by Aubrey Cara
The second the word daddy comes to mind, I’m warm all over remembering last night. Oh god, I’m as delusional as he is.
“Hank,” I say reaching over the back of the couch to shake his shoulder. “Hank, I need a ride home.”
Come up here and ride Daddy’s face. The words blaze across my mind, and I squash the memory. The scorching look on his face, his hand held out. His big, hard muscular body filling up the entire bed. The way my heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest as I mounted his big, broad shoulders, my thighs spread so wide. God, I was splayed wide open for him.
I thought you wanted to play the whore tonight?
I give myself a mental slap. “Dammit, Hank. Wake. Up!” I shake his shoulder more vigorously, and he sputters awake.
“I need to get home,” I say, as he rolls to a sitting position and clutches his head.
Rubbing his eyes, his head hanging down, he asks, “What time is it?” His voice is like gravel. He, too, looks like hell this morning, but I refuse to feel guilty even though I know I’m probably the reason he drank himself to sleep.
He’s a big boy. I didn’t make him drink himself into a stupor.
“Ten fifteen, and like you pointed out last night, my brother has no idea where the hell I am. So let’s go.”
“Fine.” He scrubs a hand in his hair as he stands, and I try not to notice all the hard-packed muscles on display. “Let me go throw on some keys and grab my clothes.”
I smile at his mix-up. “Don’t you mean—”
“Don’t start with me.” He points an angry finger at me, and his stern expression wipes the smile right off my face. “I’m going to grab you a fucking T-shirt, too. You’re fucking indecent in that outfit.”
“I thought we weren’t swearing,” I say in a small voice.
The scathing look he shoots me says, “fuck you,” but he stays stony silent as he turns to leave. Just then Wyatt walks in, scratching the back of his head, yawning. He’s only wearing boxers, his tanned, lean muscled body on full display as he pads into the room and comes to a halt. His eyes that had been squinted with sleep pop open as his gaze goes from me to Hank, back to me in confusion.
“Candi?” Wyatt says before shooting Hank a look. “I thought she wasn’t your type, brother.”
“Hot ’n blonde is everyone’s type. Besides, you’d have to be dead and dickless not to notice her, right, brother?”
I flinch, his words stinging more than I’d like to admit. I blew any chance of him seeing me as more than legs and tits last night running my damn mouth.
The air in the room is tense as the men stare at each other in some kind of silent pissing contest. Tension and anger radiate off Hank in waves, but Wyatt looks a bit hurt and confused. The poor guy has no idea what he’s just walked in on.
“Hank was just taking me home,” I say. Bringing attention to myself is a mistake. Wyatt’s gaze is full of accusation and scorn as he scans me from head to toe, and I cross my arms over my chest feeling unbelievably exposed.
“Yeah, I bet. Interesting thing is I don’t recall how the hell you got here in the first place.” He shoots Hank another accusing glare before he turns and heads back down the hall.
A door slams, making me jump, but Hank doesn’t flinch. He strides out of the room, not sparing me a glance. I’m still standing in the same spot when Hank comes out dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and tosses a T-shirt at me on his way out the door.
“Cover yourself the hell up,” he calls over his shoulder.
I blink back tears and slip on a faded old green T-shirt sporting some band I’ve never heard of. It falls to my mid-thighs and is blessedly longer than the skirt I have on. Hank impatiently stands with the door open. The second I step onto the front porch, he slams the door behind me.
He storms past me and wrenches open the door to the 4Runner. The second I’m inside, he slams that door, too. I’m expecting it this time, but it still makes me flinch.
We drive in complete silence. My fingers itch to turn on the radio, but I fist them in my lap and let hum of the engine drown out the buzzing in my ears. Hank’s practically strangling the steering wheel, refusing to look at me. His behavior is reminiscent of coked-up Cody, and it’s starting to piss me off.
It’s not like I’m the only one who said awful things last night. And I had every right to be mad and lash out. I was spanked, put in the corner, and had a fancy piece of metal shoved up my ass. I don’t remember him having anything shoved up his ass.
Cody never did anything like that to me. I would have killed him. Yet, I stupidly went along with everything Hank did to me, like a weak brainless twit.
“You’re just like Cody.” The words are out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying.
Hank’s stormy gaze shifts like a bullet, the impact taking my breath. We’re a street away from my house, and it’s the first time he’s acknowledged my existence since we left.
“Excuse me?” he says.
“You heard me.”
“I was giving you a chance to take it back.”
“Well, that’s too bad because I’m not gonna take it back. You. Are. Just. Like. Cody.”
Hank slams on the brakes, parks in the middle of the road, and calmly turns toward me. “I’m nothing like that little shit.”
“You’re right,” I taunt. “He only hit me when he was high. You do it stone-cold sober.”
I can practically see the smoke coming out of Hank’s ears. He surprises me by turning back to the road and putting the car in gear, driving the rest of the way to my house in silence. He’s obviously fuming the whole way, but he parks in my driveway before saying anything.
“He hit you because he thought you were weaker than him,” he says quietly. “I spanked you because I know you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. He thought he knew better than you. I know you’re better than the choices you’ve been making, and I cared enough to do something about it.” His voice is low and full of restrained fury. And it doesn’t get past me that he uses past tense when he said cared. As in, he no longer does.
His words make something hitch in my chest. “That makes no sense,” I argue, but my voice is small and I hate how much sense he’s actually making.
“Whatever. I guess it doesn’t really matter then. You’re home. Get out.”
I reach for the door handle, glancing back over at him. A firestorm is raging. He’s so pissed I can see it radiating off of him. I guess I hesitate too long because he reaches across me and opens the door.
“We’re done here,” he says. “It’s time to go.”
I want to argue I don’t want to be done. He’s given up on me, and I want to beg him to please not give up on me, but my eyes sting with unshed tears. I’m two-point two-seconds away from body shaking sobs, so I nod as I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide out.
“And stay the hell away from Sugar Daddy’s. That place is bad news.” He grabs my wrist before I can close the door and waits until I look at his angry face. “I mean it, Candi. I’ve heard things about Sugar Daddy’s.” His jaw clenches. “Working there you may end up selling more of yourself than you ever intended to. If you need to take your clothes off for strangers so damn bad, hit up another club. Any other club. But I suggest you stop taking the easy road, princess. It only makes life harder than it has to be.”
I have no idea what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but I jerk my head in a nod before I embarrass myself. If this is the easy road I want nothing to do with the hard road.
Hank’s 4Runner idles in my driveway until I’m inside. Even hating me, he’s looking out for me. The feeling coursing through me at that realization is so foreign I don’t know how to process it.
“Dyl, I’m home,” I call out down the hall as I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I guzzle half and set it on the counter. “Dylan?”
It’s nearly 11:00 a.m. and I can’t believe he’s still sleeping. Walking to the end of the hall where his room is I push h
is door open and find his room empty. Huh. The house is quiet and he’s not home, but I don’t know where the hell he possibly could have gone. He doesn’t have a car. I just really hope he’s not getting into trouble.
My cell phone starts ringing from the kitchen, and I flip it open and answer before glancing at caller ID. “Hello?”
“One fifteen this afternoon, at the club.” Cowboy Casanova’s laughing voice on the other end makes me wish I’d let it go to voice mail. I have no idea how he got my number, and I probably don’t want to know. “Be there.” He disconnects before I can reply.
I stare at my phone wondering what the hell I’m going to do. Outside of the fact I don’t want to face Dom, my Jeep is still in the parking lot of Sugar Daddy’s which means I’m SOL for a ride.
Hearing the front door open, I turn and see Dylan coming in with his gangly, harmless friend Byron. They’ve been buddies since the first grade, but Byron always kept himself mostly out of trouble. Which means he’s been avoiding Dylan for a while, now. That they’re together can only mean Dylan is serious about turning himself around.
“Hey guys, where’ve y’all been?” I ask.
“I think the question is, where have you been?” Dylan asks, looking me over.
I’d momentarily forgotten my state of dress. “It’s a long story.” One I’d rather not rehash. Especially with Byron here.
“Well, whatever, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got some news.” Dylan’s got a stupid grin on his face. My stomach sinks with dread. It’s the same bright-eyed smiling expression my dad gets when there is a high-stakes game going on that he has just enough money to get cut in on.
“Dylan joined the Army,” Byron blurts, and Dylan smacks him.
“Man, I wanted to tell her,” Dylan whines.
I swear there’s ringing in my ears, and my world tilts. “You did what?” That can’t be right. He wouldn’t. “Why, why would you do something like that?” If he’d said he joined the circus, I’d be less surprised than I am now.
“Don’t be mad,” he says. “I’ve just been thinking about stuff, and then I was thinking about you, and what you’d want me to do, and how you told me to get a real job.”
“I meant like at Kinkos, or the smoothie place. I didn’t think you’d join the Army.”
“I’m eighteen,” he says like that’s supposed to be significant. “It’s time I man up. This will give me direction. I’ll be serving my country and be able to go to college. Haven’t you been saying I need to go to college?” I’m still dumbfounded when he says, “Come on ,Candi, it’s a worthwhile endeavor.”
I’ve heard that phrase before. “Hank and Wyatt. Did one of them put you up to this?”
“It was my idea!” he says, but the way he flushes I know it was an idea that stemmed from the two ex-Marines.
“You do realize our country is at war? What if something happens to you, Dyl? You could die.”
“At least it’ll be for honorable reasons.”
“I don’t care if it’s for honorable reasons. Anything that gets you dead is a lousy reason.”
He sighs. “Can-can, I need to get out of this town. This is the best way for me to do that, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing.”
“I’m excited about this. Can’t you at least be happy for me? Hell, you’re the one who’s always wanted me to go to school, do something with myself. I thought you’d be proud of me.”
He seems so disappointed with my reaction, it hits me he’s done this more than just for himself. Foolishly, he was thinking of me.
All the anger drains out of me at his words, leaving me deflated.
Throat tight, I swallow thickly before I can speak. “I’m proud of you, Dyl. I’m still not happy, but I’m proud of you.”
“This is going to be good for both of us.” He gives me a big hug. “You’ll see. Just think of all you can do without me around to fuck shit up. You’ll finally be able to go to school yourself.”
“I should go,” Byron says, looking awkward to be subject to our family moment.
He’s at the door before I remember my dilemma. “Hey, Byron, wait! Can I get a ride?”
Byron stops and turns, shrugging. “Um, yeah sure. Where to?”
“Sugar Daddy’s.”
Both Byron’s and Dylan’s eyebrows shoot up at that. Seems they’re familiar with the place.
“The strip club?” Byron asks.
“Yeah, I need to get my Jeep. It’s been leaking oil, and it wouldn’t start.”
“Do I want to know why you were at a strip club last night?” Dylan asks.
“I decided to pick up a second job.” I shrug. “Lots of girls strip to pay for school.”
“I thought that was just something strippers said, ’cause you know…they’re stripping,” Byron says. “Are you going to be a dental hygienist? I feel like a lot of strippers are in school to be dental hygienists.”
“I’m going to be an accountant.” Although, that’s not even close to why I’ll be working at the club. If I live long enough to work at the club. My glamorous new job is contingent on not getting murder-raped at my meeting with the drug boss this afternoon.
How has my life gotten so messed up?
“You’re stripping?” Dylan’s eyes are bugging out of his head as he stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Like taking your clothes off for money? What the hell, Candi?” He’s obviously upset, but after everything he’s put me through, he can stuff it.
“You have no room to judge, Dylan Zachariah Dawson.”
“I’m not judging,” he backpedals. “I’m just—”
“Judging?”
“Well, hell, Candi. You’re stripping. You’re a stripper.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get your panties twisted. I haven’t started yet, so I’m not anything.”
“But you’re going to be, right?”
“This isn’t up for debate,” I say. “Byron, do you mind if I take a quick shower before we go? Do you have anywhere you have to be?”
“No, go ahead. I can wait,” he says, staring at my tits like he’s got X-ray vision.
“Man, don’t look at my sister like that.”
Byron’s face flushes red in embarrassment even as he gets defensive. “I wasn’t, spaz,” he says, but now he’s pointedly staring at my forehead.
I’ve turned to go shower when Dylan asks, “Whose shirt are you wearing?”
I glance down at Scorpion band T-shirt like I’m not sure where it came from. “Scorpion?”
Dylan gives me an I’m-not-a-complete-moron eyeroll and huffs, “You know that’s not what I meant. Who does that shirt belong to?”
I hesitate, debating whether or not I should tell him. “A friend of mine.”
“That Wyatt guy?”
“Can you just drop it? I’m going to go hop in the shower.”
“I’m just trying to look out for you,” he calls out.
“Well, don’t,” I say over my shoulder.
“I want to make sure you’ve got someone looking out for you after I leave tomorrow.”
I’m in the bathroom doorway when I hear, tomorrow. I take one step back out and pivot in his direction.
“Did you just say tomorrow? As in the day after today, tomorrow?”
“I know it’s soon, but—”
“It’s tomorrow. It’s not soon. It’s immediate. You just signed up for this today? And you’re leaving tomorrow?”
“If I don’t leave tomorrow, I have to wait three months.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“I don’t want to give myself time to change my mind.”
“See! You don’t even want to do this.” I don’t know why I’m arguing so fiercely against him joining the military. With him gone he’ll be safe, out of harm’s way. It’s just that, he’ll potentially be in a different kind of danger and I’ll…I’ll be alone.
“I’m sorry it’s going to be so fast—”
I hold up a hand. “I�
�m going to go take a shower.” The lump in my throat makes it hard to breath as I walk back into the bathroom and shut the door.
It’s been me and Dylan against the world for as long as I can remember. When I was six, our mom died. A week later, my dad disappeared for two days. I was scared shitless, but I had Dylan. He was three, and I wasn’t sure how the hell I was supposed to take care of either of us, but I wasn’t alone. As long as I had him, I wasn’t alone.
After tomorrow…I stuff my fist into my mouth to stifle my sob.
This day can’t possibly get any worse. The second I think it, I remember I have a meeting this afternoon with a sociopath drug dealer—who I owe three thousand dollars to, thanks to my go-Army, impulsive brother who is leaving me.
My “quick” shower takes twenty minutes longer than expected as I indulge in some tears of self-pity. It’s while I’m crying in the shower I think of Hank’s big arms wrapped around me last night, and I wish I was back there, snuggled into his chest while he held me. But, brilliant me, I blew whatever I could have had with him.
He was right. I am careless. I’m careless, and after tomorrow, all alone.
This isn’t my day, or my week. With the way things are going, it quite possibly isn’t my year.
13
HANK
I’ve never been accused of being an even-tempered person. It’s something I’m aware of and usually work against. My mother was a natural redhead. It’s where I get my hair color and quick temper. She always said it was our curse and blessing. I don’t know what she found to be so blessed about it. Probably something about having a passionate nature.
Whatever, I hate it.
If I’m going to break bones or cause destruction, it’s with a cool head. Women—well, I never understood why guys lost their shit over women. You got to let yourself emotionally involved for that, which I never planned on doing. Emotions muddy up the works and make you weak.
I like to be in control in every way. When I know I’m on the verge of losing my shit, I can step back and rationally think things over.
