CAN'T WAIT Box Set

by Wyatt, Dani

  “I know.” My heart flutters, and I get that funny feeling in my stomach that I get when I think about him. “I can’t believe I’ve been sort of stalking him for six months and haven’t gotten the courage to meet him.”

  Beth blows out a deep breath and shrugs. “You can’t write this shit. Holy fucked up Batman.”

  She runs her hand down her throat fingering the sterling silver Tiffany choker I admire every time she wears it. Her jet-black hair always immaculate in a banged bob that brushes just at her neckline. Her shoes cost more than I probably make in a month and whenever she drives me around in her Mercedes, I sit up straighter hoping I look like I belong.

  But, for all of her success, she treats me no different than I’ve seen her treat her millionaire—maybe even billionaire—clients. In fact, I think she treats me better. Kinder for sure. She’s sweet, but a brutal negotiator and I’ve heard her take after people with the viciousness of a wolverine in a leg trap.

  As far as my father goes, I know why I’ve not bolstered the courage just to walk up and introduce myself before.

  I‘ve seen him. Gosh, have I seen him.

  When my mom got arrested for the sixth time almost a year ago for DUI, the judge brought the hammer down. She’s now a resident of the Middletown Women’s Correctional Facility in Cramer, Oklahoma where we’d lived for the last few years before I came here to Detroit.

  Where she said, my father lived.

  I don’t know what happened, but when she got sentenced to four to eight years, the judge gave her forty-eight hours to surrender. She finally broke and told me who my dad was — his name and where he lived.

  He wasn’t that hard to find either, which surprised me. I wondered why mom had never gone after him for child support. Because God knows we sure could have used the money.

  When I pressed her, she said he wasn’t a good guy, and she thought our lives would be better without him.

  She said a lot more than that, but she was a half a fifth into her vodka and truth be told I wasn’t entirely sure she even remembered telling me the next day. It didn’t all add up, but just the glimmer of hope that I could find my father was like fairy dust to me.

  My whole life, all I’ve wanted was what I saw the other kids at school had. Normal. Quiet. I wanted the gingerbread house painted three colors with a wraparound porch and a mother who was there when you got home from school, wearing an apron and holding a plate of fresh baked cookies.

  I swore, when I grew up, my life would be different. No alcohol. I mean ever. Absolutely no drugs. No violence of any kind. I saw it all growing up with my mom, her boyfriends, her friends...I hated that life. I won’t go back to that no matter what.

  Not ever.

  After she surrendered, we lost our subsidized apartment, and I had to go somewhere, so Detroit was where I went. I’d been working since I was sixteen and had saved a few thousand dollars for emergencies because mom was always having emergencies like getting evicted or needing bail money.

  When I got to Detroit and stepped off the bus just in time to see a Chihuahua run out into traffic. Instinct just took over, and I chased after the bundle of fur, cars, and trucks screeching to a halt around me as I swept him up off the road and gave him a stern telling off.

  That Chihuahua just happened to belong to Beth who came running over, practically breaking her ankles on her Jimmy Choo’s and crying thinking her baby almost got squashed in the middle of Woodward Ave.

  It turned out, she’s a big-time real estate broker. She took me to lunch to thank me, which was great because I was starving. We hit it off, and we’ve been friends ever since.

  Nice to have a friend first day you move to town.

  Which was kind of lucky for me, I guess, because when I told her a bit about my situation, she helped me find a job right away with the county, driving the senior citizen bus. I’d gotten my commercial driver’s license back in Oklahoma when I was working for a nursing care center driving their bus. I love working with seniors.

  The supervisor of the senior services with Wayne County was an acquaintance of Beth’s, and he also worked things around so I could rent an apartment in a senior subsidized building. I wasn’t sure how he was able to get around the age restriction, but I was desperate and happy to have a roof over my head.

  Even though my rent is cheap, I’m still paying off mom’s attorney fees which has left me in the red each month. I managed to keep up my rent for the first three months, but I’m behind. I’ve looked for a second job, but the only things I’ve been able to find for evenings are bar jobs, and I just can’t stomach that.

  I’ll keep looking. I don’t want Beth to know because she was so helpful getting me settled, I’ll find something. I hate letting people down.

  But living there, I love older folks. They’re more fun than a lot of people my age, and they are safe. Quiet and that’s what makes me feel comfortable. It was luck things fell into place the first couple of weeks I came to town. I was due for some good luck.

  Then, my first day driving the bus at work, guess who is at one of our stops helping his neighbor get on the bus to go to the senior center?

  Geo Klement.

  The strange thing is, I had his name but had no idea what he looked like. He walked out of the small bungalow, rolling a wheelchair for a gray-haired woman who was dressed all in red and he caught my eye. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and faded jeans. Nothing extraordinary. Well, he was enormous though. The woman in the chair looked almost like a toy next to him.

  Oh God, but he has this swagger. I’ve never used that word before until him, but Jesus did he have it.

  He had an easy way about him but with a dangerous feeling. And I felt things no daughter should feel for her father. Only, at that moment, I didn’t know he was my father.

  His size was nearly freakish, bordering on monster. I actually saw other people walking by move out of his way with a wary glance as though he might attack at any moment.

  Then there were his eyes.

  Oh my God, those eyes. Not quite turquoise and not quite lapis but lit from behind as though they glowed and offset against olive skin and hair that looked black, but the light highlighted it the color of whiskey. As soon as he turned and I connected with his gaze for a fraction of a second, I turned away watching him in the rearview mirror instead, darting my eyes away every few seconds so he wouldn’t catch me.

  My skin felt alive; an odd tension started in my ears and ran down my neck and back and settled in a throbbing lump between my legs.

  I didn’t know he was my father until after I dropped the woman back off and my work partner turned in the paperwork for the day, showing the names of the responsible parties. And right there, next to Mrs. Morrison’s name, was his.

  Geo Klement. My father.

  There’s no way more than one Geo Klement is living in this area. It’s him.

  The one I’d come to this city to look for was the man I’d fantasized about all day.

  I see him twice a week with Mrs. Morrison. The little lady told me he’s her neighbor, even though she said he lives a block away on the nicer side of the neighborhood. Thank goodness when he puts her on the bus it’s mid-way back where the wheelchair lift is, and my partner does the face to face.

  We drive through his side of town to get to her house, and it’s everything I ever dreamed of growing up. I found his address in the files at work as well.

  He probably has a perfect blond wife that stays home with the kids. A Tiffany diamond on her finger and they take family vacations twice a year to some beachfront resort. A life I always wanted but will never have. And I don’t want to screw up his life.

  I don’t think he’s ever even looked at me.

  When I drive, I wear a ball cap and this khaki oversized men’s jacket with my hair up inside the hat so it would be hard even to know if I was a girl.

  The worst part is, I’ve been fighting those feelings even though I know who he is.

  It’s messing with
my mind. Every time I pick up or drop off Mrs. Morrison my belly flips and I blush and do everything I can to not look directly at him. I don’t think he’s ever noticed me, thank goodness. The feelings I have whenever I see him is enough to send a girl running for the nearest Freudian therapist.

  “Hey.” Beth’s voice cuts in. “Look.” She tips her head toward the opening in the curtain, and I hear his voice before I see him.

  It rumbles like far off thunder. He’s talking to a nurse at the station, and they turn and walk our way.

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  The nurse is walking ahead of him, and they pass by the curtain without a glance.

  I can barely breathe. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

  2

  GEO

  “DOC.” I TOUCH MY INDEX fingers to my temples trying to process everything that’s happening. “Give a guy a minute. I didn’t even know I was a father until a few hours ago.”

  “Yeah.” The salt and pepper haired physician gives me a sympathetic grin. “Heck of a day.”

  The nurse that lead me into the room isn’t the nurse taking my blood. This one is young, and I’m clearly picking up the vibe that she’s enjoying having her hands on me even if it’s just my arm.

  She swabs the crook of my elbow, and I’m already lightheaded.

  “Just a pinch, Mr. Klement.” The blonde nurse smiles and out comes the needle. I grip the arm of the chair and pray I won’t be looking up at the ceiling in the next minute.

  Fuck.

  The prick of the needle hits my skin, and I look everywhere but down at where she’s working. If I can just keep my eyes away from the actual blood, I may make it through this with some of my pride in place.

  I keep my eyes on the clock, counting the seconds until I feel her release the rubber band around my bicep and tape down a cotton ball where she withdrew the needle.

  The doctor leans back against the wall in the small lab room as the nurse hands me a Dixie cup full of orange juice, her fingers touching mine longer than necessary.

  I grunt, set the cup down on the counter next to me and push it as far away from me as possible. I hate orange juice. I love oranges though. Weird.

  The doctor clears his throat and blows out a breath, puffing his cheeks. “Hey, I understand it’s a lot to handle in a short time. But, we’re here now, so I need to know if you want to meet her.”

  “What’s exactly wrong with her?” A deep tug of surprising protectiveness has gathered in my gut. The flirty nurse takes the vials, licks her lips before excusing herself out the door of the lab room.

  “Well, unfortunately, due to legalities, I can’t tell you that,” he pauses and raises his eyebrows. “But she can if she so chooses.”

  I shake my head and snap my tongue between my front teeth and my lip, switching my fingers for my hand gripping my forehead because there’s a pounding there that is growing by the minute.

  “Does she want to meet me?” I ask, shifting in the uncomfortable chair and wondering why hospitals have to have such horrible lighting.

  “She’s thinking it over. I thought it might be easier on her to know your stand on things first. If you don’t want to meet her, that’s your choice, and it makes it easier on her to know that ahead of time.”

  The door to the small room opens, and the nurse who took my blood reappears, giving me a long glance up and down with a sly smile. She’s already touched me way more than necessary, and touching isn’t my thing, to begin with, unless it involves my fists.

  “Is there anything else I can do in here?” She’s looking between the doctor and me, crossing her arms and pushing her tits up into the V of her scrub top.

  “Ah, no,” the doctor replies in a dismissive tone. “I told you we were all set.” It seems he may be picking up on her interest in me beyond the professional necessities.

  She nods, frowning, and ducks back out, flashing me another smile as she goes. I sniff and look back at the doctor. For the most part, women that are attracted baffle me. I look in the mirror, and I see an ugly fuck: bulging forehead, scars, crooked as hell nose.

  I may be obsessively clean, but I sport a beard that screams homeless. My face is a map of the battle scars of my line of work.

  Then, there’s my size. I’m huge, like grizzly bear huge. I duck through most doorways.

  The day I picked Mrs. Morrison up off the street, she asked if I was a linebacker for the Detroit Lions. When I told her ‘no,’ she asked if I’d been part of some genetic experiment for the government. She’s a trip.

  I think about Mrs. Morrison. She’s alone. She had one daughter who died of breast cancer five years ago.

  And I have one I didn’t know existed until today. And she could be sick.

  Sometimes you only get one chance to do the right thing.

  I look up at the doctor on a nod. “Tell her yes. If she wants to meet me, I’ll meet her. It’s up to her though. I’m not going to push.” A tightness in my chest ratchets down another click.

  I do want to meet her, even if she doesn’t, but I want her to make the call.

  “Great. Sit tight. I’ll be back.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket and check my messages and texts. I’ve got a few business visits to make today for some overdue repayments. Nothing that needs bloodshed, not yet.

  But they do need a reminder their time is running out.

  I click on the photo albums on my phone. The first is a picture-of-a-picture, of me and my brother Arthur taken twenty years ago standing outside our parents’ house after their funeral. They died in a car accident. A drunk driver hit them.

  That was the day I got sober. I look at the picture and my dead eyes looking back.

  It wasn’t three months later that my brother was diagnosed with HIV/Aids. I spent the next year with him and his partner doing everything that was medically available at the time to save his life.

  But it was too little too late. Arthur passed away, and two years later his partner James lost his battle too. I have a black as fuck heart, but the truth is, when I love, I love with everything I’ve got, and it was too much loss. I’m not cut out for connections — too many endings. I am not setting myself up for that shit again.

  Mrs. Morrison is my weakness, but even with her, I keep my distance as best I can.

  After James died, I threw myself into my work. Until then, I’d dabbled in some petty loan sharking and some contract enforcement for some of the big crime families, but I was strictly freelance, you’d say.

  I click again — a different album.

  Looking at the screen, my heart reminds me I still remember something about connections.

  I scroll through another picture.

  Actually, there’s about a hundred of them.

  I’m a level headed guy. I have to be. Unemotional. Distant.

  But I’ve got one huge fucking problem.

  Nicci.

  The girl that drives the senior bus I put Mrs. Morrison on at least twice a week.

  She doesn’t know I exist. A guy my size and she never even glances my way.

  From the first day, there was this ticking in my chest when the bus pulled up, and there was a new driver. A tiny thing behind the wheel and my eyes were drawn there. I didn’t understand it until later that day when the bus dropped my neighbor back off, and I stood there waiting.

  I looked harder this time as the bus pulled up. She was wearing this ball cap and jacket uniform, sitting behind the steering wheel so I could barely see her.

  But, oh God did I see her.

  There was this odd thunk in my chest, and my cock got hard in three seconds. That hasn’t happened since I was a pubescent with my first Hustler magazine. I’ve always kept my junk under control. And, truth be told, I’ve not had an interest in much in the female department for a long fucking time.

  I’ve got a file on my phone with hundreds of pictures of her.

  Nicci Parr is her name. I don’t know how or why, but she lives in a seni
or citizen building. I figure it’s some perk for working where she works.

  It’s fine by me, no young fucks trying to get at what’s mine. I watch her through her apartment window on the third floor, sitting in my Suburban, stroking off. I fucking follow her to the grocery store. I use the binoculars I always have in my car as she goes in. Walks around. Checks out.

  She buys soy milk and fucking tofu. She always buys one apple and eats it as she leaves the market. I like how she dresses. Not that it’s how I’d want her to dress for me, but I like that she wears oversized baggy Tom-boy kind of clothes. Nothing revealing. Because I couldn’t handle eyes on her like that.

  In the six months since I saw her the first time, her mocha hair has grown out to brush just the tops of her tits. When it’s not tucked up under her work cap, she wears it down or in two braids.

  She’s driving me crazy, but I can’t bring myself to talk to her. But I would also kill any other man who thought they might have a shot. Lucky for me, that hasn’t had to happen. My angel keeps to herself, like me. Except for a couple of girlfriends, I see her with from time to time, she doesn’t have any other company.

  I’ve looked them up as well, made sure they were decent folks and good enough for my girl.

  My girl.

  I’m a stalking pervert.

  Sitting in the hospital, I’m reminded how short life can be. This tick in my chest is telling me to take a chance.

  The next time the bus picks up, I’m not waiting. I’m going to make her mine one way or the other. I’ll never let any other man near her, so it’s time for things to change. Time for me to find out just how fucking perfectly my cock is going to fill all her holes. How perfectly her heart is going to bring mine back to life.

  How perfectly she’s going to show me that the risk can be worth the reward.

  “Mr. Klement?” The doctor startles me, so lost in my thoughts. I didn’t even notice the door open.