Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
He stares at me, trying to read my poker face. I stare right back.
After a beat, Gerald sighs, shoulders sagging. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Shit.”
I soften, just a hair. “You’re a good dad. But sometimes you have to trust your kids.”
He nods, distracted. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back to the game before those jackals eat all the jerky. Thanks, bud, for listening. You have no idea of the conversations Nancy and I have had. We’re a mess.”
I clap a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m here for you, my friend.”
But as we exit the kitchen, the words are sour in my mouth because obviously, I’m lying. Maybe I’m not married, but I am the man sleeping with his young daughter. Would Gerald kill me if he found out? I don’t know about that, but it wouldn’t be fun, that’s for sure. As we sit back at the table, deal the next hand, and the noise ramps up again, I can feel his eyes on me, checking for cracks.
Shit. If there’s a war on, it just went hot.
Poker night ends the way it always does: empty beer bottles, crumpled napkins, the smoke of spent cigars and money in the air. My living room is a wreck of folding chairs, sticky glass rings, and a drift of salty crumbs across the carpet. Gerald and the others peeled out an hour ago, Brent vowing never to let me “shark” him again, Ken’s laugh echoing down the driveway.
I run the dishwasher and throw the windows open to the brittle March air. On the wall, a squadron of die-cast fighter jets—my one “decorative” concession—catches the moonlight. A model of the F-16, battered and missing a wingtip, stares down at me like a one-eyed prophet.
I’m halfway through stacking the chips when the doorbell rings, once, hard and fast.
Three knocks, one after the other, like gunfire.
My first thought is “Gerald, round two,” but when I check the peephole, all I see is a blonde blur and the shine of a phone screen. What? Why is Eliza here? Sure enough, when I open the door, my gorgeous girl hurls herself inside: hair wild, face streaked with mascara, parka unzipped over pajamas and slippers. She’s clutching a pink duffel bag with both hands, knuckles white.
“Oh, shit. Baby, what—”
She barrels further into the house as I shut the door, worried. Did Gerald go home and confront her? Did he continue our conversation with his daughter? Oh shit, oh shit.
For a moment, the beautiful blonde just stands there, chest heaving with a distraught look on her delicate features. All I can do is stare.
“Are you okay, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” I ask.
She drops the duffel and grabs my arm. “Can I stay here tonight? Please?”
I don’t hesitate. “Of course. But are you okay? What happened?”
Eliza shakes her head, and now the tears come in earnest, hot and primal. She hugs herself, sleeves pulled over her hands. The smell of her perfume—mesmerizing, as usual—cuts through the leftover cigar smoke. She’s so raw it hurts to look at her.
I steer her to the couch, clear off the poker chips, and wrap her in an old Air Force blanket. She tucks her knees under her chin and hides her face. For a minute, all I can do is sit next to the young woman, rubbing small circles on her back, the silence broken only by her hitched breaths.
Finally, Eliza lifts her head, and her eyes are pure devastation.
“It was my mom,” she says. “She found it.”
A cold chill runs up my spine. “Found what?”
She presses her lips together, furious at herself. “The lingerie. I bought this new set, you know, for… for you. I was so stupid! I hid it in my closet, but she was looking for my old swim gear and found the bag. She opened it and saw everything. She went ballistic.”
I pause for a moment, nodding at a pink plastic bag she’s retrieved from her duffel.
“Is lingerie really that terrible though?”
Eliza’s shoulders slump.
“It’s sexy lingerie, Jack, that I bought to wear for you. It’s bad because I usually wear plain cotton stuff. You know I do. But I wanted to spice things up so I went to a fancy boutique and picked up stuff that’s definitely risqué.”
Despite the severity of the situation, I harden a bit in my pants.
“Show me.”
With slow fingers, Eliza opens the bag and pulls out a red bra that’s made of sheer lace. It’s strappy and delicate, offering no support whatsoever. Not only that, but it’s obvious her nipples would show through the lace. This isn’t a bra made for coverage - it’s made the eyes of a man, and I love it.
But I need to stay serious given my girl’s despair.
“Okay, what else?”
“I bought the matching panties too,” Eliza whispers in an agonized voice. She pulls out a scrap of red lace before holding it up, and immediately, I see why her mom was floored. The thong isn’t much more than a postage-stamp sized square of fabric with string attached to it. It’s a clit patch at most, and there’s no way Eliza would wear the item for comfort or coverage. Of course, I love it, and can’t wait to see my girl prancing around with nothing but a clit patch on, boobies bouncing, but this isn’t the time to be sketchy.