Dirty Daddies Page 7

  “You need to sleep.”

  “Stay,” she says, and I have to close my eyes to block her out.

  “Carrie, I can’t.” My voice is as firm as I can muster. I hear the hitch of my own breath as I fight for resolve.

  And she changes again. Just like that.

  She pulls up her cami and rearranges the covers on top of her. I’d believe I’d imagined the entire interaction if it wasn’t for the glint in her eyes.

  “A goodnight kiss, then.” She says, and my dick fucking aches with the strain. “Just a peck, to say thank you. For the soup. And the other stuff.”

  Just a peck. To say thank you. And then a sharp exit.

  I lower myself over her, my arms rigid to keep my distance. Her fingers are lightning-fast, slipping inside my jacket and up my chest before I even lower my face to hers, her pretty mouth perfectly angled to meet mine.

  It’s not a peck. Her fingers twist in my hair and hold me tight. Her lips press to mine and stay there, and so do I.

  I’m not a man who gives into desire. I’m not a weak man who can’t control his urges. But I’m not the man I recognise as me as Carrie Wells sweeps her tongue across my mouth and begs for entry. I’m one heartbeat away from kissing her like I’ve never kissed anyone before in my life. I’m one breath away from tearing her grubby clothes from her and fucking her the way I’ve been dreaming of fucking her since the moment I first fucking met her.

  She arches her back as if she knows it. She moans against my mouth as though she knows I’m about to break.

  But I don’t.

  It takes every scrap of resolve to pull away. I take a breath as I gather myself, ignoring the throb of my cock and the heat I’m packing under my suit.

  “Goodnight, Carrie,” I say.

  And this time I mean it.

  Chapter Seven

  Michael

  I’m in the office early, attempting fruitlessly to bury myself in paperwork to numb the guilt I feel at wanting a girl less than half my age.

  I know I can’t act on it. I know both my professionalism and my sense of moral judgement won’t go down without one hell of a fight, no matter what my dick has to say about it.

  None of my colleagues have even arrived for the day when I receive the latest WTF message from Jack. I type out a response and delete it three times straight. What can I possibly say to him?

  Found Carrie. She’s in your house with a bloody lip and a swollen ankle. Hope you don’t mind?

  He’d be on a plane home before the morning was out.

  I send him a simple everything’s fine and curse myself for it. I’ve got less than a week to find Carrie a more permanent place to stay, and I’m at a brick wall with all the agencies without her cooperation.

  Jack’s place is the only viable option for now, although the thought of Carrie trampling muddy boots all over his living room carpet does little to ease my anxiety.

  It appears I’m switching one set of stresses for another. At least I know she’s safe for the time being.

  That will have to do for now.

  I send her a text message at lunchtime telling her I’ll be back early evening, wondering how the hell things are going to be in the cold light of day after having given her the brush off last night. She’s volatile. Unpredictable.

  Intoxicatingly wild.

  I’m seriously out of my depth here and I feel it right through me. I consider calling Bill and Rosie and letting them know she’s been found safe, but I’m already well aware they are beyond caring about her current whereabouts. I could confess the sorry situation to my co-workers and hope they don’t judge me too harshly for going maverick on an epic scale, but I don’t.

  I tell myself it’s for Carrie’s sake, making sure she can find her feet before she’s shunted into a load of agency meetings, but I know it has just as much to do with my own inability to let go of this time with her as any of that.

  My gut is one big knot as I drive to Jack’s place straight after work. I plead for good fortune under my breath as I make my way to the front door, trying not to contemplate the carnage that might be waiting on the other side.

  Muddy boots could be the least of my problems. She could have taken it upon herself to redecorate his living room with ketchup for all I know. Nothing would surprise me, having seen her case notes.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I find her in front of Jack’s huge TV. Her hair is shiny and full, cascading down over her shoulders to pool on the leather sofa. Her skin looks fresh and clear, her eyes bright as she watches some crappy reality TV show. Her knees are gathered to her chest, a collection of crockery discarded on the living room floor.

  “Hi,” I say, but she barely gives me a glance. “How was your day? How’s your ankle?”

  She shrugs then wiggles her foot. “Told you I’d live.”

  The coldness in her tone takes me aback. The memory of her lips pressed to mine feels alien and distant. This is another face of Carrie Wells, one that should be familiar to me from weeks of grunts and silent treatment, but in my office it never felt personal. Not like it does now.

  I clear my throat. “Did you sleep well?”

  “The bed’s shit,” she says. “Too springy.”

  It is springy, she’s right.

  “What did you have for lunch?”

  She shoots me a glare that damns me for interrupting her TV show. “Sandwich. Soup. Bar of chocolate. Any other questions?”

  I take a breath. “Are you ready to talk about where you’ve been these past few days? Who did that to your lip?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No. I’m not ready to talk about where I’ve been these past few days. Who even cares?”

  “I do.”

  Her eyes are fierce. “How about you? Are you ready to talk about why you’re too much of a pussy to act on what you want?”

  “It’s not like that,” I begin, but she groans and turns the volume up. “Carrie…”

  “It is like that!” she hisses.

  For all of my patience over the months and all the relief of having the girl back safe and sound, I feel the simmer of impatience under my cool. I don’t lose my temper with the people I work with. I subscribe to the philosophy that people are always doing the best they can with the resources they have available. That in Carrie’s world right now she’s making choices based on choices she’s been making all her life up until this point. That she doesn’t mean what she says, it’s just that she doesn’t have a framework for more effective ways of social interaction.

  Even so, I want to give the bratty little cow a good slap for her rudeness.

  I take a breath to compose myself and she laughs at me.

  “Don’t like being called a pussy? Then don’t fucking act like one.”

  “This isn’t my office,” I tell her, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine.

  “No, it’s your posh friend’s place and you put me in here.”

  “Yes, I did. Because you needed somewhere to stay. You still do. Last night has nothing to do with anything. You needed help, I was there.”

  “There with a fucking hard on in your pants. Admit it, that’s why you came to rescue me, right? That’s why you even give a shit?”

  I can’t keep up with this. I stare in morbid fascination as Carrie’s glare burns right through me. Angry with me for not fucking her? Angry for not breaking my principles? Angry that I want to?

  “This is impossible,” I say to her. “This conversation is impossible.”

  She folds her arms. “You want me to leave?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “Then let me watch my fucking TV show,” she says.

  Carrie

  I don’t know why I’m being like this. I don’t know why I’m pushing him away as soon as he’s walked through the fucking door, but bitchy Carrie is running the show and I can’t stop myself talking shit at him.

  I feel a weird satisfaction in the way he looks so confused. Hurt. He looks hur
t, and that’s satisfying too.

  I don’t know why I want him to think I’m a lazy useless bitch. I only put the TV on when I saw his car pull into the street and I don’t even watch this shitty show. I don’t know why I used a different plate for every sandwich and left them piled up around me for maximum mess. I don’t know why I’m being such a terrible cow to a man who’s only ever tried to help me.

  Because he doesn’t want me.

  Because he doesn’t love me.

  Because he’ll never love me.

  The urge to give him the finger and tell him to fuck off out of my life is strong. I feel it twisting in my belly, the urge to make him leave me and get this over with.

  I could scream in his face that he’s a useless prick who probably can’t keep it up, but I’m not sure that would do it. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but they won’t come out.

  He sighs at me and turns his back, and that’s when I feel the rage build up. He’s heading to the kitchen with an announcement that he’s going to make coffee when I spring to my feet and follow him into the hall.

  “Did you tell those stupid cunts you found me?! Did you?!”

  He turns on the spot and raises an eyebrow. “I assume you’re referring to Rosie and Bill?”

  I fold my arms. “Yeah, those cunts.”

  I both hate and love the way he shakes his head. There’s an anger in his eyes, but he hides it well. “Enough of the language.”

  My laugh is my bitchiest one. “Enough of the language,” I parrot. “Do you think you’re my fucking dad or something? Do you want to be my fucking daddy, Michael?”

  He takes a step toward me and my skin tickles. “Stop it, Carrie.”

  “Or what?” I goad. “Is Daddy gonna spank me?” I’m cackling as I spin to present my ass, giving myself a decent slap as he approaches. “Oh yeah, spank me, Daddy. Teach me a lesson.”

  I’ve gone too far and I know it. My heart drops as I register I’m losing him, but I can’t take it back. I don’t know how.

  He looks at his watch, his mouth a tight line. “Well, as long as you’re settled in here, Carrie, I’ll make my way home for a while. I’ll get onto the agencies in the morning for appointments in the afternoon, if that’s what you’d like? Do you want to be out of here? What do you want, Carrie?”

  You.

  I want you to love me.

  I want you to tell me to stop being a prissy little bitch because it won’t make any difference, you’ll still love me.

  I shrug. “Whatever. This place will do until I find somewhere better.”

  “You want me to help you find a place of your own, yes?”

  His eyes are so angry but so genuine. He’s trying to understand the impossible.

  When I was in one of my first foster homes they took me and this other kid to choose new beds. They chose the beds, but we could choose the headboards. The other kid was excited, said she wanted a bright blue one to match the flowers on our wallpaper. I wanted a blue one too, but I was jealous. Jealous of the way the other kid seemed part of the family already when I didn’t feel like anything at all.

  So I told them I didn’t want a shitty blue one, even though I did. I told them I wanted a bright red one that didn’t match at all. I loved how shocked they were, I loved how they couldn’t hide their disappointment that I was going to wreck their perfect colour scheme.

  Are you sure you don’t want a blue one? they’d said. You said blue was your favourite.

  I wished I could tell them yes, I do really want a blue one, but I couldn’t. Not even right to the end when they smiled and shrugged and got me the stupid red one.

  I hated that day.

  I was mean all the way home because I was jealous and upset, even though it was my own dumbass decision. I hated that red headboard when it arrived, but I hated the blue one even more.

  That’s why I drew on it in marker pen and pretended it was an accident. That’s why I kicked it as hard as I could until the studs came out of it and the shitty thing fell apart.

  And it’s like that now.

  I’m telling him I want to leave here when it’s the very last thing I want to do. I’m trying to make him think I don’t give a shit for his help, when it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  “Do you want me to go?” he asks, and his eyes are still trying to read me.

  I force my eyes to burn into his. “Not bothered either way.”

  “Okay,” he says, and I want to die inside. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Use the landline and call my mobile if you need anything.” He hands me a business card and I toss it on the side as though it means nothing.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  But I’m not.

  I’m feeling fucking awful and it’s all my own fault.

  I stand in the hallway with my arms folded when he leaves. I won’t even look at him, not even when he pauses in the doorway.

  I hate the slam of the door behind him. I hate the sound of his car starting up.

  I hate the way I leave it too late to run after him and his car is already turning the corner.

  I hate… me.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack

  I thought I’d be able to breathe easy when I finally received a reply from the silent sonofabitch back home. I let out a sigh of fucking relief as his name flashed up, until I saw the ridiculous message.

  Everything’s fine.

  Just those two measly words after days of nothing.

  Like fuck everything’s fine. It’s the most bullshit excuse for a text message I think I’ve ever had from him. I’d laugh at how ridiculous it was if I wasn’t already worried sick about the state of his affairs in my absence.

  I’ve been trying to ignore it – trying to blank out the prospect of that sappy idiot losing his mind over some pretty piece of trouble while I’m in a different time zone.

  It’s only when I realise I haven’t registered a damn word in my latest conference session that I call up my calendar and check what events I’d be missing if I left for home early. I curse under my breath, because fucking dammit, there’s at least three presentations I’ve marked on my must see list over the next few days. But it’s pointless. Really fucking pointless.

  I try Mike’s phone again one last time after the session ends. He doesn’t answer, which only cements my decision.

  I’ve got to get back there, and it has to be ASAP. Jesus fucking Christ.

  Having seen the state this girl’s got him into these past few months, it’s all too easy to imagine him going batshit about her disappearance. The fool could be hunting her down all over the country by now. And then what? What if she never resurfaces? Will he spend his whole life chasing after a pretty little ghost with a shitty attitude?

  Not on my fucking watch.

  I email Tom, telling him to book a flight out in my stead and take notes on everything I’m going to be missing. It’s the best I can do.

  I book a seat on the first flight back in the morning and then I curse Mike’s midlife crisis for taking me away from business.

  I’m about to send him another text to warn him of my changed plans, but I don’t. My fingers hover over the keypad, my mind scoping out the prospect of a load of vague-arsed return messages playing down whatever crap he’s got going on over there. No. If there is anything going down, then I’d rather walk straight into the heart of the craziness and see it in all its ugly glory. At least then I’ll know what I’m dealing with.

  Carrie Wells. I shake my head. Pretty girl, but is she ever worth all this?

  In my educated opinion – considering I’ve bedded almost every attractive woman our local vicinity has to offer – I’d say a categoric no. So what if she’s pretty? So what if she has a look in her eyes that tells you she’d be a fucking wonder in bed? She’s got problems coming out of her ass and a bad attitude to boot. Scrap that, a terrible fucking attitude to boot. I saw it c
lear as day while she was trailing around Drury’s after Eddie fucking Stevens.

  I sigh to myself as I book a cab for the airport in the morning. Bright and early, just as I like it.

  Carrie Wells. Would I go there? Would I want a piece of sweet, feral, teenage pussy? Would I want to see those pretty eyes staring up at me as I shoved my cock down her throat to quiet that smart little fucking mouth?

  I allow myself a laugh before I head into my next seminar.

  In my educated opinion, no. I fucking would not.

  She’d never be worth the aggravation. No member of the female populous I’ve ever encountered would be.

  My business associates haven’t assembled yet for the next event, so I take a coffee from the side cabinet and stare at the projected intro screen. I’m always early, it’s a trait of mine. My father always said that opportunity waits for no man. It’s the man at the front of the line who gets awarded the best choices, and it must have stuck with me far better than some of the other bullshit advice he gave me early on, because I’m always at the front of the line in life.

  I love my dad. He’d say a lot of his advice was bullshit too. The thought makes me smile as I sip my coffee.

  They’ve used a decent blend. I like that.

  Michael thinks I’m where I am in life because I work harder than the others. He thinks it’s because I’m smarter than the others too, but I’m neither of those things. I had to work my ass off to get grades high enough to get into Warwick University, but from that point I worked smart, not hard. I came out with a mediocre business degree but a shit-hot attitude for business itself. I made sure my networking was on point, made it my business to be in the right place at the right time, ahead of all the others hungry for a piece of the same pie. And it worked.

  It continues to work over a decade later.

  Michael gives everything to his profession because he loves it. He pursued his career because of the meaning he takes from helping other people find their feet.

  I give only what my business absolutely needs and maybe a little beyond, everything on top of that is the reason I have staff. But insurance was never my calling, clearly. Nobody loves risk analysis. I set up on my own because I knew I didn’t want to work for anyone else; it’s that simple. I couldn’t stomach a future divided into work weeks and days off on loop, on and on until retirement, when you finally get to do the shit you want with your own time, just as long as you’ve banked enough to afford your club memberships and your winter heating bill.