I want a normal life. A life with a guy I’m not worried about doing a stint in jail for who knows what. A guy who puts me and the life we create first. The last thing I want is a cocky biker who would rather ride his bike than give me a ride—not that I know much about sex—but, I have hopes and plans.
I’m starting to think Thomas might be the answer to all of those. I mean, I know that’s silly. After all, it has only been two weeks. Still, Thomas checks all the boxes. Spending time with him is fun and easy. He’s sweet and has a sarcastic sense of humor that makes me giggle. He awakens my body and makes me feel beautiful—all without touching me. He’s not even kissed me, but I’m hoping that changes tonight. I bought a new outfit that I can’t wait to wear…
“Butterfly? Are you listening to me?”
I try to force my attention back to my dad, but it is hard. He’s right. I’m not listening. Obviously, I’m daydreaming about Thomas. In two weeks, we’ve been out together five of those days. We don’t really do anything other than talk and get to know one another, but I look forward to every meeting. Thomas also texts often, and when a message pops up from him, I swear I can feel butterflies taking flight in my stomach.
“Sorry, Dad. What’d you say?” I ask, sliding my phone back in my pocket.
The last thing I need is for my dad to start asking who I’m talking to. I’d rather not send Thomas running for the hills—at least until he kisses me. If there’s one dark spot on all of this, it’s that. Thomas hasn’t even tried to get to first base, let alone second. He hasn’t put his lips on me. Yes, you heard me right. He hasn’t tried to kiss me—not once.
Not even a freaking forehead kiss.
I mean, I don’t have a huge ego, but I’m pretty sure I look decent. I haven’t sent guys running and screaming in the other direction as if they saw Jack Nicolson with an axe and crazy eyes chasing them.
“Butterfly—”
“Dad, am I ugly?”
“What the fuck? Why in the hell would you ask that?”
“I just want to know. You’re a guy. Do you think I’m hot?” I look at my father, daring him to respond negatively. I don’t think my ego can take it. Instead, his eyes bug out of his head, and he looks like he’s about to go running out of the house to get away from me.
“Damn it, Lyla. I’m your father. You can’t ask me shit like that.”
“I don’t have anyone else to ask. Do you realize I’m probably the only virgin over the age of eighteen in the entire state of Virginia?”
“Lyla,” he growls.
“Hell, I’m probably the only virgin in the United States over the age of eighteen,” I grouse, feeling dejected whereas just moments ago I was happy. It’s probably mood swings because my hormones are drying up from lack of use.
“If I have my way, you’ll be the only virgin around until I’m dead and in the grave and don’t know any better,” he grumbles. The look on his face is so disgusted that it makes me laugh as I lay my head on his chest, his big, beefy arms wrap me up in a comforting hug.
My father and I don’t have a normal relationship, and he doesn’t look like the doting dad you would see in the story books. He’s tall and built like a brick house. He has long brown hair with caramel highlights that looks like he spends a fortune in the salon to make it look that way—he does not. Hell, most of the time, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even run a brush through it. He’s covered in ink—and I mean covered. His fingers are even tatted. Although, my name is on his right hand, and I’ve always kind of loved that.
I mean, I’m a girl, and even though he’s my dad, I can admit he totally rocks hotness. It’s kind of depressing that, since we share the same blood, I can’t channel some of that hotness—even a little.
“You’ll probably get your wish,” I admit grudgingly—unless I can get Thomas to cooperate.
“What’s all this about, anyway? Is this over that asshole at your school?”
I roll my eyes.
“Nah, Chad is history. He kicked me to the curb for a rich girl.”
“You’re fucking kidding me. You want me to send Tug and Craven to pay the punk ass a visit?”
“Uh, no, Daddy. I don’t need your men beating up my ex-boyfriend for being a slimeball.”
“Maybe I need it,” he grumbles. “Is he the reason you think you’re not beautiful, Butterfly?”
I smile. Dad has called me Butterfly for as long as I can remember. He says he started because I was beautiful but would never light in one place long enough for anyone to catch me when I was younger. Regardless of the reason, it’s always made me smile.