“It’s okay,” I say—a reflexive response. Yet, it feels accurate. Thanks to my daddy agreeing to pop my cherry instead of those awful men, I am okay.
And if I’m being honest, all things considered, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.
In fact, it was surprisingly hot.
I smile up at him, not sure how to go about saying what I’m thinking, so I decide to just spit it out. “Daddy?”
“Yes, baby girl?”
“Do you think we could do that again, just the two of us?”
Daddy and I fuck twice the next morning. No cameras this time, no blackmail. We do it because it’s what we want to do, because it feels good.
Over the next week, I hound him about whether he’s heard from the blackmailers. He tells me not to worry, that he’s taken care of it. But I’m so scared of what will happen if that video ever goes public. Daddy tells me not to borrow trouble.
We still fuck like rabbits, sneaking around behind Mom’s back, avoiding my brother’s questions about the bruise on my face. Eventually, Daddy breaks it to my mom that he wants to call off the wedding. He moves out, and I make plans to move in with him after the dust settles.
In the meantime, we grab every chance we find to be together. His secretary must be onto us, because she gives me a disapproving look when I show up at his office one evening wearing a short, skimpy sundress and no panties. He’s in a meeting when I arrive, so I go into his office to wait. As I plop down in his big leather chair, trying to decide how I want him to see me when he first walks in, I hear a buzzing sound coming from his bottom desk drawer.
Inside the drawer, I find a smartphone that I don’t recognize. I check the notifications, one unread text within a single conversation.
The first text from Unknown reads: We agreed. 20 Gs apiece.
The response: That was before your jackass partner backhanded her and grabbed her tits.
Unknown: So take it out of his cut. I stuck to the script.
Reply: You should’ve trained your dog better. 10 Grand. Take it or leave it.
My stomach drops. I close out of the conversation and thumb over to the gallery app. There’s only one file. A video. I press play.
“Please, Daddy!” my tear-stained self from six weeks ago begs. “If this has to be my first time, I’d rather it to be with you, not them.”
There’s an audible sigh, and then my daddy says, “Okay, sweetheart. If you’re sure you want to do this, then we’ll do it.”
Doing Time
What I like most about crying in the shower is that no matter how hard you sob, you can't tell the difference between your tears and the shower spray. It's all wet in the end, and like the day's dirt and grime, every drop washes down the drain.
What I like least about it, is that it's a lot harder to dry your whole body when the doorbell rings one...two...eleven times and counting.
"Go away," I shout, though I know whoever's out there can't hear me. I swear, if it's that asshole Bobby trying to win me back after I caught him sexting another girl, I'm going to drown him in a puddle.
Bobby’s been hounding me about when we’re going to have sex since we started dating three weeks ago. When I said I wasn’t sure when I’d be ready, he became distant, and now I know why. All this time, he’s been looking for another place to stick his dick.
Reluctantly, I turn off the water and give my dark hair a quick squeeze before I wrap a towel around myself and stomp off to silence the dinging. I yank the door open like I was born ready for a confrontation.
“Bobby, I said it’s over—”
But it’s not Bobby.
The first thing I notice about the man on the front porch is that he’s big. Really, really big. At least six foot four. His chest is broad and his arms are massive, nearly busting at the seams of his black shirt. His thick beard is the same shade of chestnut brown as the hair on his head, but his eyes have a hint of green around the iris.
His expression is one of surprise, with a hint of something I can’t put my finger on; all I know is that it makes my heart beat faster.
“Who are you?” he asks, his voice gruff and wary. “Where’s Nancy?”
“She’s out,” I say, knowing better than to tell a stranger that my foster mother is gone for the weekend.