.” She lets out a little sigh, and despite the fact I’m not even partially done with this conversation, a small part of me worries that she’ll grow fatigued of my overbearing nature. The same way my daughter has.

“I told you I don’t have a lot of money. We live in San Francisco. That means I have to live with eight other people to make it work. This is why I didn’t want you to see where I live. It’s not something I’m massively proud of. Okay?”

My heart thuds as my eyes lift to the second-floor balcony overlooking the living space. Rooms upon rooms, empty. Completely fucking empty. Brielle has been invited here many times but I can’t say I blame her when she turns down the visit. I’m not exactly the let’s split a pizza and catch up dad one is excited to visit.

“Move in here.” As soon as the three words escape me, I regret them. Not because I don’t want Winnie to live here—I do, but the idea itself is fraught with problems.

How would Winnie explain that to Brielle? Does Brielle ever visit Winnie’s apartment? How would I explain it to anyone at the office if they learned my young secretary is also some sort of pseudo roommate?

What exactly would the long-term plans for that be? Have her move in and then what? Stay forever?

It’s a horrible idea. Awful. Terrible. Stupid. Incomplete. Horrific.

Yet, I press on.

“You can have any room in the house. Your own bathroom. Access to a home gym, a home spa, a place to park your vehicle, private mail, a pool—everything you need safely behind an iron gate and security code.” My heart thrashes loudly, but I tell myself it’s the shot of espresso tearing through me. Not nerves.

Winnie sighs. “Big Daddy, we hardly know each other. I can’t live with you. And I think we’re forgetting the designer heel wearing elephant in the proverbial room.”

“I’ll tell her. I’ll call her and tell her if that’s what you want,” I say, realizing how love-bombing and obsessive I sound. This is behavior I advise my female clients to look out for, and here I am, committing the cardinal sin of being too goddamn eager.

“You can’t call her and tell her that! She doesn’t even know we know each other!” Winnie harrumphs, sounding both irritated but also intrigued. “It won’t work. It can’t happen. It’s too complicated.”

I don’t know how to play this, but I know I have to get what I want. I scratch at the side of my jaw. “You’re always at my daughter’s apartment. Can I deduce she does not visit your place often?”

“You can deduce that, yes,” she replies, haughty. So haughty my dick gets fat and the familiar tingle of desire rolls down my spine.

“So, in theory, she may not have to know until we decide to make that public knowledge,” I continue, getting to my feet and back in the kitchen. I need more espresso for how out of pocket this morning is going already.

“Did you just we us? We are not a we . I’m me and you’re you and that’s all!” she protests, and her efforts make my lips twitch with a tiny, imperceptible smile.

“Quit with the semantics. You can live here rent free. Save your money, build your nest egg for your future.” I drum my fingers along the counter as I wait for the second espresso to brew.

There’s a pause where I pretend I’m not holding my breath.

“No way,” she says, a spot of disappointment flickering in her voice. “Not gonna happen. It’s going too far as it is,” she says, lowering her voice to a private hush. “How the fuck will I explain working at your office if she finds out?”

“Who says you can’t just tell her?” I press.

“Why are you so fucking aggravating at four in the morning? Hmm? Do you wake up like that?” she asks, irritation edging in as she uses my words against me. “I think we both know neither of us is going to tell Brielle that I’m working for you because of the litany of questions that will follow.”

She’s right, so I sort of tell her. “You’re not wrong,” I sigh.

There’s another long pause. “I’m going back to sleep. I’ll see you downtown in a few hours.”

I clear my throat. “With?”

Winnie sighs. “With panties on.”

“That’s right.” Bumps rise up along my arms knowing she remembered her orders.

“Goodbye, Big Daddy.”

“Goodbye, brat.”