Daddy
Wealth can be a burden.
I know—simply having that thought that makes me the biggest dick in the world, but I’m right. I’m almost always right. Not a boast, just the truth.
I grew up poor. Dirt poor, I believe, is the term my mother used. As worthless as the earth churned up under my shoeless feet as I ran through the barren fields of our family’s farm. Dry, dusty land that proved uninhabitable for not only crops, but for me. When I was sixteen, I left the Midwest and headed to the place I’d been fantasizing about, my only knowledge of the outside world borrowed from our shitty television.
New York City.
I didn’t know much, but I knew if anyone could make it in this world, I could. I would succeed in this life purely because my stubborn son-of-a-bitch ass refused to do otherwise. I started washing dishes in the kitchen of the poshest place that would take me—the Greenwich Hotel. My willingness to work twelve-hour days quickly paid off and I rose to server status. Invisible, I’d work the floor, delivering fifty dollar steaks that would only be half eaten to the business men that run this city. I would listen, observe, make mental notes.
I began to hear one surname mentioned over and over again. Bachman. I wanted to know more about the powerful people that truly held the keys to the city. And I wanted an education. The wealthy men all seemed to be involved in the same industry: technology. I took online classes, finding I had a gift with computers. I kept rising up the ranks in the service industry, eventually becoming a bartender at the Bachman Family’s rooftop bar in the Village, their hidden world set behind a street of brownstone shops and businesses. Just stepping behind their gates was a privilege. They called us non-family service workers Bachman Friendly. And god, were they generous employees, paying us not only for our service, but for our willingness to keep our mouths shut.
I’d never seen so much money in my life.
I became obsessed with working harder, making sacrifices to rise to the top. Now, I own and run a successful tech company. Needless to say, the wealth I’ve accrued is monstrous.
Money is a fickle mistress. Every human on this earth needs a certain amount of money to feel relaxed, safe, content. If you grew up without enough food on the table, you understand. Poverty makes people feel edgy, grow desperate. There can be no peace with an empty belly.
Make money and you can feed yourself, care for your basic needs. Make a little more and you feel like you can finally breathe. Accrue wealth? Real, solid avenues of prosperity, stocks, bonds, savings, IRAs, and you gain power over your destiny. You have the ability to create a bubble of beauty and comfort.
You revel in your privilege. But there’s a line. And when you cross it, your god becomes your devil.
I make too much fucking money. Yes, to the still broke ones, there is such a thing. I promise you.
When you’re a billionaire investor in a city that literally never sleeps, you can buy anything you want. When you can afford anything you want, you’re easily bored. When I get bored, I need something to entertain me.
A pretty little toy to play with.
And how do I obtain my toys? I pay for the information. Cell phone numbers, addresses, names. Same as a luxury sports car that’s just hit the market, when I see a girl I want, I spend the money. It’s like shopping at a toy store but the stock’s limitless, flawless, and made of flesh and blood.
Last week at my favorite bar, Cue Ball, a little dive on Ninth, I was waited on by a beautiful waitress in a purple tulle tutu showing off a lip ring and a daddy’s girl tattoo. I had my people contact the bar, track her down, and give her ten grand for a night with me. Of course, my offer came with the demand she sign an NDA. I’m incredibly generous, but I have a reputation to uphold.
She accepted. The sex was hot and filthy and everything I anticipated it would be, but afterward, the heat faded fast.
The only thought left in my mind was how soon I could get her out of my bed.
Most of my escapades end like this.
It’s unnerving, feeling unfulfilled after such a great night of sex. Is there something wrong with me? Or have I just been batting with the wrong playthings?
I’ll soon know.
I’ve found a new shiny toy.
Five feet and two inches of pure perfection.
One that has me burning like never before.
Reece Bright.
She’s just like her name.
The girl is radiant. A single shining star dotting an ink-black sky. A light in this dark world. A glimmer in my black heart.
She’s a preschool teacher at Letters and Lunch, an exclusive school just down the street from me. Some of the teachers look tired by the end of the day, that worn-out look pasted on their faces. But not her.
She’s still smiling.
Average height, average build, pretty brown hair that falls perfectly around her lovely V-shaped face. You may not see it at first glance, but look closer.
She’s stunning.
Breathtaking.
Gorgeous.
The moment I first laid eyes on her I knew…
She’s mine.
I was pleasantly surprised to find her apartment was across from my building. A hovel of a place on the fifth floor of a crumbling mid-century modern monstrosity of a building that’s been hacked into tiny square apartments. I can practically smell the dank communal bath inevitably residing at the end of the dark hall.
She has a favorite spot. I’m guessing when she walked into the tiny place, her eye instantly went to the window and she told them she’d take it. She spends her time lounging behind the massive expanse of glass, seated on the sill, hugging her knees, contemplating the endless possibilities of the city.
Her hair parts down the middle and falls against her shoulders like a curtain as she tries to hide away from the world she so carefully observes.
She just turned twenty-one. I’m almost two decades older than the girl. Sinful, isn’t it? But I don’t see it that way. She’s a lost sheep in need of a shepherd.
And a good shepherd isn’t made by a boy.
She needs a big, strong man to protect her. To correct her. To care for her.
I’m that man. She just doesn’t know it yet. But she will soon.
By the end of this night.
I dress in my dark gray suit, the one that brings out the blue in my eyes. Women comment on my eye color often. I wear a starched white button-down without a wrinkle in sight. I pay for the best help in the city and I demand excellence. I study my freshly shined shoes to be sure they meet my expectations. They do. I slip them on and slip platinum cufflinks into the wrists of my shirt.
The reflection looking back at me is one of a handsome, well-dressed man with rugged good looks and a thick head of hair. A result of good genes—the only thing I inherited from my parents—and possibly all those years of fresh air and sunshine as I broke my back working my family’s useless fields. Oh, and also a result of my assistant, Ashely. She purchases my clothing, has them tailored, and books my many grooming appointments.
Tonight, I’ve had a fresh shave. I wear a new suit. All for her.
It’s all for her now. I need to look my best when I finally meet my baby in person. I ride the private elevator down from the penthouse suite. I make my way through the crowded lobby. The usual Friday night of well-dressed lawyers from Bachman & Bachman and the women desperate to snag them.
I get a few well-meaning looks my way, their dark lashes batting at me, the rise and fall of their breasts in their low-cut, curve-hugging dresses meant to draw me in, to tempt me. I give a polite nod and look away. There is only one thing that tempts me in this world now.
Her.
Leaving The West, I cross the street, bouquet in hand. Pink peonies amongst other flowers, and a little butterfly broach attached to a wire that’s stuck in the mix. A nod to the tattoo on her right ankle.
Moments later I’m at the front door of her apartment. She’s left her door unlocked. Of course she has.
Like I said, she’s in desperate need of a daddy.
Tsk. Tsk. Naughty girl.
Anyone could walk in.
I close the door silently behind me and enjoy the solace of being alone in her sanctuary. The faint scent of her lotion fills the air. Strawberries. I place the flowers on the center of the table for her to find when she returns.
She left her dinner behind. Lifting the glass, I smell the wine. It's gone bad. I lift the tray, taking it to the kitchen to wash her dishes. If you could call the cramped space a kitchen. It’s small and old, the Formica cracking at the edges, but the counters are spotless. She takes care of what little she has. Excitement rises in my chest as I smooth a sudsy rag over the glass. I’ll be the one to show her what real wine tastes like. I’ll be the one to open her very first bottle of fine wine.
There’re a few slices of sad-looking cheese forgotten on the wooden tray.
A night out drinking with the girls, and she didn’t eat a proper meal first? For shame. Everyone knows some food in your stomach helps absorb the alcohol. A good meal can be the difference between a pleasant evening out and becoming a sloppy drunk. I dry my hands and open her kitchen cabinets. The hardware is clean. The cupboards are bare. There’s a half-empty box of pasta and one can of tomato sauce. The cheapest food available, or maybe my baby craves Italian food?
I’ll take her to Naples for pasta fritters, to Rome for carbonara. I finish washing and drying the dishes and carefully put them away. A throwback to my first few months in the city, my own shitty apartment.
I return to her favorite place in the apartment, to gaze over the bright lights of the city. What’s this? Her cell phone sits out on the sill of the window. She left without it, putting her safety at risk.
Strike three.
My naughty girl is in desperate, desperate need of a daddy.
Making barely enough to pay for this apartment and her online classes, she must not have enough left over for decent food. She obviously can’t afford an entire dress because that tiny scrap of fabric she walked out of here was anything but a dress.
That will change.
Everything will change for her as soon as she accepts my proposal. I grab her phone and slip it into my pocket. I make her bed. Fold her clothes. Hold a discarded sweater up to my face and inhale. Her sweet scent lingers on my skin. I want to keep the shirt, but she might need it. I reluctantly place it in a drawer.
When I’m satisfied with the apartment, I leave.
Time to find my girl. My pulse quickens as I make my way to the street. My driver waits for me on the curb. O’Toole’s is a short ride from her place. Anticipation gathers in my chest as we grow closer.
She’s still in line when I arrive, her arms wrapped around her body to shield herself from the cold.
She should be wearing a coat. No matter. Daddy will take care of that. I flash my pass and slip into the side entrance for the VIP’s.
Or in my case, VID.
Very Impatient Daddies.
I’m a big name in this town. People are eager to please. Everyone wants a seat at my table and an invite to my annual gala, something Ashely’s forced me into, telling me I need to be involved in local charities. The NYCG, the New York Compassion Gala. It’s a fundraiser for some worthy cause, but I use it as an excuse to throw the biggest party of the year. Every year I attend solo.
This year I’d like to have my shining star on my arm.
I greet Greg the bartender, taking the tumbler of whisky he offers me. Having a drink ready for me before I even reach the bar? The gesture meets my expectations.
“Thanks.” I take a sip of the whiskey. It’s delicious. Smoky with a killer bite. Looks like Greg just made the list. I give him a nod. “See you at the Gala.”
“NYCG?” His eyes light up with pleasant surprise. “Thanks. See you then.”
The amber whiskey swirls against the sides of the glass as I wander through the club.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
There she is, having finally made it to her turn at the door. Just as gorgeous as when she left, a hint of rose on her cheeks, fresh from her travels. She gives a little shiver from the cold, and I want to wrap my jacket around her.
Not yet.
I watch as the bouncer grins at her like he’d like to eat her. Over his dead body. He snaps the pink band around her wrist deeming her drink worthy, his fingers gliding over her skin as he does.
This will be his last night working the door at O’Toole’s. He’s lucky I don’t break his hand. If he ever lays a finger on her again, I will.
Her gaze flits away from him and she makes her way through the door. She releases a heavy sigh then looks around the room for her friends. There—she’s spotted them over there on the other end of the club. Relief tinged with dread washes over her features as she tugs at the impossibly short hem of what she thinks passes for a proper dress.
It does not.
Dressed in black, possibly trying to look older than their tender age, her friends are gathered around a high-top table, drinking and giggling.
Reece joins them. Mattie—the one that’s supposed to be her best friend but stole her boyfriend—brings her in for a tight hug. I suppose I should thank Mattie for her disloyal actions. They finally knocked some sense into my Reece.
Jake Jack was a jackoff. An asshole. Not fit to breathe the same air as my princess.
One of the girls in her group lays eyes on me. I slide into the shadows. The last thing I need is some young thing with daddy issues trying to flirt with me. I’ve already got my hands full.
She’s busy with her friends. The one that noticed me slips off to the bathroom. The perfect time to make my move. Keeping my face turned, I cross the room, sliding by their table. I deposit Reece’s phone on the sticky black top without being noticed.
I find a dark corner and lean back, enjoying a sip of my drink. I’m ready to play. My finger flies over the screen.
She looks up, surprised when she hears the ding of the notification. She’d thought she left her phone at home. Grabbing it quickly, she glances around, looking for someone.
Me.
The corners of my mouth turn up in a smile.
Her eyes graze right over me. Past me. I’m hidden in the shadows. She glances back down on at the screen of her phone and reads my words. They make deep pink splotches rise on her lovely cheeks.
She’ll soon have a matching set on her ass.
I’ve told her as much via text.
Daddy knows you left your phone
And your door unlocked
And where’s your coat
Naughty girl
Daddy will have to punish you
Her hair hangs down, hiding her flushed face. I await her response.
You were in my house?!
Are you here now
She looks for me. I creep further into the shadows. I go to respond but now a man is coming up on her left. The ex?
He’s sliding an arm around her shoulder.
Heat burns through me just watching his skin touch hers.
Mine.
I want to kill him.