First of all, I amnoDomme. Can you even imagine me in black leather with a whip like I’m freaking Madame Kink? Not even close.
And Brat Tamer is just comical. As if I don’t get called the babysitter enough, now even my own kinks want me to be the nanny.
Without another thought, I close out the app, quickly clean up the kitchen, and stare at the mess of boxes and projects around my new house. What am I thinking? Getting myself involved with someone through the app is the last thing I need right now. I clearly have my work cut out for me with this house.
And I certainly don’t need some brat to tame.
Rule #4: Self-absorbed assholes don’t get happy endings.
Beau
“Where are you going?” My mother’s voice stops me as I pause with one foot out the door.
“Lunch with Dad,” I answer slowly, waiting for the inevitable hiss or scoff at the mention of my father. She’d never miss the opportunity to cut him down.
“What does he want now?” she replies with a huff.
There it is.
“Just to hang out, I think.”
She laughs, scrolling through her phone, not even looking up while she talks to me.
“Not with your father. Emerson always wants something.”
With a roll of my eyes, I bite my tongue. Getting between my parents is tempting, but I think I’d rather drag my face across concrete. Well, not exactly betweenthem. Emerson will occasionally ask how my mom is, but that’s it. She, on the other hand, talks shit about him like she’s giving a TED talk, and I mostly nod along as if I agree. I don’t buy into her lies as much as I used to.
Would it be so hard for her to look up at me, tell me to drive safe, wish me a good day or ask how I’m feeling? Apparently, because all I hear as I pocket my keys and open the front door is, “Tell him I said hi.” Which is obviously a joke. My mother wears her bitterness like an armor against my father…who frankly couldn’t care less. And when she found out about him and Charlie…suddenly her arsenal of spite was overflowing.
I just try not to stick around long enough to hear any of it. The sooner I can save up for my own place the better. It’s like I’m being slowly poisoned in that house, and I don’t know how much longer I can breathe in those noxious fumes before I turn petty and bitter too.
Of course, saving up would be a lot easier if I could hold on to a job, but evidently taking off too many nights to drive your pseudo-little sister (or what was it? Step-aunt?) to her D&D night will inevitably end in your employer asking you not to return to work.
I wasn’t cut out for working in a kitchen anyway. Or landscaping. Or a coffee shop.
Movement out of the corner of my eye stops me in my tracks as I walk out across the yard to the driveway. There’s someone on the other side of my car, and when I hear the sound of an aluminum can hit the pavement, I take off in a sprint to see what the fuck it is.
“Hey!” I yell when I spot a man bolting down the drive toward the road, and just as I take off to chase him, I’m stopped in my tracks by red spray paint all over the side of my car.
GET OUT PERVERT.
What. The. Fuck? Pervert? Is this some kind of sick prank?
Then it only takes a moment before realization dawns. As I spin away from the car, I look to the house and notice something taped to the front door that I didn’t see when I walked out. It’s a printed article from some online website with a picture of my dad’s club in black and white on the top. I snatch the paper down as I read the headline:A perverted establishment in Briar Point: citizens petition to have heinous club closed down.
I guess someone did a quick Google search of Emerson Grant and came up with this address. My dad can’t still be listed as the owner.
“Wrong house, dumbass!” I yell, although the guy is long gone. “Fucking great…” I mutter, inspecting the damage to my car. There’s no way in hell I’m driving anywhere with this. But if I leave it here and have my dad come pick me up, my mother will have the good fortune of holding it over his head for the next ten years.
Grabbing a roll of duct tape out of the garage, I work swiftly to cover as much of the paint as I can, but I quickly run out and it’s not nearly enough. Anyone can still easily read the slur scribbled across the side.
Fucking wonderful.
I grit my teeth as I climb in the car, throwing the crumpled-up article on the passenger seat. Then I start the car and pull out of the driveway withPERVERTstill mostly visible on the passenger side. It’s a good thing my dad doesn’t live far.
* * *
“Beau, I’m so sorry,”he stammers as he assesses the damages. We’re standing in his garage, where he has plenty of space to hide my sweet new paint job while we both stare at it. “You can borrow my car until we get this fixed.”