Rancher Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  Statements of loss, loneliness, abandonment, fear. Her world; the one inside her head.

  ‘Hope is that thing they use to tease you into believing the lies that eventually kill your soul.’

  And,

  ‘She wished there was some tool, something sturdy, that would burn her ragged scars into pristine, polished beauty.’

  And,

  ‘You never really own anything, except your own isolation.’

  The mind that made these words, and then made them beautiful and hung them on the walls, is lying here in my arms, naked, vulnerable. There’s so much more to her than meets the eye, and some of it is daunting.

  Holding her, while reading these lines, I realize that I’m either going to spend my life being the bulwark against her self-doubts and scars, or she’s going to crush me under the weight of them. There’s no easy path forward. Being with her is going to be work.

  I realize too, how fortunate I’ve been. I’ve had almost everything given to me, beginning with two parents who love me, and love one another.

  Which reminds me, I need to call them and let them know where I am. They still worry about me. They always will.

  “You awake?” I whisper to Chloe, hugging her closer.

  “Barely,” she responds drowsily, then slowly lifts her head up, her sleepy eyes meeting mine.

  “I need to call my folks,” I tell her. “You should probably call Scott, let him know you’re home.”

  She nods, then rolls over, stretching. As she moves away from me, my hand follows, not wanting to break the connection. She stands and then wanders to the bathroom, closing the door between us. The separation from her, even this small distance, is painful.

  I call my father and tell him where I am. He’s surprised, but accepting.

  “I’m glad things went well tonight,” he says. “You should bring her around to meet us.”

  “I will,” I promise. “One thing at a time.”

  I don’t want to scare the daylights out of her. I need to pace this right. I can’t lose her again.

  Chloe reappears from the bath wearing an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. She dials Scott, and crawls back in bed with me, sitting cross-legged, facing me, the blanket pulled up over her legs. I watch her while she talks, taking in her rumpled hair and sleepy eyes. I marvel at how lovely she is, whether it’s with flowing, honey colored curls, or platinum punk spikes. She washed her face, scrubbing away all the smeared eyeliner and worn lipstick. I’ll adore her beautiful face any way she wants to present it, but this is what I like best, naturally gorgeous.

  She doesn’t tell Scott I’m with her, and that’s fine. I prefer he think as little about Chloe naked and having sex as possible. I don’t care if he’s gay, I don’t want anyone thinking about her that way – except me. This is going to pose a problem, as she’s stunningly beautiful. This city is full of men who admire talented, smart, attractive women. It’s the city’s stock and trade, from Wall Street to Harlem.

  She ends the call and just stares at me, an enigmatic smile turning her lip. She regards me with amusement. That’s good. At least she’s not regretting having me here, in her bed.

  “Let’s get dressed,” she says. “And go up on the roof and watch it snow.”

  Not at all what I expected her to say.

  “Okay.”

  On the roof, above the city overlooking 10th Avenue and West 22nd, everything is quiet, shrouded in a curtain of dense snowfall. Four or five inches of white powder has already accumulated on the surface of the rooftop. Below us, a few cabs and limos make their way to destinations unknown through the dusty powder coating the street, obliterating white and yellow lines, sticking to street signs, making navigation a guess in the fuzzy white blizzard.

  Chloe is wearing baggy sweatpants, fuzzy bedroom slippers, and a leather jacket. I pull her inside my wool coat, tight against my chest, wrapping my arms around her against the cold. The snowstorm is still building, obliterating the view across town to the financial district and its towering skyscrapers. That region is a veiled glow against the dense cloud of pouring white powder. Midtown to the east is just a haze of gray light.

  The quiet of snow is other worldly. The city rarely sounds like this; all muffled and tight, as if only a few blocks exist. Visibility is nil, speeding cabs disappear into the veil after just a couple stoplights.

  “This is magic,” Chloe says, leaning into me, her supple body melting into mine. Flakes of snow catch on her hair, freezing.

  I have no words for whatever this is. I have her in my arms, protecting her, warming her. I hold her in the subdued quiet of a New York City snowstorm, knowing this is just a moment among many others, hoping beyond hope that I can hang onto her for all time.

  I blink snowflakes off my eyelashes, then lean down and press kisses onto her neck.

  “I love you Chloe Harvey,” I say to her as we watch the city wind down beneath our perch. “I love you. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make you believe in hope, and believe in me, and believe that you’re not alone. I’m with you. I swear to you, I’m with you, no matter what.”

  Chloe turns to me, her expression almost forlorn. “We’re all alone,” she says to me. “The secret is accepting it, finding kindred spirits when we can. I don’t have much faith in hope, and I’m okay with being alone. But tonight, it’s nice to enjoy this snowstorm with you. If you leave tomorrow, then that’s okay, we’ll have had tonight…”

  “Chloe, I’m not leaving,” I say, and I mean it with all my heart.

  “Everyone leaves,” she informs me, her eyes gazing off into the wild snowstorm. “You have to go back to school. And I’ll go back to work. But this is our moment. I’m good with it. I know nothing ever lasts. I don’t hold you to any expectations. I’m realistic.”

  Good lord, she’s breaking my heart.

  I know I need to show her, not tell her. I have a couple weeks to prove my position and demonstrate that this is more to me than just a moment. To prove to her that some things can and do last.

  I have my work cut out for me.

  Chapter 19

  Chloe

  “Is this okay?” Hayes whispers, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

  I’m still mostly asleep, dreamy, wrapped up in a cocoon of Hayes’ body spooning me under a mountain of soft comforters against the cold of the badly insulated apartment.

  His hand is on my hip. He’s rocking against me drowsily, a stiff hard-on pressing my ass cheeks, seeking entrance.

  I come awake, my body tensing, a little afraid of what he intends.

  “What?” I ask him. “What is this?” Jesus, I hope he doesn’t want to…

  I feel him laugh as he kisses my neck, nuzzling.

  “From behind,” he clarifies, his hand moving around front, finding my slit, pressing a finger in, massaging my clit. All the fight drains out of me with his expert touch. “It’s different. Deeper. If you don’t like it, we’ll do something else.”

  He pulls my hips up, rolling my shoulders forward with his free hand, then slowly guides himself into position, finding my entrance, already moist in anticipation of him. He plays just outside, slipping himself between my lips, the tip of his cock grazing my clit torturously from underneath.

  I moan with the attention, feeling a gush of hot wetness flood between us.

  “God, Chloe, you feel too damn good,” he croons, pulling my ass even closer.

  The familiar aching in my belly increases with every stroke past the place I want him to go.

  “Are you ready?” he asks me.

  “Yeah…” I breath, uncertain, curious, frightened.

  Gripping me tightly with both hands, he tips my hips into position and gently presses his cock inside, past tight muscles.

  I cry out because it shocked me at first, then whine because it feels so incredibly perfect. He fills me, slipping in deep—so deep—then draws back with a long, achingly slow, ecstasy producing stroke.

  “Oh god�
��” I breath, my mind slipping away. All I feel is him, holding me, commanding me, owning me from the inside out.

  He takes his sweet time, lying behind me, making me conform to this perfect alignment of two bodies entwined in raw pleasure. Stroke after slow stroke builds until I feel his muscles tensing, his grip on my hip and shoulder tightening. He’s getting close and I’m not yet; I love this.

  I want it to last forever.

  I don’t think I can cum…

  “On your knees,” Hayes instructs, pulling out of me and sitting up. Shoving off the covers, he pulls me back toward him, ass up, and I’m not even sure what to do with myself.

  “Just like this,” he says, spreading my knees apart with his, then swiftly dipping into me again, one hand on my shoulder shoving my whole body onto him as his free hand reaches around, cupping my breast, roughly tweaking my nipples, causing a familiar pang to shudder all the way from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and back again.

  “Oh, god… yeah…” I whine, my fists clutching sheets. God damn, what the fuck is he doing to me?

  He picks up pace, going harder and deeper. This feels raunchy, and rough, and absolutely fucking sublime.

  “Chloe, look up,” Hayes says, his voice low, boiling with heat.

  I open my eyes, and am astonished to see myself… flushed, glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, and completely prostrate, ass up, under the control of the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Reflected in the mirror against the far wall, his eyes lock on mine while he drives into me, his fingers alternatively working my nipples and my clit.

  The image of us, like this, of him, doing this to me, sends me quickly and completely over the edge in tremors of the most crushing orgasm I’ve experienced so far. My entire body implodes, sucking him deeper into me; but even as I cum and cum, I can’t close my eyes. I want to see everything. I want to see what this feels like.

  Hayes cums with me, every muscle wrapping his frame flexes, his pace slowing while he shoves in steady and hard, pounding. He cries out, gripping me so firmly I know it’s going to leave fingerprints. I’m still quivering when he finally hauls in a deep breath and stops moving, his body slumping, wasted against mine.

  Oh my god, what the fuck was that?

  Hayes’ draws out and pulls us both backwards onto the bed in a breathless heap. It takes a few moments to return to our senses, a period shortened by the fact that we’re both slick with sweat, and the room is cold. Our heat quickly turns to chill.

  Hayes gathers the blankets and pulls them up, covering us up to our necks. Then he turns, propped on an elbow, a self-satisfied grin animating his handsome features. He blinks, then leans in and kisses me, his tongue licking my lips, his teeth nipping teasingly.

  “That was a lot of fun,” he states. “And you liked it too.”

  What was his first clue?

  I’m still trying to remember to breathe.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn him, trying to find a way to regain some shred of dignity.

  It’s baffling to me that he makes me fall apart with just a touch or a kiss, but it’s downright disturbing that I apparently really enjoy being at his mercy, that I like being done from behind like some two-dollar tart.

  “It’s going straight to my head,” Hayes assures me. He smiles almost shyly. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to con you, but Chloe—it isn’t always like this. In fact, it’s rarely like this. We… we fit. Perfectly. Like we were made for each other.”

  Yeah. That does sound like a con.

  That and all his declarations of love and promises to never leave. It’s lovely to hear. And if I could believe it, that would be even lovelier; just like a Lifetime Original Movie. But I know that’s not real. Maybe Hayes thinks it’s real. Maybe he believes in happily-ever-after’s, but I know better.

  I love being with him. He makes me feel special. He’s seems genuinely interested in me. And our bodies do astonishing things together. But all that is fleeting. Nothing lasts.

  “You had something you wanted to show me,” I remind him, changing the subject. I enjoy him, and as long as it lasts, I’m happy to enjoy him. It’s better not to complicate his starry-eyed romance with my reality. Better to just have a good time together while we can.

  “Max, that’s perfect,” Hayes says into his phone. “Twenty minutes. We’ll be outside waiting and I’ll take care of him, and you too. You’re a miracle worker.”

  There’s at least fourteen inches of snow on the ground and it’s still coming down. All surface transport, including almost every car service in the city is parked. The subways are running, but the nearest station to where Hayes’ parents live is four or five city blocks, and he’s wearing loafers. That, and I don’t have a hat or scarf and it’s six degrees outside and windy. My dad’s leather jacket is my only winter coat. It’s sharp looking, but not very warm.

  With all this in mind, undaunted, Hayes—with the help of his people—has arranged a Lyft with a four-wheel-drive to pick us up and deliver us across town; all because he has something crucially important he needs to show me.

  As if he needed to go to any further lengths to impress the girl; he’s succeeded. I’m convinced that he could arrange an audience with the Pope if he wanted to. He seems to know everyone, or at least the right people to make things happen.

  “We’re going to remedy your hat-glove-scarf situation once we get over there,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I can’t believe you’ve been here this long and haven’t gotten those.”

  The truth is, it’s been relatively mild until now. The other truth is, I really don’t go out much. New York is wonderful in that you can get take-out delivered, groceries delivered, even alcohol delivered. Except for a few weekend nights tagging along with Danny and Scott, I’ve kept to myself.

  The Lyft appears as promised. The vehicle is an older Range Rover with a few dents, big, mud-buster tires, and elevated pipes. It’s better suited to an Amazon jungle than a NYC blizzard, but it’ll do. The driver is a grizzly, bearded man named Jason who says he only does Lyft during inclement weather when he can’t work his regular job running a construction crane on one of the myriad high-rise building projects going on around town.

  “Tudor City?” Jason observes when Hayes gives him the address. “That’s some pretty high end real estate.”

  Hayes has no response. Instead, he checks his wallet for cash.

  Jason is remarkably chatty, asking us what we do for a living. Hayes gives him a vague, non-answer, but I tell him I’m a graphic designer. He brightens with this information.

  “Hey, that’s cool. You know, my brother just started this Indy record label out of a warehouse space over in Bed Stuy. They’ve got six bands and he was telling me he wished he had a decent designer to do album covers. They’re doing everything on vinyl—old school—cause that’s what the kids are into again.”

  The conversation leads to me give Jason my card, telling him I’d love to talk to his brother, and letting him know that my dad did all the design work for Egress and Vigo records back in the 90’s. Jason is suitably impressed. He promises his brother will call me.

  A few minutes later we’re deposited at the front entrance of a towering brick and limestone structure capped with finials and leering, perched gargoyles peering down from its uppermost stories. In the snow, the stone monsters are capped with fluffy white hoods and capes. I gaze up at them, then back at Hayes with a question in my expression. This part of town, right on the edge of the river, is upscale. And this building, among all the others surrounding it, is like the mansion on the hill.

  Here, the sidewalks are swept clear of snow. Here, the street-level windows glow brightly lit, displaying a teeming mass of people behind them, warm, ensconced in comfort, enjoying breakfast in a crowded restaurant.

  Before we even take two steps forward we’re met by a bundled up, broadly smiling doorman.

  “You made it!” he bellows
to Hayes, “Helluvastorm! Nobody can get anywhere. The whole city is tucked in.”

  Hayes returns the smile, shaking the man’s hand in a peculiar, secret society manner which I suspect is an up-town way of passing a high-dollar tip. “Thanks for the assistance, Max. You always come through and it’s appreciated.”

  “My pleasure,” Max says, pocketing his thanks, opening the doors for us. “I’ll let your folks know you’re on the way up.”

  “No,” Hayes says as we enter the vestibule. “I’d like to have a look inside our storage unit downstairs. Can you get me the key?”

  “Sure thing,” Max says. “Head to the lobby where it’s warm. I’ll be right back.”

  He disappears through a service door, leaving us alone.

  “C’mon,” Hayes says, ushering me forward.

  The lobby of this building is like something out of Mansions of the Gilded Age or a vintage edition of Architectural Digest. It’s all marble and tasteful gilt, surrounding a perfectly utilitarian mixed-use space that screams carefully managed money. To the right and down a wide, comfortable corridor, a half-dozen upscale shops are all open for business, doing a brisk trade. A bank of elevators hum busily, with a kiosk between them listing at least fifty other businesses operating on the lower floors of this building, from accountants to salons to a small grocer.

  When Hayes and I were kids, I never once visited his home. He always came to me, or we met somewhere. I didn’t question it then, assuming that like every other kid, he was unsteady with his parents. But now I wonder was he, even then, so completely aware of the difference in our circumstances that he didn’t want to frighten me off by exposing me to this?

  If he had that awareness, it’s a credit to him. This would have terrified me when I was thirteen. This would have intimidated me. It’s intimidating to me now.

  While we wait for Max to return I study the people dining in the restaurant just yards away from us behind broad windows. They’re an older crowd, and established. The women are polished, coiffed, and well dressed. The men are relaxed with themselves, comfortable in their skins. They’re dressed uptown casual; tightly pressed slacks, open shirts with jackets.