Bossy Daddy (Yes, Daddy Book 2)

by Lena Little

  Or am I?

  Seeing that we came in at five in the morning, and it’s only six now, it’s the perfect time to do what my mom always called The Monty Hall Problem, also known as, let’s see what’s behind door number three.

  And door number three is the one I’ve specifically been told not to open.

  Once a brat, always a brat I guess. Or at least someone who can’t be told what to do and not to do.

  I make my way to the secret room and catch myself actually tiptoeing. I’m tiptoeing through an empty office, which causes me to laugh at myself.

  When I arrive the door is locked, which is predictable if it’s so secretive and off-limits, but why would he have mentioned not to enter if I don’t have a means to enter it in the first place?

  I look at the handle then look left and look right down the hallway. Considering all the times my mom locked herself out of the house, or in her room for days on end, it’s no surprise I learned how to open a quote unquote locked door without much difficulty.

  I pull my sparkly hair clip from my head and try to work the door open that way, but the clip is too big.

  No problem.

  I make my way back to my desk and remove my driver’s license from my satchel and hurry back to the mystery that awaits.

  I manage to wedge my driver’s license between the door and the frame and push down with a few hard swipes. Nothing, but I can see the lock is one of those angled ones so it’s only a matter of time.

  I turn the handle as best I can and then start rattling it while I’m forcing my license down the crack and not thirty seconds later…bingo!

  I sidestep inside and quietly close the door behind me, taking in the eerily familiar oversized works that are displayed throughout the room.

  Familiar not in a way where I recognize the artist who did them, but familiar as in I sense my own style in these.

  What the…?

  Moving closer to the first piece I see there’s a tiny placard with the artist’s statement.

  Wars are fought over a face like hers, although I will never know the curve of her cheek or the sparkle in her eye. Is it possible for a man to create a heartbeat, only to lose his own, when that heartbeat he’s created is taken from him. A heartbeat that would inspire him to work countless hours to impress, even though that baby’s yet to be born. A heartbeat that makes him want to be a better man, so he can protect what’s his, take a bullet if he needed, endure torture and paint until the brush wore away the skin on his very hands. The kind of heartbeat that would possess the owner of where that heartbeat lives to take all that beauty away, only to leave him without a heartbeat to know, or to hear, including the one that is his very own.

  It doesn’t really register with me, but it definitely sounds like someone in pain, which makes me cringe. Artists often have more demons than most though, so this man’s, or maybe woman’s, words aren’t exactly unusual.

  I turn my head sideways and narrow my focus. Was it a man that painted this, and wrote this. Or was it a woman who spilled her paint, and possibly even her blood, to make this happen?

  The name does appear to be signed in actual blood, but like many artist signatures it's illegible. I never quite understood that. As an artist is their work never ’good enough’ in their eyes and therefore they’re actually shy about putting their name on it?

  It certainly looks good enough to me, and I wish I could create art with this level of passion, and beauty one day.

  I continue walking through the room, and around the various exhibitions, feeling more and more familiar with this work but still unable to put my finger on it. There is note after note of pain, but the one thing that inspires me the most is that I feel like this work could be close enough to mine that maybe I can produce at this level one day.

  Silas gave me confidence in myself last night when he told me I should never be embarrassed of who I am, when my little comes out. And this work has given me confidence that I can be a productive adult in the art community. Maybe I’ll never make a million dollars, or even a fraction of that, but at least I can create something I can be proud of.

  And that’s all I ever really wanted, artistically speaking.

  But suddenly the unmistakable sound of expensive leather shoes on marble are the ones doing the ‘speaking’ and I look for a place to hide.

  But it’s too late.

  “How dare you!”

  I turn around half-way, my body cowering.

  “Get out!”

  I turn, making a mad dash for the door, weaving around the artworks and making sure not to get within an arm’s length of Silas. Although he’s a big, intimidating man, I know he’d actually never dish out real violence against me, or any other woman.

  As soon as I reach the door I don’t stop, running for my desk, grabbing my bag and heading straight to the elevator.

  Just as the door opens, I see him walking straight for me.

  I dash inside, jamming my finger repeatedly into the close door button and descend to the bottom floor.

  I rush out the door and onto the street to the Metrorail stop. I’m not sure where I’m going but I need to get away from here.

  I took disobedience too far, and proved to Silas, and myself, that I’ve still got a lot of growing up to do.

  And after this it doesn’t seem like our relationship, or whatever it was called, can grow again anytime soon.

  I almost had it all and I tossed it away, and I’m not even sure over what.

  9

  Silas

  The girl just won’t learn. She refuses to do anything I say, not to mention that door was locked.

  Did she think I’d have a locked door, tell her not to enter the room, and then not have it monitored with alerts sent straight to my phone?

  And here I thought millennials were the one that understood technology, not guys like me.

  And speaking of guys, the ones I was meeting with excused me for my very rude need to end the meeting early, but considering they flew in from Switzerland just for this, and I barely gave them fifteen minutes of my time, I doubt we’ll be doing any business.

  This transgression has cost a considerable sum, not just to me, but to one of our bigger name artists I was representing this morning.

  But one word right there is why I left the meeting. Representing. I represent one thing to the world, we all do, but what’s really deep down inside? Does the quest for more money really fulfill me? No, especially as I have no one to spend it with, to experience life and all the moments together that most normal people share.

  I’m different, and although I know that, Scarlett has shown me I don’t need to represent something I’m not. In discovering what makes her so unique, I’ve discovered what also makes me tick…my absolute need to be her possessive protector, her biggest supporter, and the older man who can help her avoid the pitfalls in life and really shine.

  I pull up to her apartment, hoping and praying she’s inside. If she did anything drastic like rent a car and drive back to where she’s from, crossing four states, then I’m going to be hot on her heels. I will track her down, and I will bring her to heel.

  To understand what I do is for the best, and it’s time to show her why. Why I’ve known this since the moment I first laid eyes on her.

  “Scarlett, I know you’re in there,” I bluff, hoping she answers, but there’s not a sound. Maybe she knows I’m bluffing and is just waiting for me to go away. She’s certainly a smart girl and I wouldn’t put it past her. I need to dial in a better approach.

  “You broke into my private space which means that I should be allowed to break into yours.” I rattle the knob. Nothing.

  “I’m coming in,” I announce, and one of the neighbor’s doors opens and their head sticks out around the corner like a Whac-A-Mole before they wisely go back to minding their own business, thanks to my icy glare.

  “Wait,” a soft voice says as I stick my key in the lock, knowing it’s not going to work, but it was the best I
could come up with. I wasn’t actually going to invade her personal space…yet. A few minutes more and that answer would be different because I am not letting her slip through my grasp. When she’s mine, she’s mine for eternity.

  The door slowly slides open and I hear the pitter patter of her small feet before the sound of the ancient mattress squeaking when she dives onto the bed.

  I take one step inside and remind myself that she’ll never sleep here another night in her life, and that some ‘gentleman’ I know were able to track down her landlord, and should be paying him a visit right about now. No doubt he’ll be receiving the lecture of a lifetime in regards to keeping women safe.

  “I need you to come with me,” I say flatly.

  “No,” she says face down into the pillow, before flipping over onto her back. “That’s how we got to this point. All those rules.”

  “That wasn’t a hard rule to follow. That was breaking and entering, amongst other things.”

  She says nothing, knowing I’m right.

  “Scarlett, we made progress, we had…a deeper connection last night. And I’m not just talking about over my lap. I respect you but you have to respect me in return.”

  “This isn’t the 1950’s. You can’t just give young people rules these days without telling them ‘why’. We don’t tolerate it. I won’t tolerate it.”

  “Fair enough, this one time. The ‘why’ is what I need to show you.”

  Her eyes open up wide and her head pulls back in shock. I’m shocked myself that I’ve agreed to terms I didn’t personally set, but being a Daddy is about caring for my little, and in this case my little girl needs to know what might be one of the most difficult things she’ll ever learn…if what I think is true.

  If not, I’m going to look like a complete fool and this is all going to blow up in my face.

  “Honey, can you come with me.” And then I show her that respect I always talk about, knowing actions speak louder than words. “Please.”

  Life imitates art, or at least wise proverbs, because apparently you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar. She stands and I offer my hand, gently guiding her to me and pulling her close to my hip for a hug and a kiss on the top of the head.

  “I’m sorry,” she says so softly it’s barely detectable.

  The natural inclination to say something domineering hits me, but I pause knowing that’s not what she needs right now.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s going to make everything ok.”

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  10

  Scarlett

  I rubberneck out of the car window in the Wynwood district of Miami, quite possibly it’s most famous art district from what I understand.

  “See something you like?”

  “Yeah, back there.”

  Silas brings his Lambo to a stop in the right lane of a one-way street. There are cars behind us and nowhere to park. He’s suddenly created an unapologetic traffic jam with well over a dozen vehicles behind him honking and swearing. One guy a couple cars back even gets out like he wants to start something, but the second Silas steps out of his car, the frowns turn to smiles of recognition and everyone seems to either greet Silas out of some form of Marlon Brando-esque or The Godfather level of respect for his work in the art community down here.

  “Which one caught your eye?” he asks after the other cars start funneling around his double-parked car worth more than many people’s houses.

  “These. Just back here,” I say, and he takes my hand and we walk the twenty or so seconds back to the murals I saw.

  “Who did these?”

  A knowing smirk covers his face and he says nothing.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Very well. Yes.”

  “One of your artists?”

  “Warm?”

  “Someone at SteeleSharp?”

  “Warmer,” he says, continuing along with the kids game I love. How did he know?

  “It wasn’t…you, was it?”

  “Me and my best friend.”

  “It looks so much like the work I saw in that room this morning when you were at the meeting.”

  “Because it is very much like the work you saw in that room this morning.”

  “But those words on the placard. They didn’t have your usual tone, unless that was your art. Unless that was a different way of expressing yourself?”

  “They didn’t have my tone because I didn’t write them.”

  “So your best friend wrote them?”

  He nods, but there’s something he’s holding back.

  “What’s his name?”

  “When I first came to Miami,” he begins, seemingly ignoring my question, “I was an up and coming graffiti artist. I thought I was hot stuff, until I ran into another guy my age and quickly realized I was nothing. But what I did realize was that I might not be the great artist I thought I was, but I was much more organized and business savvy than most artists.” He pauses. “Are you familiar with P. Diddy?”

  I nod. “The rapper?”

  “Correct. His real name is Sean Combs and he’s often in Miami. He has a house here where he spends most of his time. Nineteen years ago, he had a verse in a song called “Bad Boys for Life.” That verse was ‘Don't worry if I write rhymes, I write checks.’ Well, I took that to heart. And when my graffiti artist best friend, who was also new to the area at the time, asked me why I wasn’t pulling my weight at night when it was time to do our work, I quoted that famous lyric.”

  “This makes absolutely no sense to me.”

  “Nor should it, but I’ll explain why it’s important. I realized, like P.Diddy, that my best friend was a much more skilled artist. He could come up with incredible concepts and execute on those concepts way better than I could. But he couldn’t market his work to save his life. That’s where I came in. He ‘wrote the rhymes’ so to speak, in the form of his graffiti, which later became painting, and I ‘wrote the checks’, in the form of I became the businessman in our partnership.” He pauses. “Can you guess what his last name was?”

  If I was in an illustrated kids’s book right now an imaginary light bulb would go off over my head. “And all this time I thought Sharp was just some sort of weird way of twisting the saying ‘sharp as steel.’”

  “That’s what most everyone thinks these days, and there is some truth to it. But the truth is the creative genius behind SteeleSharp is Jack Sharp.”

  “I don’t remember meeting him at the office.”

  “Because you didn’t. Nobody that works there these days has met him or heard from him in ages.”

  “My gut tells me nobody doesn’t include you.”

  Silas’s eyes move from mine to the wall, admiring his best friend’s work. “Usually best to trust your gut instinct, right?”

  Who was this caring man who could just have a ‘normal’ conversation all of a sudden? Where was the bossy company founder who preferred instilling discipline in his employees, or at least me, with a steel fist…no pun intended?

  “Where is he?”

  “Why, would you like to meet him?”

  I nod.

  “Good, because he’s been waiting all his life to meet you.”

  11

  Silas

  “Is Jack on his way over?” Scarlett asks as I lead her out into the back garden of my property.

  “He’s not on his way over because he was always here.”

  “Jack,” I holler toward the guesthouse that sits behind a gazebo and duck pond.

  “Not today,” a voice calls back, and Scarlett turns and looks at me with shock, her eyebrows skyward.

  “Somebody lives there?”

  I nod. “Not just somebody. Somebody very special…to both of us.”

  “Come on out. I’ve got someone here I want you to meet.”

  “Tomorrow,” he cries back, agitation in his voice.

  I firm my voice. “Not tomorrow, Jack. Today.”

>   I can hear him mumbling something under his breath and know he’s slipping into a robe and seconds later the door made of blown Mexican glass opens and he steps out into the day, clearly having been asleep up until this point.

  But one look at Scarlett and he’s wide awake. His hands freeze, the string from his robe falling in the midst of tying it. Fortunately he’s wearing boxers and a T-shirt under it, but right now nothing else matters except the immediate look of recognition on his face.

  “You…”

  “Yeah, Jack. I found her.”

  “After all these years.”

  He stumbles forward, his arms extended like a zombie as he approaches us in a daze.

  I look down at Scarlett and see every inch of skin on her body is covered in goosebumps. She should turn and run, it would be the logical answer, if it weren’t for the same recognition in her eyes as I can clearly see in Jack’s. It’s the same recognition I had when I first saw her enter my building. The eye color. The face structure. The same youthful exuberance, the same genius, I saw in Jack all those years ago.

  And they both see it in each other.

  “Dad?” slides off Scarlett’s lips as she stands there in shock.

  “Scarlett, meet your father…the legendary Miami artist Jack Sharp.”

  Seconds later Jack is on us, wrapping his arms around a stunned Scarlett who collapses into him.

  And then faints.

  12

  Scarlett

  Apparently I was only out for a second, and Silas and Jack both had a hold of me so I didn’t fall or anything close to it.

  Five minutes later I’m sitting at a beautiful little circular iron French table in the backyard, both men not more than a couple feet from me.

  And I’m still in shock.

  “Most of that area we visited earlier today has been gentrified, but I convinced the city that some of the old graffiti in the area should be designated as historic landmarks, and with a little prodding, and a lot of money,” he laughs, “they complied.”