Daddy Daddy: MFM Menage Romance

by Demi Donovan

  He kisses me on my forehead and I smile up at him. We’ve been wasting a lot of time lately, but I guess it feels right. I’ve known him for years, pined after him for what feels like forever, and over the last few months, he’s finally come around to noticing me.

  Cassie Davis, the poor kid who the teachers sometimes had to buy lunch for. Cassie Davis, the unpopular virgin. I still can’t believe how lucky I am that he noticed me, finally.

  I thought it would be more exciting than it is. Instead of adventures with the edgy bad boy superfreak who graduated two years ahead of me, we’ve mostly been hanging out and doing nothing. I’ve given a lot of handjobs, including my first one ever. I keep expecting things to escalate, but I don’t want to push. Not only because it’s a big step, but because Mark has some… trouble. The staying up kind. Usually he ends up finishing himself off.

  When you’re wearing rose-colored glasses, all the red flags just look like flags, I guess. In the back of my mind, I’m aware this isn’t entirely right, but it’s fine. It’s escapism. He lies to himself, I lie to myself, we’re all good.

  “You said your mom is downstairs?” Mark asks, releasing his grip on me a little.

  I frown, nodding my head.

  “Probably back from work. It’s okay, she’ll head out again soon.”

  Mom works two jobs.

  “But she’s here now,” he says, his voice getting husky. “What if you go do that again… you know.”

  I know.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t, Mark. I won’t steal from my mother anymore.”

  He’s asked me to steal cash from her a couple of times, and I have. I won’t anymore though. He scoffs and it’s like a slap in the face when he pulls his arm away from around me. He puts out the end of the cigarette butt in the ashtray and grabs his jacket.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, knowing he probably doesn’t have that many places to go.

  He’s been crashing on the couches of friends, I’ve smuggled him into our basement a couple of times. His parents kicked him out a while ago and he’s not exactly what you’d call dependable, in the sense that he won’t hold down a job for more than a week. But that makes two of us.

  “Somewhere more fun,” he huffs, pulling my bedroom door open.

  “Mark, no!” I whisper, rushing after him. “My mom can’t know you’re here.”

  “I’m not afraid of her,” he snorts.

  That’s not the point.

  He smacks my hand away when I try to reach for his shoulder, marching down the steps of the stairs purposefully loudly. No way mom won’t hear it.

  “Hey, Mrs. Davis,” he calls, the fucking ass, waving to my mother who is putting away groceries in our small kitchen.

  Her expression falls when she sees him, and the look of disappointment I’m graced with is nothing new. It still cuts, though, but you get used to things, especially if you cause it yourself.

  “Mark,” she says, all nice.

  “He’s leaving already,” I tell her, ushering him out as there’s no saving this.

  I narrowly avoid him snatching my mom’s phone from the table in the foyer and he laughs when I lunge at it before he can pick it up.

  “That’s what I meant when I said you’re too fucking uptight, Cassie,” he tells me, smirking as he shoulders his way out. The front door slams against the wall and I know it’s going to leave a mark on the wall. “You need to fucking relax. Live a little. You’re eighteen, mommy can’t do shit to you anymore. You don’t owe her anything.”

  “Will I see you later?” I ask, his back already turned to me.

  I cross my arms over my chest, feeling cold despite the warm late spring air. It’s beautiful outside, and I’m dressed in all black like I’m going to a funeral. The polish on my nails, matte black, is chipped at the ends on a couple of them. I resist the urge to pick at them.

  “Maybe,” he says, shrugging.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. That means probably.

  “I’ll text you.”

  He won’t, but that’s fine.

  “Bye,” I call after him, and he gives me a backward wave that may have been heavy on one digit, but I won’t dwell on it.

  Instead, I close the door and lock it behind me before heading for the stairs. I get one step in before my mom’s voice stops me. I could ignore her, but I’ve done that enough. Besides, I feel a little guilty for having Mark in here when she made me promise I wouldn’t anymore.

  “Cassie,” she calls, and I reluctantly whirl around and stomp into the kitchen.

  “Yes?”

  This time, I can’t stop myself from picking at my nails, glowering at her slightly. She looks tired, and sad. She always looks like that.

  “What was that man doing in my house again?” she asks, no real fire in her voice, just exhaustion at the fact that we’re having the same conversation again.

  “I like him,” I shrug.

  “He’s not good for you. We talked about this. You’re supposed to be focusing on finishing high school, getting into college, starting your life.”

  She doesn’t add the ‘anywhere but here’ part, but I hear it. Prestview isn’t a great town and it doesn’t come with a lot of options for the future, but I’ve never hated it as much as she seems to.

  My gut twists slightly at the mention of college and I stick out my chin. The letters came in weeks ago. Early admission, two of the five places I applied to.

  No financial aid, though. Would have been better not to get any of those letters at all, then.

  “Have you heard from any of the schools yet?” mom asks, as if reading my mind.

  I shake my head, my tongue knotting at the lie.

  “No good news.”

  Her expression falls and I can’t imagine she’d look more disappointed if I smacked her. I can’t tell her the truth. She’d make me go, and she’d work herself to death trying to be able to afford it.

  “Maybe if you’d gone to class this year more than a handful of times,” she starts, but stops midway through putting a loaf of cheap bread away.

  By the looks of our house, you wouldn’t be able to tell that mom scrapes together nickels and dimes to put food in my mouth as well as Callista’s, my little sister. She’s at band practice. Mom has higher hopes for her than she does for me, and I don’t blame her for it.

  “You’re going to have to get a job,” she says instead, her voice steely.

  I’ve seen my mother, Jenna Davis, break down a handful of times in my life. It’s usually when dad has just left, or just arrived. He has that effect on her. The only other person who seems to be capable of bringing her to that kind of desperation is… well, me. One of the many unfortunate characteristics I share with my father.

  For now, it looks like she’s choosing not to break down. It’s been a while since dad has stumbled home though, all whiskey stench and kind words to the ‘women in his life’, so she’s in a better place. Right now, she only has to worry about me and paying the bills.

  When he shows up, things are good for a couple of weeks. He promises he’ll go off the booze, like he has for the last sixteen years as far as I know, and he doesn’t. He promises he’ll be better, and he isn’t. Eventually, it ends up with him drunkenly confessing his heartache to me in the middle of the night, crying about what a failure he is, before he snatches mom’s wallet and disappears for another six months, sometimes a year, or more.

  She still lets him in the door whenever he shows up. My mother’s a strong woman, but she has her weaknesses. Me and my father to name a few.

  “I know,” I nod, picking at the cracking nail polish.

  “So will you?” she asks, her tone breaking a little now.

  I nod again mutely.

  “Can I go now?”

  She gives me that look of motherly exhaustion that I know so well and then waves me off, shaking her head. I rush up the stairs, my gut still wrenching.

  “Your principal called,” she calls after me. �
�You’re not walking in the graduation ceremony because of your attendance. He said today was the last straw. You can pick up your diploma after the ceremony at the secretary’s office.”

  She sounds bitter. My hand grips the railing tighter and then I disappear into my room to text Mark. With all my shitty choices working out so well for me so far, what’s another, right?

  Three

  Parker

  Cameron Davis and I have nothing in common anymore, yet for the last sixteen years, we’ve been meeting at Joe’s Corner down in Pittsburgh on the 20th of May, and as far as I can tell, we’ll be doing it for the next sixteen as well.

  I already have the regular bottle of scotch waiting for him when he walks in, our usual booth booked and waiting for us, and Joe still giving us the eye from behind the counter as he does every year. As far as he can probably tell, nothing’s changed but the fact that the years have passed, I dress a little nicer and Cameron dresses a little shittier every year. We tip him well, so Joe doesn’t ask any questions.

  “Parker,” Cameron greets me as I stand to meet him and we share a bear-hug that hangs long, two old friends coming together.

  I won’t comment on the fact that I feel like a sack of shit every time I see him and the scotch is there as much for me as it is for his benefit. We go through at least two large bottles during our yearly meet-up, usually far more.

  “Cameron. You look good,” I tell him, but of course he doesn’t.

  The look he gives me is a little bleary-eyed and he smells like he’s just rolled out of another bottle, which he probably has. He doesn’t say anything as we sidle into the booth, pick up our glasses and clink them together.

  “To another year,” Cameron says.

  “Glad to be alive,” I confirm, our usual greeting. There used to be a third line in there, but since the third person isn’t here, it won’t be finished.

  His glass is empty and sitting next to me. You’d think the man was dead, but he’s probably fucking his way through the greater Massachusetts area in the name of a business trip. I won’t judge the man, not here anyway. He’s worked hard with me, building up our company, and his feelings for Cameron are known well enough.

  “I see Sawyer has neglected to grace us with his presence,” Cameron comments, scratching his stubbled chin as he looks at the lonesome third glass.

  “Work,” I say, not lying.

  He nods mutely and we move on, all par for the course.

  “How’s everything?”

  “Same,” he says bluntly, meeting my gaze.

  We’ve known each other for most of our lives. Cameron was ahead of me and Sawyer in college, two years, but we’ve been friends since we were kids. We used to do everything together, the good and the bad. Got in trouble together, got our first jobs together, hell, we even fucked the same women together for a couple of misguided years in college.

  Now we barely know each other, or at least I feel like I don’t know the man sitting across from me. If you were to ask Sawyer, he’d tell you that Cameron hasn’t changed a bit since college and the fact that he’s been a drunk for most of his life shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone either. I’m still surprised, but maybe I prefer thinking better of people than I should.

  I take another swig, feeling the scotch burn a trail down my throat.

  “You?” he counters.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Same, I guess. Company’s doing well. We’re expanding, that’s why Sawyer’s out.”

  It’s not why Sawyer’s out. He’s had an excuse not to be here for the vast majority of the years we’ve been doing this, including every single one of the last ten. We like to pretend that it isn’t the case, though.

  “Always knew it was going to make it big,” Cameron nods, downing his glass and filling it again.

  This is the inevitable back and forth. We spend the first bottle saying little of consequence to each other, and then by the second we’re talking about good old times, and by the third Cameron is usually a blubbery mess, reminding me how Sawyer and I abandoned him. How he took the rap for us, and how we never appreciated what he did for him.

  That’s usually when I pass him the check. It’s a little bigger every year and as far as I can tell, it’s the only income he’s had for years now. Sawyer doesn’t know that I’ve been giving him anything, but I feel… I guess I feel guilty.

  This time, Cameron looks at the check for a long minute before tucking it away in his breast pocket and tapping on it two times, looking at me.

  “This, I appreciate this, Parker. You were always the good one out of us,” he says, the alcohol slurring his words.

  I’ve discarded my jacket, the expensive Calvin Klein sprawled on the seats that have seen better days. My tie is pulled looser and I look like I fit in with Cameron by now, though my shoulders are broader and even at my worst, my spine is straighter than his. We’re in our forties now, we’re not kids anymore, but sometimes it feels like nothing has changed at all since college.

  “No, I wasn’t. I’m not. If I were, I would have never let you do what you did for us,” I say, giving him a hard look.

  Yes, that’s what it is. Guilt. For over eighteen years I’ve bottled it away and then once a year, I come meet my friend and I let it all out. My day to ask for forgiveness and be given it year after year without making a lick of difference.

  He waves my comment away. Nothing changes.

  “What had to happen, happened.”

  We started SCP in college as three structural engineers with grand plans to break into the automotive industry. We had the drive, the brains, but not the funding, or the experience, or the contacts to get the in we needed. Our breakthrough came in the form of one horrible decision and who exactly was responsible for it is something we’re yet to decide on.

  Regardless of who made the call, the one who ended up in jail was Cameron. It was at Sawyer’s and my graduation ceremony that the FBI crashed the party and dragged Cameron out in handcuffs for corporate espionage.

  For all the lies and the lack of clarity on what actually happened that night that he broke into the offices of one of the biggest players in the industry and got us all the information we needed to go in and score a huge deal for General Motors, one thing’s for certain – we profited, and he served the time for it. When he got out of jail, our profile was too big to let a convicted felon back in. We bought him out, paying him handsomely, and he blew it within a year.

  Things were never right between him and Sawyer after that. There’s something neither of them has told me, I’m certain, because you don’t go from being brothers to barely being able to stand one another like that. But I’m a drunken fool right now and maybe a little sentimental.

  “How’s the family?” I ask, partially regretting the question.

  I never had one, a family. Neither did Sawyer. The irony is that though we consider ourselves the successful ones, the only one with a wife and kids is Cameron. We know Jenna from back in college, she was pregnant before Cameron went to serve his time.

  “They despise me,” he says humorlessly, hanging his head.

  His palm flits across the check again. It’s big enough to cover the mortgage, to keep his family fed and taken care of for more than a year. I doubt they’ll see a cent of it as usual.

  “Jenna’s a good woman.”

  “I’m not a good man,” Cameron shrugs, tears welling in his eyes. He didn’t use to be a crier, but alcoholism breaks a lot of good men, and more of those that aren’t.

  “You’ve done the best you could.”

  Neither one of us entirely believes that.

  “I haven’t,” he argues, a dry sob following that gets washed down with scotch. “It’s not just Jenna. It’s the girls. Cassie’s eighteen now. Eighteen. Can you believe it? She’s supposed to be heading to college but…”

  “But?” I pry after a moment.

  “We can’t afford it.”

  Cameron looks up at me, haunted. Normally, he
would ask me for money and I would cave, but this time it looks like there’s something more at play. I lean in without noticing I’m doing it.

  “I can help-” I start, but he stops me.

  “Jenna would never allow it. She doesn’t even know I come to see you.”

  “She wouldn’t have to know,” I try again.

  “It’s not just that, Parker,” Cameron utters, his gaze flicking to his hands now. “It’s… She’s like me, Cassie. You know? She’s reckless, she doesn’t think things through. She has a good heart in her, I know she does, though she didn’t get that from me. The rest of it, though? That’s me. She’s stubborn and she gets her way no matter what, even if her decisions are dumb and she knows it.

  “It’s my fault if she throws away her life. Jenna can only do so much for her, for both of the girls. I’ve fucked Cassie up with my genetics, I’m like a fucking disease. Callista’s more like Jenna, thank god.”

  I sit back, sinking into the ratty red leather of the booth. My brow furrows. I’ve met Cassie once, maybe. She couldn’t have been more than three, one of the first times I saw Cameron after he got out of prison. She had his eyes, big and gray and soulful, filling me with more guilt than ever before.

  “Maybe I can do something for her,” I say, my mouth moving faster than my brain can keep up.

  “You’re a good engineer, but you can’t swap DNA,” Cameron snorts.

  “What if I give her a job?”

  I like the sound of that. Even Cameron perks up a little.

  “Yes. A job. She can come work for me, work as an executive assistant. We have an internship program that could be extended to include her. If she does well, it’d be easy to transition her into paid work and even a part-time salary would cover her living expenses.

  “We can cover her tuition under a grant that she pays back after graduation, while working for us as much as her schedule allows during school. There are a couple of great schools around us, you’d know.”

  We’re all MIT graduates, after all. Never moved far from school with the company, either. Being close to the talent was always a goal of mine.