Dad Bods and Blizzards (Dad Bod Christmas #1)

1. One

One

Naomi

Opening the countertop treasure chest I use to store my keychain collection, my fingers tremble as I fish for the small silky tabs I glued to the false bottom. Carefully lifting the contents, I set the trayful of mementos on the marble countertop in my bathroom.

A breath escapes me when I confirm that the white envelope is right where I left it. Thinking that my dad will steal from me isn’t cool, but the money he accidentally withdrew from my bank account is still missing.

I retrieve the dollar bills I’ve stashed in my bra, smooth them on the counter, then tally today’s tips from my shift at Keep Yer Belly Full diner.

Quick mental math determines I’ve surpassed two thousand dollars.

Slow and steady to get my own place.

Who am I kidding? I’m never going to be able to live on my own at this pace. If only Dad would let me work for the family business. Helping people with home security is a noble and lucrative cause.

I write the new total on the envelope before adding the bills and returning the envelope to the bottom of the treasure chest. I lift the tray of keychains—

“Naomi!” My father’s voice booms from beyond my bathroom door, and probably outside of my bedroom too, but I feel caught.

My arms jerk, flinging keychains to the marble floor as I hastily shove the tray into the chest.

Confirming that I locked the bathroom door, I gather the scattered keychains and respond, “I’m getting ready. Another waitressing shift tonight. Do you need something?”

“Just making sure you’re in there.”

“I am.” Is that all my own personal Dennis the Menace wants? A tinge of guilt washes over me for mocking my dad’s name. I wait a few seconds before turning to the mirror.

Shaking out my arms, I rid myself of the nervous energy. Being sneaky doesn’t suit me—especially hiding money from my dad. He’s not a menace. He funded all of the violin lessons and soccer teams and every kind of entertainment that kept my childhood busy and fun.

But he’s been different lately, asking me to pass sealed envelopes to specific customers at the diner. He told me not to ask what was in them or why, and since he’s seemed so stressed, I agreed. Anything to help.

The reflections of the sunset’s oranges and blues draw my attention to my oversized windows. Through the oak branches that stretch past my bathroom’s treehouse view, the first dark clouds of the impending storm make an appearance. Snowflakes swirl, silently landing on the window, then melting as if they were never there.

I step to the soaking tub and start the warm water. A few minutes relaxing in my oversized tub will do me good. Today’s shift at Keep Yer Belly Full is followed up tonight by a once-a-year opportunity to waitress at the Christmas Cherry Auction. Rumor has it that the bidders are also good tippers. I’m hoping to add another thousand to my savings tonight.

A gust of wind taps the oak branches against the window, vying for my attention. Snowflakes hang out on the glass pane a few seconds longer before melting. The dark clouds have grown larger since I looked at them a minute ago.

Flitting my fingers through the warm water, I decide against taking my time, and turn it off.

I opt for a quick shower instead. If this storm holds as much potential to turn into a blizzard as the weather forecasters are predicting, my car won’t be able to navigate the roads—I have to make it. Getting home tonight is far less important. They’ll clear the roads eventually.

The rainfall shower heads and body jets tempt me to take my time, but the only risk I’m taking tonight is getting stuck at the Aubergine Affair sex club where the auction is being held. And maybe if I’m lucky… I shove the thought aside. All eyes will be on the women on stage, not on the waitresses.

A plush bath mat cushions my tired feet as I dry my body and wrap a towel around my hair.

I blink, trying to figure out if the natural light in my bathroom dimmed. Sure enough, checking out the window, I see that the clouds are even more ominous.

New plan: arrive at the Aubergine Affair early and do my makeup there.

A mechanical whirring cuts through my thoughts. I angle my head to the side. The noise grows louder.

I crack open the bathroom door and peer into my bedroom. The drilling sound vibrates through the wall near my door, accompanied by metal clanking.

“Dad?” I call out, but there’s no response over the noise.

The drilling pauses, followed by more metallic sounds. Hanging a picture would only require a hammer and nail. This sounds more intense. Christmas decorations? Not really Dad’s style.

Lay low. That’s become my mantra lately. When Dad’s in one of his newfound moods, it’s better to stay out of his way.

I focus on gathering the essentials—foundation, mascara, and the smoky eye palette that makes my green eyes pop.

The drilling starts up again as I toss everything into an overnight bag.

I slip into black sweats and a baggy shirt since they have custom dresses for us at the club. That alone was a reason to apply for the job.

I swing my purse and bag over my shoulder, prepared to tell Dad I’m going to run errands if he asks why I’m not dressed in my waitressing attire.

But when I grasp the door handle and turn it, I slam into it awkwardly. It doesn’t budge. Stunned, I try the handle again, putting more force into it.

“What the—”

“You’ll be staying in tonight.” Dad’s voice comes from the other side of the door.

“I have to go to work,” I say, trying to understand what’s happening. The handle turns… “Why won’t the door open?”

“Some business stuff came up, and I need you to stay home tonight.”

Was all that noise him installing a lock? The lockpicking skills he taught me as a kid won’t help if I can’t see the lock. My heart drops. He planned this. The new anti-tampering hinges he installed last week make sense now.

My limbs go weak. My voice matches. “I can’t ask someone to cover my shift on such short notice.”

“About that—You’re getting your wish to help with the family business.”

My chest tightens. My hands are clammy. My first attempts to speak come out as a croak. I finally manage a weak, “From my bedroom?”

“Just do what you’re told.” Dad’s voice has never sounded so dark.

If I’m getting my wish to help with his home security company, why does he need to lock me in my room? The convoluted thoughts racing through my mind refuse to be dismissed. “What am I going to do for the business?”

“Don’t ask questions. All you need to know is that I’ve been in a financial pinch, and you’re going to help me out of it.”

That explains why he took money from my bank account. But whatever he has planned for this evening doesn’t sit right. No one should be locked in their room. If it’s money he wants… “I have a little savings.”

“It’s not enough.”

The doorbell rings. Before I can explain how much I have, Dad says, “They’re here. Sit tight and you’ll know how you can help soon enough.”

The bags slip from my shoulder and thud onto the floor. They? As in whoever he owes money to? Indiscernible conversation prompts me to put my ear to the door.

I try the handle again just in case. No luck. I cup my hands around my ear.

Dad’s using his I’m taking control voice. “Calm the fuck down, Griz. I have a plan.”

They talk over each other before my dad lowers his voice to the point I can’t make out his words.

One of the men says emphatically, “You’ll trade your daughter for your debt?”

Uh… Daughter… That’s me… What the hell? I’m not for sale.

Why would someone want to house and feed another human as part of a business deal?

The auction comes to mind—women attributing value to their virginity to raise money for charity. And of course, bragging rights that the guys show the virgin how great sex can be. I can live with that.

But assigning monetary value to virginity as a power play over a woman is cringey. That has to be what my father is selling—my virginity. I can’t think of any other useful attributes. I wasn’t a prodigy violinist, and the national women’s soccer team would be wise not to let me anywhere near the ball.

I have to get out of here. The door isn’t an option, which only leaves the window. I grab my bags and rush over.

Why does it look so much further to the ground now that I’m an adult? The oak tree held me ten years ago. But ten years ago, I was fearless. Ten years ago, I didn’t think about things like not being able to waitress if I broke my arm, leg, or any other body part.

Ten years ago, my father wasn’t selling me.