Big Daddy

Chapter 15

chapter fifteen

winnie

Luciano’s dark hair curls against his neck, falling short of his collar. The girl next to him, the one he’s trying very hard to impress, curves her hand around his nape, pulling his ear to her lips. She privately divulges something and his cheeks flame in response. A moment later, she releases him, and does a little nod toward the back of the space.

Luciano, who goes by Luke, turns toward me, dark eyes wide. “I’ll be right back,” he says eager and breathy.

Since they’ve been playing touchy feely all night, I’m pretty sure I know what they’re gonna do. “You better not fucking ditch me,” I tell him, plucking the cherry from his Long Island iced tea.

“I won’t,” he promises. He pecks my cheek and then Luke and the blonde move hand in hand out the back double doors, straight into the mass of people in the patio area. There’s a dance floor out there, and Long Island iced teas plus booming music and falling darkness equals grinding and dry humping.

Everyone knows that.

I turn to the other two people at the table, both strangers. Luciano dragged me down here to meet a girl he met online, but was afraid to go alone. Luke is a waiter at three different restaurants, trying to make it as an actor. He’s incredibly handsome, like a young, more hip version of John Stamos. He, however, has social anxiety—that’s why I’m here. I said I’d come with him in case he got nervous or needed to bail out. He also promised free appetizers. As a recovering broke girl, free anything is the way to my heart.

He ended up buying the three of us drinks for the last two hours. Score.

“So, what’s up? You guys feeling good about the last round?” I ask, the buzz in my veins making my face both tingly and numb. “Local trivia,” I add, tracing the rim of my nearly empty glass with a fingertip. These iced teas are really hitting right now. I jab a playful elbow at the girl next to me. “We got this, right?” Cupping my hands to my mouth I shout, “Go table eight!”

The girls smile uncomfortably, and even through my more than buzzed state, I’m catching their hints. They don’t want to chat with me. I finish my drink and reach for Luciano’s, finishing his too.

That’s four Long Island iced teas in two hours.

That’s probably going to bite me in the ass tomorrow morning.

But tonight? Fuck it.

The bad friend, the poor girl, the lost soul—whoever I am, I’m drunk and enjoying it.

“Alright,” the emcee says, tapping the mic as he returns to his self-made podium behind the bar. “San Francisco trivia. Last round! Are we ready?” Each table cheers and whoops when he points their way, and when he gets to number six, I face the two girls.

“We’re down two so you really need to be loud with me, okay?” I hiccup at some point during that sentence but the teas are hitting, and then the emcee is calling out for table eight.

Turning, I cup my hands to my face again and let loose a wild, throaty whoop, something more suited for a football game or a pole dance, no doubt, but still, it’s out there. The bar lights shining down on my face, a light sheen of sweat coating my forehead, I’m reminded of a full stadium and the energy it brings, so I whoop loudly for my table again.

The rest of the bar laughs, so I laugh with them, but when I eye my table mates, one of them is plugging their ears.

Now is the time when water makes sense, and a little sobriety could do me good. But because the buzz is buzzing, I dig out my phone while the emcee reminds each table of the rules.

No new messages, just Brielle “liking” the last one I sent.

That’s fine. I wasn’t hoping or expecting anything from anyone else.

Nope, nope, nope. All good here.

Everything is all good.

I face my annoyed tablemates. “Everything’s all good over here, how about over there?”

They eye me, and one whispers to the other.

“Less secrets, more trivia answers, am I right?” I ask through a hiccup, further annoying and maybe even offending them. I attempt to search through the glass doors to spot Luciano on the patio but I don’t see him anywhere.

“Okay,” the emcee booms. I look at him, but he seems fuzzier now. His blonde hair is like a blur filter has been applied, and his plaid shirt seems busy, the pattern moving maybe.

Or I’m drunk.

“First question. When was the first cable car launched in San Francisco?”

I glance down at my phone, checking the time.

“Oh—table eight, no phones, that’s a disqualification,” the emcee says, causing all forty heads to swivel and face me.

I hold my phone up for everyone to see the screen. “I was checking my text messages.”

“Sorry—no phones,” the emcee adds.

A few people boo, and a few people share a hushed “aww” at my disqualification. Luciano ditched me. Dante is with his girlfriend, and Brielle is at dinner. If I don’t play this trivia game, I’ll be forced to go back to my shitty apartment and think about the terrible, delicious, awful, erotic things I’m doing with Brielle’s dad.

I’m not ready yet.

I hold my phone up again, though this time it has zero relevance. But again, I’m drunk.

“I sucked off my boss today in his office and I was just checking to see if he messaged me,” I shout to the bar, hoping to steal their good graces back with my pitiful admission.

The emcee chuckles. “Fair enough, but still, no phones.”

“He’s also my best friend’s dad,” I add, unsure why I’m screaming the worst secret of my life into a crowded bar.

“Damn, table eight. You’ve got all the drama!” the emcee laughs, and suddenly my table mates are interested in me. “Still DQed though, honey,” the emcee adds with finality.

“Really? Your best friend’s dad? Oh my god,” one of the girls at the table prods. The other one reaches for my arm. “Girl, that’s juicy.”

I ignore them, though, because the feeling that maybe my coherent and conscious words are limited hits me. Don’t wanna waste them on the girls that have blown me off all night.

Sliding off the barstool, I down the remaining inch of booze left in Luciano’s glass, snatch my purse from the floor, and saunter on uneasy legs toward the patio.

It’s crowded, and the loud music makes my head hurt. “Luke?” I call out loudly, but as loud as I am, I can’t even hear my own voice. The whompwhompwhomp of the subwoofer makes my bones vibrate. The edges of my vision blur as a familiar tingle worms through my lips.

Fuck.

The teas are going to make a reappearance.

Soon.

Ducking through the crowd, I stumble to the edge of the lawn and crouch behind a bush in time to regurgitate at least one of the teas. Between gags, in the worst timing, Brielle flashes through my mind, her long blonde hair twisted in her hand as she puked into the bushes here two years ago.

Stumbling a few feet from my sickness, I fall to my butt on the lawn, the back of my legs immediately itchy from the grass. With my forehead in my hands, I sit alone, something I do more often than even Brielle knows.

“You’re okay, Brielle won’t hate you, everything is fine,” I chant softly, willing the world to stop spinning. A tear has the audacity to roll down my cheek, and then another, and I realize I’m more drunk than I thought I was if I’m simultaneously having an anxiety attack and crying.

“It’s okay, Winnie,” I tell myself, almost wishing I’d get sick again so I could sober up. I can’t believe Luciano ditched me. Then again, if Big Daddy were here, I’d probably have ditched Luciano, too.

That hits, because I’m not a ditcher by nature.

“Fuck,” I groan, the combination of upsetting realizations and too much cheap booze making my head grow swimmy again, my palms clammy against the cool grass. “I’m so stupid,” I breathe out, angry at myself for letting this happen.

Once Brielle finds out I gave her father head, she’ll never talk to me again. And I don’t blame her. I’m pretty sure if my father was alive and Brielle seduced and sucked him off, I’d hate her, too.

I get to my feet, knowing that a wall of fatigue is about to hit. I’d like to be home for that, not in a lawn behind a bush near vomit. Scanning the crowd, this time, my eyes lock onto Luke, and I beeline for him, taking his elbow when I get to him.

“Where have you been?” I ask, my voice hoarse from all the shouting. “I need to go home.”

Just then, the blonde reappears with less lipstick and crazier hair.

“ Ohh ,” I breathe, “you guys dry humped on the dance floor. Well, good for you but Luke, you drove me. And I need to go.”

Luciano turns to the blonde and tells her he’ll be back in a minute.

“It takes longer than a minute to get to our place,” I say through a random hiccup. He takes me by the arm, dragging me off to the side like the aunt at the wedding who drinks too much Smirnoff Ice and needs a lecture. Ironically, we end up near where I just was.

“I’m gonna stay. We’re really hitting it off, Win,” he says, his bloodshot eyes full of I’ve been single way too fucking long desperation.

I used the money Big Daddy sent through FeetFans to pay down outstanding bills, to make my school loan payment, and to get my personal license for Photoshop on my laptop. I need it if I’m going to freelance when I graduate. Until I get paid from Parker & Pen, it’s tight.

“I don’t know if I have enough to Uber home.”

Luke stares at me, judgment clouding his expression. “What if you had to pay for drinks tonight? Going out with no cash is dangerous. What if there was an emergency?”

“I planned on drinking water,” I say truthfully. “But you bought it, so I drank.”

Luke looks over his shoulder to check on the blonde, waving at her before facing me again. “Look, I can drop you off on our way to her place, but we’re gonna dance a bit longer.” A strand of dark hair falls across his eyes, and I reach up and push it back, thinking of the way Big Daddy’s hair did the very same thing while he watched me suck his cock.

Luke bats my hand away. “Win, don’t. She’s watching. Plus, you never touch me like that. Are you trying to cock block?”

I snort, burping up stomach acid and booze. “You already pressed your junk against hers during the Daft Punk remixes, we both know you did, so how could I possibly cock block?” I ask, all the good parts of being drunk very quickly fading.

Sickness eats at my insides. I need water . And my bed. Fast.

“I can’t wait for grind sesh two to be over,” I tell him with urgency, strangling my drunken tone, pressing my hand to my stomach. “I drank too much. I need to go home.”

Luke puts his hands on my shoulders, and dips his eyes to meet mine. But whatever he was going to say, he doesn't get the opportunity to say it. One hulking hand comes down on Luke’s shoulder, pulling him back, spinning him, causing him to stumble for footing in the thick grass.

“ Keep your fucking hands to yourself .” And my eyes focus just in time to see Big Daddy rear back and deck Luciano across the cheek. The thwack of fist against face makes my stomach lurch and I bring my hand to my mouth, tamping it down.

The blonde who had hawk eyes on Luke, squeals, running over, a drink spilling over in her hand. Cooing and fussing, she presses her glass to the red spot forming on Luke’s face as he rights himself on his feet, groaning and moaning.

“What the fuck, dude? You just put your hands on me while telling me not to have my hands on her.” He blots at his lip, the corner split, a single drop of blood pooling. Swiping it away, he gets in Big Daddy’s face. “You wanna fight me, bro, let’s fight. But none of this sucker punch bullshit.”

Big Daddy straightens, his face impassive. He never even glances my way. He frees the knotted tie at his throat and tosses it boldly to the grass, setting his shoulders back. Focused on Luciano he says, “Alright, asshole, hit me.”

Luke pauses, casting a questioning side eye. But the blonde he dry humped on the dance floor is watching, and men need to protect their egos at all costs. Luke makes a fist, looking comically unsure (though that could be the booze), rears back, and delivers a punch straight at Big Daddy.

I shirk away, unable to see him get hit. I cover my ears, because if I have to hear another punch, I’ll puke. For sure. A beat passes and I drop my hands from my ears and cautiously take a peek. There is no groaning or spitting of blood or warning that there’s more where that came from. I see Luciano’s hand trapped inside Quincey’s.

“You caught the punch!” I exclaim, standing and clapping like a drunk fool, which I definitely am. And as it turns out, clapping is too much action after four Long Islands, even if you puke one up. I return to my knees on the ground, still focusing on the show.

Quincey doesn’t acknowledge me but rather steps into Luke’s face, saying, “Put your hands on someone else’s shoulders.”

With that, he grabs my wrist, hoisting me up to collect me in his arms, and curl me into his chest. As I begin hurling explanations at him, Big Daddy scoops up his tie then stomps us off through the grass, toward the parking lot.

I owe him no explanations as I’ve done nothing wrong, but I need him to know that I wasn’t here with Luke in that way.

“Luke did it on the dance floor,” I tell Big Daddy, my voice weak and wobbly. Damn you, pop music round of trivia. He stops in his tracks, his eyes nearly silver in the moonlight. His cologne sweeps my senses, leaving me pulsing between my thighs. Drunk or not, Big Daddy still makes me a horn dog. “I was here for Luke. That’s what I call Luciano. It’s his nickname. Or I guess, Luke-name,” I ramble, trying again to make the distinction that Luciano and I are just friends and came here as such. My explanations, however, only serve to make him angrier.

The moon catches my interest and I follow it around the sky as Big Daddy curses beneath his breath, eventually placing me in the passenger seat of his SUV. When he’s buckled me up, he hovers over me, arm braced above the door, his dark eyes making my stomach twist.

“I’m too drunk for stomach flutters,” I tell him as my eyes close.

When I open them, I’m in his arms again, being carried through a cool, dark hallway. He lowers me down, laying me in a soft cloud. My head is spinning and all I want to do is let the clouds absorb my fatigue and worries.

Big Daddy turns on the sun, which turns out to just be a bright light. He hovers over me, grumpy but sexy hot. “Is Luciano a friend with benefits and a roommate?”

I blink a few times. “He’s a nice friend.”

Big Daddy scoffs. “Answer me before I assume the worst.”

“You already have,” I squeak through a hiccup. It’s now that I notice he’s still in his suit, the jacket gone but the tie and cufflinks still in place. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

He makes a noise of dissatisfaction beneath his breath like that statement angers him. “So, you sleep with guys that are nice or you sleep with guys who just happen to be in the same apartment?”

I wrinkle my nose. “No. I actually usually sleep with bad guys. That’s why I’m single. Bad guys don’t make good boyfriends.” After a hiccup, I try to explain. “I’m still waiting for a bad guy to fill my room with roses and tell me he loves me, then fuck me senseless, but alas, bad guys don’t do flowers and good guys don’t fuck dirty.”

Big Daddy shakes his head. “Luciano,” he says, dragging his name out like it’s his alleged name, “was the exception?”

I blink again, confused. “Luciano,” I repeat his name the curious way he pronounced it, “is a friend. We aren’t more. He doesn’t put his penis inside me.” Acid stews inside me as I attempt to focus on Big Daddy’s face. I wish I wasn’t drunk. Remembering an angry Big Daddy would be excellent fingering material later.

He brings a hand to his forehead, scrubbing at it as he sighs. “You said he did it on the dance floor.”

I nod. “He did. With the blonde he was there to meet.” I flap my arms like a chicken. “I was a wingman. He has anxiety. What you saw was him trying to convince me to stay so he could grind her a little longer.”

Big Daddy’s eyes snap to mine. I’m drunk, but I know what I see in them.

Happiness. Happiness and hope.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, scrubbing at his chest with a closed fist. I point at his hand.

“You hit him.”

“He deserved it.”

I squint at him as the world around me slows, becoming groggier by the minute. “I just told you we aren’t like that.” My brain goes back to the fantasy of a room full of roses and a romantic admission. “I don’t want a room of flowers from Luciano. No, no, no,” I hiccup.

Big Daddy wastes no time answering. “He took you out in public, stuffed you full of cheap booze, then left you and, if I heard correctly, was going to deny you a ride back home.”

I shrug. “He was gonna give me a ride, he just wanted me to wait another hour or so.”

Big Daddy kneels, tugging off my sneakers. He moves my legs beneath the blankets and leaves the room, returning with water and Advil. “We’ll speak in the morning.”

As he’s walking out of the large, mostly white, mostly empty spare bedroom, I stop him. “Did you white knight me?” He turns to face me, his evening stubble longer, even sexier than I remember him earlier today. “You did. You rescued me. No room of roses but you white knighted me.”

He comes back to the bed, sealing his lips to my forehead, smoothing his hand through my tangled hair. “Go to sleep. That’s what you need now.”

“You know what’s good for me, huh?”

A groan rumbles around his chest. “Just sleep it off. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

I usually toss and turn all night when I’ve been drinking, but on this particular night, I don’t wake up even once.