by S. Ann Cole
“Daddy,” I whine, sagging in my chair. “Please.”
His paranoia extends to the kitchen where he trusts no one but me to cook for him. I’m sort of a health nut, which drives him mad, because I prepare nothing but uber-healthy meals for him. I told him that if he had a problem with me “healthyfying” the kitchen, he should give me his blessing to go live on my own. Then he could have full control over what he eats.
But he’s so convinced that the world is out to get me, that he’d rather eat healthy—gasp! The horror! —than allow me to go out and be a grown-up.
This morning, my plan was to butter him up with all the oily, fatty, carb-y food he “longs for” for breakfast, with the hope that I would get a “yes” out of him.
Alas, it is not to be. He murdered the plan before it even got a chance to breathe.
Over four months has passed since I was abducted. He’d had me picked up less that fifteen minutes after calling him that night, leaving Kholton behind.
When I apprised him of all that happened, he got this strange, haunted expression before agreeing that we shouldn’t involve the cops—at least, not yet. As for Kholton, he was immediately suspicious of his intentions.
After regaling him with the tale of how Kholton managed to pick his cuffs and take down three scary men on his own, Daddy became convinced he was a part of it.
“That’s ludicrous,” I’d said. “Our entire encounter was accidental and somewhat belligerent. Not to mention he tried to caution me about the dark and I didn’t listen. And even then, he risked his life to save me, Daddy.”
But my dear, overly-suspicious father bought not one bit of it.
As a result, he forbade me from seeking Kholton out, not even to tell him thanks, for at least one month. He said if Kholton contacted us first, then he was definitely in on it. And if he didn’t contact us, it meant he wanted to be as far from the danger of our company as possible.
One month later, there was no contact, not even an attempt, from Kholton. “Now can I contact him, Daddy? For God’s sake, the man saved my life!”
“Give it another month,” he’d said.
When that month was over and Kholton still hadn’t reached out to us, he’d said, “Another month, sweetheart. You can never be too cautious.”
When that month ended, I waited to see if he would bring it up. He didn’t. That’s when I realized he was hoping I’d forget about Kholton.
But that’s impossible. Khol, short for Kholton, Kholton Sharpe, is not the kind of person one just forgets about. He’s like a stain. An imprint. Indelible.
Now, here we are. At the end of another month. Me offering him a table of decadence and him still denying me.
Eyeballing the table of food I know he wants to devour, he straightens his already straightened tie, as if wrestling the urge in order to stand his ground with me.
For a man in his late-fifties, Aaron Bentley is handsome to a fault, although he’s not in the best of shape, considering he eats healthy only when he’s home and almost never enters our basement gym.
According to the Desperate Divorcees forum, however, “Aaron Bentley can get it!” and “Woooowheee, I needz me some of that fine ass!” and “I’d totally let him be my sugar daddy— (I’m eighteen, btw. My mom left her browser open on this forum.)”
Exactly six feet tall, with pale blue eyes and graying brown hair, ears that stick out and a perpetual scowl, Aaron Bentley is still a catch. Single and discreet. I don’t know where he gets his freak on, but I’ve never once seen a woman—who wasn’t here on legal business—walk through those doors. He’s very particular about the people he allows into his home.
“Sweetheart,” he says as he pulls out his chair at the head of the table, “it is for your own good that you just forget about this man. I’m protec—”
“Forget about him?” The chair groans as I jump to my feet, not even sure why I’m surprised he said it. I figured this was his plan. “Are you serious right now, Daddy? That man saved my life. Your daughter’s life. I was going to be raped. Murdered. He took a bullet for me. For something you did.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he replies calmly. “Which is precisely why I don’t trust this. ‘Rena, think about it. You know me. I’m painstakingly careful and thorough in everything I do. I trust very few. I don’t conduct shady dealings and I do extensive background checks before I even think about getting into business with someone. Something is just not right about all this.”
“Daddy, it’s been months. If he was in on it, I’m sure he would’ve done something by now.”
“You have no idea, ‘Rena.” He shakes his head as he pours himself some coffee. “Con artists are the most patient, clever, and manipulative people on earth.”
A short, disbelieving laugh escapes my lips. “So he’s a con artist now? Jesus Christ, Daddy. You need professional help. You can’t live like this. It’s not healthy.”
“You’ll thank me one day!” he yells after me as I flounce out of the kitchen.
Damn him. Damn him and his stupid paranoia! I refuse to live like this anymore. It’s suffocating.
I know, I’m twenty-five, a grown woman who can make her own decisions. So why don’t I just move out and do whatever I want? Why do I need his permission to contact the man who saved my life? Why do I allow him to control me?
Because he never fully recovered from my first kidnapping. He got so paranoid, stressed, and worried afterward that he suffered a heart-attack and was hospitalized for over a week.
I don’t follow his orders because I fear him, I follow his orders because I fear for him. I will always be his little girl, and he loves me more than anything.
If I do move out, he will fret himself to death. His state of mind is unstable, and he’s borderline on Panic and Anxiety Disorder.
I have no real proof of it, but I’m 99.9% certain he’s been having me followed since the kidnapping.
After this second abduction, he immediately suspected my driver, Beau, and understandably so. However, Beau was found in the car at the same spot outside the restaurant the next morning, unconscious and bound. Which meant the men had been around for a while, waiting for me.
Even though I’m the one who went through the traumatic experience, I had to be strong for him. I feared another heart-attack scare, so I beat back the fright and distress and instituted a strict routine to assure him I’m alive and unshaken.
At night, however, I would allow myself five minutes to cry and tremble in the shower. And then I’d climb into bed, curl up in a ball, and imagine Kholton there, whispering, “I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
He could never know it, but his imagined presence is what’s nursed me back to sanity over the past couple of months. His calmness, strength, determination, and assuring promises from that night are what I feed off of. Through and through, he’s been my hero.
We ran a background check on him and he’s everything he claimed to be. An Accounts, Finance, and Physics tutor. A Financial Adviser. A volunteer Mathematics examination-prep teacher at Van Der Wells High. A self-defense and Krav Maga instructor.
All at age twenty-nine.
There was nothing to be found on his family, though, save for the fact that he’s rumored to be some disinherited heir. All he told me that night turned out to be true. So why is my father still suspicious of him?
In a fit of pique, I stomp up to my room and get dressed for work.
I step outside the double-doors of our palatial six-bedroom stone house, pausing with a scowl when I see Beau parked at the front, waiting for me with my father in the back.
Nothing is unusual about this. We ride to work together every morning, and this is the exact same sight I always see when I walk out the doors—Beau waiting in our midnight-sapphire Lincoln MKC, with my father in the back. Usually, I’d join him and we’d chat all the way into the city.
But this morning, I want to punish him. This morning, I resent him.
“Good morning, Bea
u.” I mindfully descend the steps in my high heels. “I’m harboring strong feelings of resentment toward your passenger this morning, so go on without me. I’ll take the MKZ.”
“You can’t drive,” a deep voice comes from behind me, and my scowl deepens.
It’s Max, our head security.
Heavy security is a byproduct of my father’s paranoia. We have four guards that work on shifts, but Max, who’s been with us for almost a decade, is a live-in. He’s practically an extension of the family.
“Shut up,” I snap at him.
He chuckles.
Actually, I can drive now. I’ve been taking secret lessons and I even have a driving test in two weeks. So take that!
“Sweetheart—” Aaron begins, exiting the vehicle.
“I’m not talking to you,” I talk over him, strutting to where the MKZ is parked next to the bird fountain.
“You’re being childish, ‘Rena.”
“Well, I’m twenty-five and still living with my father and taking orders from him, so…”
“Goddammit.” Though my back is to him, I know he’s scrubbing his forehead, a habit of his whenever he feels out of control. “Max, just take her to work for me, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
I unlock the car with the fob and slide into the passenger side.
My father glares.
I glare back through the windshield, petty as hell.
He throws his hands up in the air and gets back into the MKC. The taillights blink on and then the vehicle is gone.
Max—six-feet-two, line-backer build, military haircut, neat goatee, stretched-tight black tee and jeans—rounds the car and stuffs his overgrown self into the driver’s side.
As he fires up the vehicle, his deep voice rumbles along with the engine, “If you wanted me to take you to work, all you had to do was ask.”
Eye roll. “Oh, please. Get over yourself. Not everything is about you. In fact, nothing has been about you for over two years now. So shut up and take me to work.”
His chuckle reverberates through my chest. “You’re a riot.” He adjusts the rear-view mirrors. “But you do know he’s right, right? There are dumb criminals, there are smart criminals, and then there are con artists. You can never be too careful. You don’t even know this guy. Not everyone can be trusted, Serena.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Don’t I know it?”
Max sighs and places a hand on my thigh. “Babe—”
I smack his hand off me and glare at him. “Don’t. You lost the right to touch me like that or call me that. You gave it up, remember? You chose him. Now shut up and take me to work.”
“I’m just—”
“Take. Me. To. Work.”
He stares at me.
I don’t back down.
“Fine. Be a brat. Rebel.” He shifts the gear into Drive. “But stay away from that guy. Don’t go looking for him.”
I snort. Because he knows me too well. And I hate it.
Five - Serena
“Step one: Stalk him.”
Location:
Manhattan
“Miss Bentley?”
I blink.
White hair and silver irises fade from my mind as I’m pulled into the present.
I’m seated at the helm of a large oval table in a capacious air-conditioned room. Eight suited bodies are seated around said table, a ninth standing at the front of the room showing a PowerPoint slide-show. All eighteen eyeballs are trained on me.
I blink again.
Oh, right. Another marketing meeting. My third meeting for the day.
At the end of this meeting, I am to determine who will lead the marketing campaign for our new housing development in a quiet, secluded suburb of Maryland.
As CMO, this is a typical day for me. One meeting after the next, after the next, after the next, until my brain goes blank. Only, this time it didn’t just go blank. It was wholly hijacked by my savior.
Why can’t I stop thinking about him?! Arrrgh. It’s driving me nuts. Maybe it’s my conscience rebuking me for not having the decency to at least show up with a basket of muffins as a Thank You token?
I clear my throat. The gangly brunette at the front watches me with nervous eyes, fingers fiddling with the buttons on the remote. She’s new, and I was actually looking forward to her presentation the most, until she mentioned Snapchat. I tuned her out after that.
With a disappointed sigh, I transfer my attention to the Filipino on the right of me with short but stylish hair and cherubic cheeks. “Turi, the campaign is yours.”
She nods humbly, but I can see she’s fighting back a grin, her fingers curling around her pen as if she wants to do a fist pump but holding it back.
Staff in the marketing department are not exactly comfortable around me. Word on the street is that I’m “cold” and “prickly”. But that’s because they’d rather ‘Yes, Miss Bentley’, ‘No, Miss Bentley’ me, instead of actually getting to know me. I’m the owner’s daughter, heiress of the company, so I suppose people are naturally intimidated by me. I’m their future boss, after all.
“But,” I start, about to burst her bubble, “I’m assigning this one—what’s your name?”
“Uh, T-Tiffany?” Gangly Brunette stutters out.
“Are you asking me or are you telling me?”
She blinks, then straightens her pathetic slouch and tips her chin up, as if giving herself a mental pep-talk. That’s right. Get it together. I’m rooting for you! “My name is Tiffany White.”
I nod, proud of the vigor in her voice, and bring my gaze back to Turi. “Tiffany will assist you on this project. You’re the best, Turi, but it’s not always a competition. Help, encourage, and empower the other women around you. Tiffany clearly has trouble identifying her target audience, which, in this case, are Boomers and Gen X-ers. Teach her. Take her under your wing. Rise together.”
To Tiffany, “And you better take notes, because if I have to sit through another garbage presentation like this one, you’re out. I’m only gracious on Fridays. So count your lucky stars and TGIF.”
Standing, I scoop up my belongings and stride out of the room, ignoring Turi’s scowl and Tiffany’s sheepish shrug.
My assistant is on her feet when she sees me approach. I stride past her, but she follows me into my office.
“Yes?” I ask as I walk to my desk.
“Your father canceled the three o’clock meeting with Livingston Insurance and David Groves has requested an emergency meeting in that open slot,” she informs me. “Should I approve it?”
Hell no. David Groves, the CFO, is a thorn in my side. We’re always at each other’s throats. He demands I stick to the budgets, and I disregard his demands. As a result, we have an endless number of contentious meetings.
Setting my things down on the desk, I lift my gaze to my assistant, a young African American woman, with fabulous curves, low-cut hair, and pearly white teeth. “Nope,” I tell her. “Groves already requested a meeting for twelve o’clock tomorrow. Whatever he has to say he can say it in tomorrow’s meeting. Is that all?”
“Mr. Bentley wanted you to know that he made lunch reservations for the both of you at…”
Of course he did. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. He knows I have lunch with Alaric and only Alaric on work days, so I won’t even bother to acknowledge that reservation.
“Thanks, Lori.”
As she leaves, I plop down in my chair and swivel around to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.
I have a good life, I can’t lie. A great one, even. I’m one of those people who unintentionally infuriates the rest of the world with my privileged life.
It used to bother me when people tried to make me feel bad for being fortunate, but I soon discovered this is a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t world. Rich or poor, good or bad, the world will always have a beef with you. You’re shamed for being poor, you’re shamed for being rich. I’ve learned to embrace who I am and what I
was born into and thank God along the way.
Our wealth is four generations old, as is our company, previously known as B&B Real Estate. Until I was born. Now, it’s Maeve Organization, a mirror-facade skyscraper on the Upper East Side, re-named after Serena Maeve Bentley.
As one of the perks of nepotism, I have an insanely large, high-end office with a ridiculous view. I enjoy my job—sometimes. I enjoy working for my father–most times. I enjoy the finest things of life—all times. Yet life is still far from perfect. Home is broken. And the only thing I’m convinced can mend it is a new addition to the family. A baby.
Now, I know how this sounds. We’re father and daughter. So why do I sound like a hopeless wife desperately trying to save a broken marriage?
Because we are all we’ve got.
Save for me, Aaron is the last Bentley standing. His two brothers and sister all died along with his father in a crash when he was in his twenties. For a long time, it was just him and his mother, until a stroke took her. Then he met my mother, who died giving birth to me.
Now it’s just us. And I believe it’s my duty to rebuild this family. To put him at ease, so that if something happens to me, he won’t be alone. And vice versa.
The problem is, I’m not a love and relationship kind of girl. Well, not anymore, at least. At the same time, I don’t want a kid from a fertility clinic’s syringe. I want real sex, real lust, real passion, real conception…without all the other stuff. And I know exactly who I want that with.
In order to get that, I need to come up with a damn good plan.
From the backseat of my car, I watch as Alaric exits his inherited two-story building with a busty blonde woman and a ruggedly handsome guy.
Shrugging on a brown biker jacket, he smacks the woman on her ass at the same time he leans in to plant a wet kiss on the handsome guy’s eager lips. He wistfully watches them leave, the woman brushing her knuckles over his crotch as she goes. Then he turns his irritated scowl to the car parked on the curb.
