Baby Daddy Bad Boys

by Harper Riley

  It’s always seemed fitting how we can see out the walls and no one can see in. The only thing is that you forget that you can be on the other side of that. I wonder how many other things are like that. Like our feud with the Rebel Saints. How we think we are one step ahead of them, yet the opposite is actually true.

  Inside, the kindly Nelson Mandela-like desk man nods at me as I pass. I’m just in time to catch the elevator and, as the doors close, I study his diminishing face.

  Has he known all this time?

  I inhale, then exhale.

  No, there’s no way. The poor old man he wouldn’t be able to smile at me like that if he knew.

  The elevator stops on my floor – the penthouse – and I stride out with my head held high.

  Well, what we do won’t have to be kept a secret much longer. Not when I’m done with it.

  At the front desk, Lila gives me a wan smile that’s about as convincing as her newly blonde hair.

  I give her a curt nod back before I stride past the front desk, down the hallway into Clarence’s office.

  He’s on his phone, chatting away.

  “Yes, yes, excellent...”

  I stare at the perfectly-coiffed back of his head, thinking of the last time we spoke. The last time I found out everything.

  He had known too, the sick bastard. Known full well that I had no idea.

  It was clear in the smile playing on his face as he said it, “I can’t get in touch with Carlos, but you’ll tell him the latest shipment of girls came in, won’t you?”

  And, as my mouth formed a shocked “o,” his follow-up question was just digging the knife in deeper, “Oh, damn, you did know, didn’t you?”

  I had walked out of the office without a word, my mind swirling already.

  Now, Clarence is facing the window, but after a minute he swivels his chair around.

  “You got it,” he continues, his gaze on me, “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Pressing business.”

  He hangs up the phone and gives me a pearly white grin.

  “Torrie. Wondering when I’d get to see you next.”

  His gaze flicks to Jane.

  “Aw, and you brought Jan too.”

  His gaze flicks to my lips.

  “It’s Jane,” I say, looking away, “Is everyone here? I want to call a meeting.”

  Clarence tilts his head at me, a smirk playing on his lips like I’ve said something funny.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes,” I say, “I have something important to discuss with everyone.”

  “Well,” Clarence says, getting up and closing the door behind me, “I wouldn’t say that everyone-everyone is here.”

  As he sits back down in his seat, he runs a hand through his hair.

  I step back.

  “Ok, then I’d like to talk with whomever is here then. If it’s just you, then so be it.”

  Another one of Clarence’s pearly white grins.

  “Flattering but it isn’t just me.”

  He does a full rotation in his chair. When he stops, his body is facing me and his gaze is back on my lips.

  “Though it could be. What’s this about?”

  “I’m going to discuss it with everyone to save time.”

  Clarence rises, glides over to me, and, resting a hand on my back, says in a low voice, “Hey, is something the matter?”

  Jane starts growling. Clearly her feelings toward Clarence are the same as mine.

  I inhale, then exhale.

  The words, “I’m only putting up with this because you're my dad’s favorite lieutenant,” are halfway up my throat before I swallow them down.

  I stride to the door, open it.

  “Have everyone meet in the boardroom in 10 minutes,” I say, leaving without another look.

  As I head to the bright airy room at the end of the hallway, the boardroom, my thoughts beat inside my head angrily. I dismiss them.

  But flopping into the black suede seat at the head of the table only sets them free.

  I shouldn’t have had Clarence be the one to get the others. But I still don’t feel comfortable around my dad’s other lieutenants. Everything I say I can feel Anthony and Roger half-listening, like Clarence only worse – without the veneer of pretend. They know I have no idea what I’m doing.

  Jane is beside my chair, and I lean down to pet her.

  Ugh, I can’t stand Clarence. Whenever I’m around him I get the unmistakable sense that there’s something not right about him.

  I get out my phone, but it’s as empty as ever. Still no text from the man last night, nothing.

  We never even told each other our names, and I’m actually expecting him to want to see me again?

  So we both like “War and Peace” and had crazy kinky sex, big deal. I saw his muscles, felt the pull of his cocky aggression. He probably has a lineup as long as this building of girls he does that with.

  I shove my phone in my back pocket.

  I won’t check it until tonight, otherwise I’m going to drive myself crazy.

  Here I am running an empire and yet waiting for some guy to call me like I’m a high school girl. Pathetic.

  I’m almost happy to see Clarence coming through the door, followed by Anthony and Roger.

  My momentary relief is rapidly quashed: Anthony’s face is a turgid puddle of sweat, while Roger’s bulgy gaze is flicking all over the room suspiciously.

  They take their seats at the far end of the table, and I take a deep breath.

  Here goes nothing.

  I stand up.

  “As you know, my father has put me in charge.”

  They all nod, their puzzled faces reflecting my own thoughts: Why the hell would I say that? I’ve been in charge for over a month now, have talked to them several times. It’s like undermining my own leadership.

  Just breathe Torrie.

  I inhale, then exhale.

  “For years, we’ve been involved in trafficking and we’ve gotten damn good at it. We’ve even started to cut into the Rebel Saints’ shipments. Business is good.”

  They all nod. Great. Just what am I trying to convince these guys of anyway?

  “Yes, business is good, for now. But lately we’ve been getting reckless. Stealing the Rebel Saints’ shipment was profitable, but risky. I think it’s safe to say they’re going to plan some kind of retaliation. It’s only a matter of time.”

  More half-listening nods.

  I don’t blame them. I’m stating the obvious.

  “So, I think we should step up security. Hire a few more guys to guard the Factory. And...”

  I pause. They’re all half-listening, but that’s just because they haven’t heard what I’m about to say next.

  “And look into alternative options of revenue.”

  Sure enough, all three sit up in their seats like I’ve just shot them with 1000 watts of electricity.

  I nod, a feeling of relief washing over me.

  There, I said it. What I’ve wanted to ever since I found out just what we’ve been doing so well at.

  “Why improve on what we already have?”

  Clarence’s tone is easy, even his face looks only mildly amused. On the other hand, Anthony’s mustache is inverted in rage, while Roger’s eyes look all but ready to beam out of his head.

  I keep my gaze on Clarence.

  “Because it’s dangerous. And it’s wrong.”

  I fall silent, surprised at the strident tone that was my own.

  Clarence is unmoved, starts spinning his golden C-monogrammed pen.

  “You seemed fine with it when your family Disney World vacations and Cancun getaways were funded with it.”

  “I didn’t know then,” I say, “And now that’s not the point anyway.”

  “It’s what we’re good at. What we’ve mastered,” Anthony protests, standing up himself.

  The brown bristles of his mustache are quivering, and sweat is beading on his forehead.

  “I know,” I say, “But we can get
good at something else, master something else.”

  “Do you know how long it has taken us to build up the business to what it is today? How much it took?” Roger demands, standing up too, his own bulging eyes answering the question.

  I sit down, spread my arms.

  “I’m not saying we change everything tomorrow. All I’m saying is that we should start looking into alternative means of generating income.”

  Neither Anthony nor Roger sits down.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Clarence says, still in his leaned-back position, clasping his hands, twirling his pen in his hand now, “All Torrie is saying is that we have to look into it. That’s all. An actual change could be years down the road.”

  When Anthony and Roger sit down, they are still glaring at me.

  I shoot Clarence a grateful look.

  His timeline may be way lengthier than what I have in mind, but clearly, I’m going to have to break this to the men gently or risk an all-out rebellion.

  “Oh, and Torrie?” Clarence says, leaning so his clasped hands are on the table, “Out of interest, what does your father think of all this?”

  I glare at him.

  “I mean it was he himself, after all, who built our empire from the ground up. Who had the brilliant idea of including the trafficking at all.”

  “I’m going to talk to him about it,” I say coldly.

  The silence sprinkles the inferences of what Clarence said all around. That I have no idea what I’m doing. And that I haven’t consulted the one person who does – my father.

  Roger jumps up.

  “You don’t even know anything about it – about the girls, about just how much money we make – anything.”

  I stare at him for a second, my mind blank with the truth of his words, and he storms out of the room without another word.

  I glance to Anthony, whose sweat bead is finally rolling down his face, then Clarence, who meets my eye with a smug flick of his lips.

  Now it’s my turn to snarl, “That may be so, but I will. And my orders stand: I want us looking into other sources of revenue: restaurants, clubs, wind energy, whatever the hell is profitable and doable.”

  Anthony and Clarence rise. Clarence turns to me, still with that smug smirk I want to smack off his face.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  He and Anthony leave me to my turbid thoughts and the infuriating sight of the monogrammed pen Clarence left.

  I pick up Clarence’s pen and heave it across the room. It hits our Award of Excellence, the fake plaque Papa paid the city councilor to give us for our “Service to the Community.”

  More of the same old lies. Just like that bastard Clarence. He tricked me.

  I stand up, then breathe in, then out.

  I have to be careful. If I push my lieutenants too hard, I’ll drive them straight into Carlos’ arms. Or worse – even into the Rebel Saints’.

  The loyalty their leader Gavin inspires is already renowned. I can only imagine what he’d do at a chance for some of our men, especially after Carlos bought out their guy Kyle for a cost he still won’t admit.

  My phone beeps, and I check it eagerly.

  Finally.

  My face falls as soon as I see the sender of the text.

  Clarence: I’ll be in my office if you need me ;)

  I shove my phone in my bag, stomp out the door.

  Screw that smug pig Clarence. Screw all of them.

  I stride down the hallway, locking my gaze on the elevator until I’m in it.

  Roger may be right that I don’t know much about what we do, about the sex trafficking, but he won’t be for long. I’m going to do precisely what I’ve been avoiding doing for weeks, ever since I found out. I’m going to look the horror straight in the face. I’m going to the Factory.

  Chapter 9 - Gavin

  As soon as I wake up, I scramble out of bed and to my feet. I know. I can’t sit on this any longer.

  I need to find Hannah. Nothing is going to be okay until I know she is.

  Even last night was ruined by it. All the girls being up to par, Jaws and I enjoying a late-night Angel cake, even him offering me a go with his cousin from out-of-town, all of it was tarnished by it. Her absence casts a shadow over everything.

  I throw myself into some clothes, shove the electric toothbrush over my teeth and gums – 50 seconds for each part, because I don’t have time to appease Momma. If I don’t find Hannah, nothing else matters.

  As I grab my phone, that stupid paper with her number slips out. By now I practically know it by heart: 416-747-1111.

  I shove it in my pocket.

  I’m not calling her now, maybe not ever. The last thing I need now is more problems.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry out the door to my bike. Though getting on it, finally moving as fast as my thoughts are racing, is no relief.

  I need to be at Hannah’s university, talking to her friends, finding her— now.

  Soon is not fast enough when she may be in danger, maybe even...

  I glare at a lone pizza joint that comes into focus as I roar down the street.

  Stupid Italian filth. The Piccolos should’ve stuck to making pizza and spaghetti, not tried their hand at the trafficking business. The Rebel Saints have been the undisputed leaders for girls here for decades. And now, as if messing with our shipments wasn’t enough, they might’ve done something to Hannah...

  I squeeze the gas on the handlebar.

  I need to keep going, keep pushing – fast, faster. I can’t stop, can’t pause. Not even for a minute. I can’t stop because then I might not be able to keep going.

  God, please don’t let me lose her, too.

  The upcoming light somehow goes from green to red, and I hit the gas.

  As I speed through, my little just-in-time traffic light clearing attracts the attention of some of Toronto’s finest.

  The white wailing cop duo behind me only makes me hit the gas harder.

  For the police, it’s an unfair game of cat and mouse. After all, only half the players are aware of their role. The poor mice police have no idea they’re chasing the cat.

  They don’t understand that they don’t stand a chance. I have nothing to lose and the world is my road. The sidewalk is only a road messy with slow people and inconvenient posts. Bike lanes are a get-out-of-jail free card. The opposite lane is only a free road to watch out for oncoming cars.

  Traffic’s got my back too: long bumper to hood lines of cars, leaving spaces beside each other just wide enough for a motorcycle rider who doesn’t mind taking out a side mirror or two.

  And so the police chase me, every block falling further behind, as I turn, twist and roar further out of their grasp.

  By the time I pull into Hannah’s driveway, I lost the cops five or so blocks back.

  Poor guys. Though maybe if I told them they’d understand. That I have to find my sister, and there’s no time to waste.

  Hannah’s doorbell’s a song and her roommate’s sassy.

  “Yeah, she sent me a weird text too,” she says, waving her purple nails back and forth, “She probably dipped for a bit, wanted to get away from Toronto.”

  She throws me a significant purple-lidded look to indicate the unsaid: And her over controlling brother.

  I give her a “fuck you” smile back.

  I just check in from time to time to make sure Hannah is okay. By the looks of it, I haven’t been checking in enough...

  I step forward, ask, “Can I come in?”

  The roommate – who I’m pretty sure is named Sam - lets my question hang for a good while, pretends to think about it, before sighing and saying, “Fine.”

  I give her another middle finger of a smile as I come in.

  “Are you sure she’d... Hey!” she protests as I walk straight to Hannah’s room.

  I swing open the door and stop.

  Something is very wrong.

  “Hey, what the hell – you’re not even going to ask? Y
ou’re not her dad you know,” Miss Feminism 101 spouts.

  I stare blankly at the clean room. Yes. Something is very, incredibly, undeniably wrong.

  “You see her pack up or anything?” I ask.

  “No,” she says.

  “You’ve seen her room?”

  “No, I...” her bitch voice trails off at the sight that had rendered me speechless.

  Spotless. Hannah’s room is bare-floored, closet-closed clean. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen any room she’s ever been in for more than five minutes.

  There’s no way Hannah left her room like this.

  “Oh,” the roommate says.

  I round on her.

  “Who’s been in here?”

  “I don’t know. No one. Maybe she just...” her voice dies away again at the ridiculousness of what she’s trying to suggest.

  I go in and start ripping open drawers. The roommate stalks in beside me, gets up in my face.

  “Hey, I don’t think-”

  I stride past her, throw open the closet doors to see everything hanging up neatly.

  “This isn’t Hannah and you know it. Now, who did you let in?”

  “No one. Maybe it was her boyfriend or something. Fuck you,” she says, storming away.

  I follow her into the kitchen, which looks more like Hannah’s domain: towers of dishes and tiny pink Post-its everywhere.

  “What boyfriend?”

  The roommate – who I can now see based on some congratulations letter on the fridge really is named Sam – flops into a chair.

  “Oh, didn’t she tell you?” she asks casually.

  She opens up a pizza box on the table, takes one for herself, pauses, then, turning to me, asks, “Want one?”

  I sit down, slam the pizza box shut, grab her slice – and freeze.

  Sam is frozen, trembling, afraid.

  God, she’s just a kid. Just like Hannah.

  I release the pizza, clasp my hands on the table, then reclasp them.

  “Sorry. Sam – listen – this is really important. I have some enemies and this isn’t like Hannah at all to go disappearing. You saw her room. Please. I need to know everything you know.”

  Sam exhales, nods, her droopy eyes seeming to droop further with my words.

  “I’m sorry, too. It was just these past few weeks. She’d have him here sometimes, this tall Italian guy. They always seemed to be having fun together, but she made me promise not to tell you.”