“I expect you to be respectful of my privacy.” He checked off another item on the menu. “What did you leave out of the earlier reasons for wanting to move in with me?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t like living with Mom.”
“You always said I was stricter than her.”
“Yeah, but at least you don’t change the rules all the time.”
He laid his order sheet down again, finally feeling like he was getting to the crux of the situation. “How so?”
She met his gaze, her blue eyes intense. “Pat says something, and it’s suddenly the best idea ever, even if it’s something I’ve been saying for a while. Or if Pat doesn’t like a rule, it gets changed, even if it’s been the rule. And the Goober can get away with murder, but I get nailed to the wall for nothing. I’d rather live with you. I know where I stand, and if you tell me no, you’ll actually sit down and explain why and not say, ‘Because I said so.’ You’re consistent and fair and I feel like you hear me when we talk, even if I don’t agree with you.”
This had been a point of contention during their marriage, too. That Tracey wasn’t consistent, and it fell to Brandon to enforce the rules.
And to create the rules.
And define the rules.
“You’re also mellow.” Emma erased a selection and picked something else. “I can relax when I’m at home with you.”
“I make you do chores.”
“I know. And when I do them, they’re done. You don’t invent a thousand reasons why they’re not perfect and make me keep redoing them. I do the dishes at your house, they’re done. Boom. I do them at Mom’s, and suddenly I’m apparently one step away from triggering a visit from the health department.”
“Pat?”
She nodded.
He suspected part of the problem was that Pat wasn’t the brightest bulb, and Brandon’s daughter was not only a swimming phenom, but she also took AP classes. At her current rate, she’d probably graduate high school with an AA degree in college as well.
Pat was the assistant manager at a fast food restaurant, and had been for years.
He was also fifty-five, fourteen years older than Brandon.
It wouldn’t be beyond the realm of impossibility that Brandon’s intelligent daughter intimidated Pat.
Not that there was anything wrong with the guy being an assistant manager at a fast-food restaurant, but Brandon suspected Pat had hit a glass ceiling of his own creation, whether by laziness or ineptitude or downright stupidity.
Or a combination of any or all of the three.
“You realize the house isn’t going to magically be finished overnight, right? You going to mind living in a construction zone for a while?”
She gave him “that” look. “And who helped you with the drywall in your bedroom and mine?”
“I’m simply reminding you.”
“It’s fine, Dad. I don’t mind. Unfinished or not, our house feels like a home, at least. Unlike Mom’s, where most of the time I feel like I’m not even wanted.” She scowled. “It stopped feeling like a home when you left. It always feels like home when I’m with you.”
He pushed back the wave of guilt he felt trying to work its way in. “We’ll have to share a bathroom until I get the master bath finished.” He had a functioning toilet and sink in his master bath, but he still needed to get the shower tiled, and finish the walls and floor.
“I don’t care. I’ll have a bedroom I won’t have to worry about being snooped on. In. On?”
“In. I’m your father. If I want to inspect your room, I will.”
“I know that, but at least you let me sit there while you do it. You don’t sneak in like the stupid Goober.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“He’s creepy.”
They finished their orders and waited for the waitress to return. “If you’re living with me full-time, you’ll have chores, homework time, bedtime—all of those rules enforced. Just like now, only more because you’re home.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” He extended his hand over the table to shake with her. “Next week, you talk to your mom.”
“Why can’t I do it this week?”
“Because I want you to go through next weekend first. You’ll probably have a hard enough time on the boat without that extra stress. Or if you have fun—”
“I won’t.”
“—then you can hold off on the talk with her.”
“Oh. Can we buy me seasick medicine, too?”
“Sure, but won’t your mom buy you some?”
She rolled her eyes. “Pat insists I’m making it up. That I’m being a drama queen.”
“Pat never had you puke all over him on the It’s a Small World ride at Disney, either.”
* * * *
When they returned home, it was nearly seven. “No TV until homework’s done,” he said as he unlocked the front door.
“I know.” She paused before going in, staring up at him. “I mean it, Dad. I want to live with you. Even if you were twice as strict as you are now.”
She hugged him before she headed inside, leaving him standing there and watching her head down the hall toward her room to dump her overnight bag with her clothes in it.
Wow.
He knew there had to be more to the story than he’d heard, maybe stuff she didn’t even know, but good luck trying to get it out of Tracey and Pat.
Aiming for the kitchen, he tried to ignore the patio furniture currently serving as his living room suite and the echo of his shoes on the bare concrete floors. He didn’t want his good furniture getting ruined by drywall dust.
He’d bought the house from a bank eight months earlier, a short sale property that the previous occupants had trashed.
Meaning he’d purchased the rambling five-bedroom, three-bath, one-car-garage house for a fraction of its value. And it had a pool, a large one sufficient for Emma to swim laps in, and a large fenced-in backyard. The house was nearly thirty years old, but the roof had been replaced five years earlier.
His bedroom, Emma’s bedroom, and the hall bath that was Emma’s bathroom were the first rooms he’d focused on.
Especially Emma’s.
And yes, she had pitched in, loving the fact that he’d shown her how to drive the drywall screws in just deep enough not to rip the paper, how to work the mud over the seams and screws, and how to wet-sand them to prep for paint.
She’d gotten to pick the paint and flooring she’d wanted for her room—a laminate that looked like wood but wasn’t—and she’d helped paint and put down the flooring.
Then she’d volunteered to help him with the bathroom and his bedroom.
She’d enjoyed it.
And while it was hard work, he’d made some of the best memories he had with his daughter.
She’d even insisted on him moving out of his duplex apartment sooner than he’d planned to, not caring that the house wasn’t “finished.” Her logic was that he could use the money for finishing the house, not dumping it into rent.
Which was a valid point.
He was doing the work himself. Where it would get tricky would be replacing the kitchen cabinets. He’d already placed the IKEA order for them, but the install would be him and Emma, and maybe a few friends. They still had the section of cabinet holding the sink in place, but he’d ripped everything else out already. The small dining room table he’d had at the duplex was currently doing double duty as counter space. The freestanding stove was old, but functional, although he planned to replace it and the fridge after he got the kitchen done.
Tracey still lived in the house they’d been renting while he was married to her. At least that was another plus, he hadn’t had to untangle ownership of a home during their divorce.
After washing out his lunch stuff and setting it in the drainer to dry, he turned and stared at the space. Before, a free-standing island had separated the dining room and kitchen areas. He was going to replicate the layout, because
it’d worked for him. The cabinets should be ready in a few weeks, and would be shipped to him.
Then the “fun” of installation would begin.
The renovation wasn’t going as fast as he’d hoped it would, but it felt damned good to know when it was finished that the house would easily be worth fifty grand more than he’d both paid for it and had sunk into it for the remodel.
That was a nice bit of equity he could tap into if he needed it for Emma’s college expenses without touching his own retirement funds.
Lord knew Tracey and Pat would be worthless in that department.
Emma returned from her room with her school backpack and set up at the table to do her work. She wasn’t the only one with homework to do. He’d left work a little early today to pick her up from school, meaning he hadn’t had time to finish going through sales reports. He was a district manager for a bulk warehouse chain, supervising five stores between Sarasota and Ft. Myers. He’d been with them for twenty years, working his way up from stock boy to assistant manager, to store manager, to where he was now.
Not bad for a guy who didn’t earn his college degree until he was in his thirties.
By the time nine o’clock rolled around, both of them had finished with what they needed to do, but she had to get to bed.
“What time do we need to be out of here in the morning?” he asked.
“Five.”
“You’re killing me, Smalls,” he teased, making her laugh at the familiar line.
He hugged her and sent her on her way. He’d take his shower once she was in bed for the night. Once he heard the shower running, he grabbed his tablet and pulled up FetLife. There was going to be a rope demo at Venture this Saturday afternoon that he’d like to catch, if possible.
Emma wouldn’t be with him that weekend, meaning maybe he could get out to the club. He hated going up to the Toucan in St. Pete. Not that there was anything wrong with the place, but he’d yet to meet anyone there who he clicked with who was looking for long-term.
And many of them were there just for fun and fucking, not serious kink or relationships.
He’d tried online dating, and that hadn’t been successful, either. The only guy who came close wasn’t thrilled with the possibility of sharing a house with a teenage girl full-time, if—like now—Emma decided to move in with him.
That made the guy a total non-starter, as far as Brandon was concerned.
Love him, that meant accepting he was a package deal.
Sure, he could find Tops who were nice guys and interested in him, except he was a Dom himself.
Long-term, he needed a guy who had a job, was happy being on the bottom, and who didn’t mind the fact that Brandon came with a pre-made family.
And who, hopefully, wasn’t allergic to drywall dust.
Chapter Two
Jeff sat on the stool by the workbench and kept his mouth shut as he watched Brooke adjust the carburetor on his 1958 Edsel Corsair. It was running a little rough, but the engine had just been rebuilt and the timing was fine. Brooke had immediately zeroed in on the carb as the latest problem the troublesome car had sprouted. Another shop had done the engine rebuild, a friend of a guy at work who ran a machine shop in Sarasota. Jeff had done the R&R himself, but when he couldn’t get the carb to act right, he’d opted to wave the white flag and bring it to Brooke.
Whom he admitted he should have brought the car to in the first place.
He hated to admit that he didn’t know much about carb systems, especially on old vehicles, but the majority of his training had been on fuel injection systems.
“So how did you end up with this, again?” she asked over the sound of the engine.
“It was my grandfather’s. My dad held on to it and I bought it from him a few years back. This is the first chance I’ve had to put money into it.”
“The paint’s in great shape.”
“It sat in a garage all these years. I’m actually shocked the upholstery’s good.”
“What are you going to do with it once the restoration’s finished?”
“Keep it. I’d like to drive it on occasion. To car shows and stuff.”
“Don’t see many Edsels around here.”
“That’s what everyone tells me. I thought about selling it, but I thought you know, I’m going to rock this bitch. Maybe it’s not a Mustang or a Stingray or something sexy, but dammit, it’s an oddball. Like me.”
She smiled as she nodded. After making one final adjustment, she closed the hood, got behind the wheel, and backed it out of the service bay to take it on the third test drive it’d had in the past thirty minutes.
He’d actually embarrassed himself trying to explain the Teletouch shifter system to her when he’d brought it in, and she’d smiled, patted his arm, and stopped him mid-sentence, suggesting he take a look at how the wires for the shifter system were routed and maybe move them or make sure he wrapped them, because that was a common problem with those particular Edsels.
She really did know her classic cars.
Maybe I’m in over my head.
He’d already completely overhauled the brake system, and now the engine. Next up was detailing the exterior and interior. He had thought about putting money into having the interior redone, but since it was original and in such great shape, he decided to leave it.
He understood why some people liked to customize classic cars, but he didn’t. He wanted this one left as original as possible.
She returned a couple of minutes later, pulling it back into the service bay, where she shut it off and got out. “It seems to be running fine now. Why don’t you take it for a longer drive and let me know if I need to adjust it again?”
“When do you close?”
“In an hour.”
“Okay. Thanks. Is my truck okay parked there?” He’d brought the Edsel in on a car hauler trailer borrowed from another friend of his.
“Yeah, it’s fine. So when are you going to start coming to dinner with us and the gang?”
He shrugged. “I decided after my last two relationship failures that maybe I should stick to Edsels.” He smiled. “At least people expect them to be failures.”
“We keep telling you you’re not fishing in the right pond. Come to dinner with us on Saturday. We’re going to the club after. If nothing else, it’ll get you out of the house. And there’s a rope demo we’re going to before dinner, if you’d like. It’s at the club, too.”
Brooke and her two guys, Justin and Cody, were members of the BDSM club there in Sarasota, and regulars at the Suncoast Society munches. Which is how he’d put two and two together and realized she and her guys were kinky. He’d happened to go to one of the munches, and the triad was there.
He’d already known her from her work on classic cars, after meeting her through the car club that she and her two men frequented.
“It’s just that I’m starting to think my guy picker is as faulty as Ford’s marketing department was.”
“That’s why you need to come out to dinner with us.” She smiled. “Our treat, seriously. We have a babysitter, so we’re planning on making full use of our evening. We’ll be there until Venture closes. You got anything better to do?”
“Not really.”
“Then we’ll see you at the rope demo. Now go test drive that beast and let me know how it’s doing.”
He backed it out of the service bay and headed down the street away from her shop. Already, he could feel a massive difference in the car’s performance. After twenty minutes, he was more than satisfied, and drove it back to Brooke’s, where he parked it behind the car hauler.
She walked out to greet him. “Well?”
“I’m happy. How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s go add it up.”
He followed her into the office where she finished tallying the bill. “I really appreciate you fitting me in,” he said. “I know you have a waiting list.” He handed over his credit card for her to run.
“Glad I could hel
p. Lucky for you, we finished one job a lot earlier than I’d anticipated and had free time on the schedule.”
“I need to learn how to work on that carb.”
“It’s definitely a dying skill set in some areas.” She returned his card and had him sign the receipt and the work order.
“I don’t think I’ve seen a single carb in the dealership since I’ve been there. Then again, I’ve only been doing this for five years now.”
“What’d you do before?”
“Drywall. Didn’t pay very well. Family business, too. So I saved up and went to tech school.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “No offense, but you’re the first tech your age I’ve met who can’t work on a carb.”
“It’s on my to-learn list.”
She handed him his copy of the receipt. “We deal with them all the time. Any time you want to come spend a day working with us…” She smiled.
“I think you all would probably wear my ass out.”
“I think you’re probably right. So, Saturday?”
He carefully folded the papers in his hand. “I guess it can’t hurt to get shot down in front of friends for a change, huh?”
“Who says you’re going to get shot down?”
“I’ve gotten pretty good at being rejected.” He pointed at himself, circling his finger. “Heartache spoken here. Fluently.”
She reached for the receipt and wrote a phone number on the back before returning it to him. “That’s my personal cell. Call me if you have questions about Saturday. Stop thinking fatalistically. You don’t know you’ll get shot down. Sounds like you really need to get out, period.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“Then meet us at the rope demo Saturday. A night out with friends, talking, if nothing else.”
He slowly nodded. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
After saying good-bye, he walked out and loaded the Edsel on the trailer to get it home.
Right now, home was an older rental house east of downtown Sarasota. Small, two bedrooms and one bath, it had a one-car garage—and that was the Edsel’s home.
Heartache Spoken Here Page 2
