Stepdaddy Savage

by Charleigh Rose

  This is bad. My common sense seems to take a vacation whenever he’s around lately, only to come back with a vengeance the second I’m alone. One thing is for sure, I need to stay far, far away from him.

  My daddy is going to hurt me…and the worst part is that I want him to.

  Another week ticks by, and this time, I’m extra careful not to bump into Graham. If the club incident was embarrassing, Masturbationgate—yes, it is so important, it’s got its own name now—is stage-five shitstorm. He caught me playing with myself while moaning his name. And he liked it. Or maybe he just thought it’d be fun to see his stupid step-daughter going over the edge with her ridiculous fantasies.

  Either way, by Saturday I’m actually starting to feel confident in the fact that I can just ignore him forever. I have my own life, which is filled with school, Jade, cheerleading and avoiding some tool named Shawn, who is hell-bent on getting me to go out with him. Too bad that will never happen. Even if I weren’t too busy obsessing over stepdaddy dearest, Shawn has been increasingly creepy. The more I turn him down, the more his pride takes a hit. And entitled boys like Shawn with district attorneys as their daddies, do not take rejection well.

  Ah, well, that’s just life. If I had everything I wanted, I’d be riding Graham, on the road of chain-orgasms.

  Everything seems relatively under control in the days after Masturbationgate until my mom announces that she’s going away for a vacation, leaving me here with the devil himself.

  The lesson here is not to get cocky. A whole month. A whole freaking month. Five weeks to be exact. I mean, Annabelle and I are not exactly close, never were, even though I do appreciate her working in odd jobs to make ends meet and support us, but this is my final year in high school. I’ve made no plans to move out and go to college, I want to stick around for a while and kind of see where the wind takes me, and I was hoping to use the time as a last-ditch effort to become closer to my mom.

  Well, that sure as hell isn’t going to happen if she goes away. She’s even going to miss my graduation. Why, Annabelle? Why?

  Mom says she’s going to help out my nana, who’s not doing so well, in Pennsylvania. Sweet, right? The only problem with that is my mom hasn’t actually seen or even spoken to nana in years to know whether or not she’s okay. She doesn’t even know that I still visit her every six months or so ever since I got my driver’s license, and the fact that she’s probably healthier than all of us, especially my mom.

  Nana Sylvie is not sick. My mom, Annabelle, on the other hand, has a lot of things she needs to be treated for.

  Nope, she’s going on vacation with the pool boy, of course. And I’d bet my virginity that it will be on Graham’s dime. How the hell did I come from this woman? Right now, watching her flit around the house, packing her things and acting like a saint, I kind of want to cunt-punch her.

  I’m sitting on my bed, listening to music when Mom busts through my door and starts rifling through my stuff. She opens my drawers without a warning, snatches one of my bathing suits that’s already a size too small for her and glues it to her chest, trying to see if it fits. She’s been filling out since Graham married her and made her go off the blow. Nowadays, she resorts to alcohol and weed, and everyone knows how pot gives people the munchies.

  Of course, I can’t help but taunt her about it.

  “Nana Sylvie doesn’t have a pool, Mom. Why do you need a bathing suit? More specifically, why do you need my bathing suit?”

  She doesn’t freeze like I thought she would. She doesn’t even look guilty or attempt to come up with an excuse. She just rolls her eyes and says, “It looks better on me, anyway. You ain’t got the tits to fill it out.” She peppers this sentence with a smile and a wink, thinking I’d forgive her for bringing me down. Because I normally do. I always forgive her for talking to me like this.

  She does a little shimmy with her shoulders that makes me want to gouge my eyes out, but I still eye her from my bed unimpressed.

  “We were supposed to spend April with each other,” I ground out. “You said we’d do Vegas together. Maybe get some one-on-one mother and daughter quality time.”

  “Oh, honey.” She turns around, slapping a hand over her heart and feigning a touched smile. “It’s just five weeks. I’ll be back and it’s not like you’re off for college or something. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “But Mom,” I respond—and I really have no idea why, at this point, I’m even trying anymore— “don’t you think it’s a little lame to leave me…with Graham?”

  I don’t call her out on her bluff about Nana because a part of me doesn’t want to really face the truth. What’s the point, anyway? It’s just going to escalate an already explosive situation. But I have to know. Why she’s doing this. Why she’s always keeping me at arm’s length, as if I did something wrong.

  “Baby, you’re a big girl. You don’t need me and neither does Graham. He’s married to his business anyway.”

  “He is also married to you.” I cock an eyebrow and she shrugs in response.

  “Just on paper.” Mom jerks another one of my drawers open and plucks out a few more skimpy pool outfits. “You and I both know that. I mean, I tried, sweetie, I really did. God knows I did my best with this guy. I wanted us to be a real family, ya’ know? Give you the whole experience I had when I was a kid, Dahlia. But Graham…he’s wired differently. I’m not even sure how to explain it, but this…” She motions with her index finger toward her body, emphasizing her tits and ass. “He never really found me all that interesting. Didn’t work for him, I guess. Shame, but that’s how it goes. Anyway”—she waves her hand dismissively, like she’s over the subject—“I’ll be back in a little more than a month and then, I promise, we will so get to sit together and enjoy each other’s company. I know I haven’t been the most present mom in the world, Dahl, but look how good you turned out. I must’ve done something right!”

  No, I want to scream. I did something right. You just sat there and didn’t even ask me how my day was when I got back from school. If you were even home.

  “Have fun,” I grit finally. On some level, I really do wish her the best. I pity my mother and her inability to be in touch with her feelings. So much so that she’s flushing her relationship with her own mother and her only daughter down the toilet to go spend time with a man who is half her age and will probably leave her the minute he finds something more lucrative to do. Or someone.

  I spend the rest of my day aimlessly looking for college courses in New York City on the Internet. Trust me when I say there’s nothing I’d like more than to take out my PocketRocket and drill it into my clit until I scream Graham’s name so loud the walls will shake, but I can’t.

  I can’t take a chance of him hearing me or catching me doing it again.

  I’m so engrossed in reading about a college in Brooklyn that’s offering a pulp fiction course—I have no idea what it entails but I bet there’d be a ton of hipster hotties—that I don’t even notice that I’m not alone in the room anymore.

  “This looks like the shittiest course a person could take,” Graham offers from behind me, and I jump so high I almost reach the ceiling. A yelp leaves my mouth and my heart is racing in my chest.

  “Jesus Christ, Graham. That’s the second time in a week. Do you not have any doors in Ireland? Fucking knock, dude.”

  Oh, great. I mentioned the masturbating incident. Real smooth, Dahl. But as I swivel my chair to inspect him, he looks as stoic and unfazed as ever. And hot. So, super-hot. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, revealing taunt forearms and manly veins, and he’s got his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy blue dress pants. His tie is undone but still hangs over his neck and his green eyes are twinkling. With what, I’m not sure, but they make me feel like I’m on fire.

  No, they make me motherfucking burn.

  “Even a monkey could pass this kind of course,” he continues his line of thought, tilting his chin toward my co
mputer screen and I fake a bright smile, letting my inner sarcastic bitch come out and say hi.

  “Good news for me, then,” I mutter.

  “You can do so much better.” His voice is low and gruff, but it doesn’t sound like a compliment. More like a statement. “You’ve got potential, kid.”

  “Oh, are you wearing your stepdaddy hat tonight?” As opposed to the “guy who watched me masturbate” hat. I liked that hat better, but of course I don’t mention it.

  “Busting my balls and it’s not even eight p.m. What’s going on, Dolly?” It’s the second time he calls me that. “Need to unwind a little?”

  Suggestive, but maybe it’s just in my head. I lift one eyebrow in question, erecting my slack body. I’m trying to remind myself that Graham is not a friend, he’s a very bad man, who does very bad illegal things, and just because he’s started talking to me since I gave him a lap dance doesn’t mean that he’s to be trusted.

  “It’s Friday, what are you doing home anyway?” I ask.

  “Your mother’s not here,” he answers like this explains anything.

  “I know. She went to my grandmother’s.” I roll with her lie. He chuckles softly and shakes his head, and we both share a moment where our eyes meet and the truth passes between us. Relief washes over me, but I’m not sure why. At least he knows.

  “I wanted to check on you,” he finally explains. My heart melts for this guy. I can’t believe he’s just said that. I can’t believe that he cares. I’m sure my expression softens because Graham takes a step forward and cups one of my cheeks. I lean into his warm touch. Shit, I want to bathe in his gaze and drown in his touch. I’m so hungry for physical affection—starving, really—and his touch makes me feel so small and secure.

  “I’ll be okay,” I croak.

  “Never had a bloody doubt. Dress up, we’re leaving,” he commands cuttingly and out of nowhere, withdrawing his hand from my face and I snap out of my reverie.

  “What? Where?”

  “You’re going dancing and drinking. And, as per our agreement, it’ll be by my side. I’ll come back to pick you up in fifteen minutes and you better be ready. One more thing—if I see you with that black little thing you wore the other night and called a dress? I’m ripping it off you. Not in the way you’d like. Make smart decisions, Dolly.”

  My stepfather drives a black McLaren P1. It costs over one million dollars and looks like a femme fatale; all curves, soft edges but with a dark, dangerous silhouette.

  Inside, it’s spacious and warm, the scent of new leather drifting into my nose. Last time I saw him in New York, he sent me back home in a town car. This is nicer. Much nicer. The night is cold and rain knocks on the tinted windows but does nothing to blacken my mood. This is the weirdest weather we’ve had in a while, too cold for April, but not quite as cold as the man next to me. I sit beside him in my sensible knee-length red dress and ankle boots and try not to hyperventilate about where I am or who I’m with. I keep telling myself he’s just trying to keep me out of trouble, because the last thing he wants is for me to do something stupid and have my mom come back to New Jersey to babysit me from her vacation.

  Only my mom would never actually rush back to New Jersey, unless I’m critically injured or dead.

  And Graham never really seemed like he cared before.

  I watch his strong profile as he cuts through the busy Saturday night traffic from New Jersey to New York. His jaw clenches and his eyes are hooded, and the old scar on his temple is glittering at me, making his otherwise beautiful face imperfect and dangerous.

  My thoughts run to questions like where he might be taking me and whether he’s going to let me drink again and if I could call Jade and ask her to tag along. If he’s going to do business, I need to keep myself occupied.

  “Are you going to drag me around to make sure I stay out of trouble?” I ask finally, unable to stand the silence between us any longer.

  “On the contrary, Dolly. I think I’ll drag you right into hot trouble tonight,” he responds, his face still void of expression.

  “Why are you calling me Dolly?”

  “Because you look like a little doll. And because I do whatever the fuck I want.”

  “Is that appropriate?” A smirk kisses my lips. I love teasing my step-daddy. “To use this kind of language in front of your stepdaughter?”

  “I don’t know.” He tilts his face, gives me a slow once-over his green eyes lingering on my chest. “Is it appropriate to finger yourself and moan your step-father’s name, Dolly?”

  Touché.

  He nods curtly in agreement. “Yeah, I guess we’re both not qualified to star in the fucking Brady Bunch.”

  “Yeah, but we are definitely a Modern Family,” I joke. He doesn’t answer.

  I say nothing for the remainder of the drive into New York City. Not even when Graham doesn’t stop to pay toll when we cross from New Jersey. I have no idea how he got to a point where he has so much power, people know him and fear him, but I know I should feel lucky that he likes me enough to give me a VIP pass into his world. At least for tonight.

  Our first stop is on the lower East side of Manhattan. It’s his strip club, and it’s called Assets. Mom used to work there before they got married, and I guess this place reminds me that this man, sexy as hell or not, is still married to my mother.

  He double-parks in front of the entrance with the pink and white neon light flashing, and even though the billboard looks colorful and inviting, underneath it, there are two, huge bouncers, a lot bigger than the ones I saw at Hot N’ Bothered in Williamsburg, in black raincoats and frowny faces. It looks like a dingy place, despite its preppy zip code.

  “You’re taking me to a strip club?” I try to blink away my shock. He opens his door and steps out, walking around the car and opening the passenger door for me.

  My heels hit the ground before I get out of the car, and I feel the bite of the New York chill in my bones and shiver. I don’t get out. Not yet, peeking over his shoulder and examine the row of brownstone townhouses the club is sandwiches between.

  “Problem, Dolly?”

  “Yeah, I’m too young to hang out in strip clubs.”

  “Your mom didn’t seem to think so when she brought you in to work when you were fucking fourteen.”

  “She didn’t have a choice. You do.” I swallow my shame. Why does he have to be such an asshole and bring up my mom?

  When he sees that I don’t budge, I bet he’s not happy about me letting him wait in front of his bouncers in the pouring rain outside, he grabs my hand and jerks me into his warm body, slamming the car door behind my back. Under the sheets of rain, I feel a lot more agreeable when he ushers me into his club, passing the bouncers who nod in his direction in awe and fear. We slip through a dark, narrow hallway leading to another pair of closed double doors, the floorboards beneath us creaking with the beat of the sleazy music coming from the inside of the club.

  He pushes the second set of double doors open and we’re inside. There’s a stage in front of us, T-shaped with a short catwalk. A pole stands on each end, three in total, and on each of them is an almost naked young chick with a pair of high heels. My stomach lurches and I twist toward the front door again before I realize Graham is holding into me tightly.

  “Let me go,” I whisper, my tone almost inaudible. But he hears me. Even through the music blasting in the background, “West Coast” by Lana Del Rey, he hears me and my cheek is now pressed against his broad strong chest. I want to scream and cry, but can’t even bring myself to lift my gaze and look into his eyes. I’m so confused. He holds me. No, he clasps me, almost like a hug, and murmurs into my ear.

  “You know why I brought you here?” he asks.

  “To taunt me about my mom?” My voice is shaking and my unshed tears are stinging the back of my eyeballs. God, I hate him so much. Him and my mom. All I ever wanted is a shot at a normal life. I thought I had it up until now, even though mom cared more about her time with Julio tha
n her time with me, and now…now Graham is trying to push my limits, and I don’t even know why.

  “No, kiddo. I’m doing this because I fucking care about you. Look, just look.” He takes my jaw between his fingers and direct my face to the stage. My vision is blurry with tears but I keep it together. I watch the strippers as they move, grinding the poles seductively to the melancholic, sexy sound of Lana Del Rey’s voice. They’re so beautiful but so sad. I know not all strippers are sad. I know this is a high-class joint and in all probability, they have medical insurance, a fat paycheck and relatively respectable clients. But still…it’s degrading. I get that. I just don’t understand why Graham makes me watch them.

  “What’s your point?” I breath out, exasperated. He takes my small palm in his huge one and guides me through the throng of people sitting around and watching the show toward the back, probably to where his office is. When he gets to a dark wooden door he punches in a code and opens it, signaling me to sit in front of another desk of another office that looks exactly like the one he has in Hot N’ Bothered.

  He doesn’t turn on the light, but there’s a glass window separating us from the strip club so there are blue, green and pink lights pouring in. I can barely make out his features.

  “This is why I married your mother, Dolly,” he says into the darkness. What?

  My body is stiff on the leather recliner I am sitting on, and I clear my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—he leans against the window overlooking the dancing strippers and ogling old men, hands in his pockets again—“I could’ve married anyone to get my paperwork in order. I chose her. I could’ve opted for a New York apartment and didn’t have to live with you ladies. I chose Jersey. I could have done so many things differently…I chose this path,” he finishes, the intensity of his voice electrifying. I suck in a breath.