Page 3 of Tainted Love

He shakes his head with supreme annoyance. It’s all part of our own special father-daughter routine. He does something stupid. I bend over backward (sometimes literally) to get him out of it. He claims he’ll never fuck up again, promises me the world, and I reset the days-since-the-last-accident counter back to zero.

“You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so damn talented, I’d have dumped you out on the street already.”

He doesn’t mean a word of it, of course. He’s just angry. Not at me, at himself.

“Such lovely words for the daughter you’re asking a huge favor of,” I argue, holding my rage at bay. “I think I’ll take in a movie tonight instead. That new Bruckberg flick is playing downtown.”

His eyes droop. “Lucy…”

“Calm down, Dad.” I tilt my neck until it pops. “I’ll go with him.”

“Thank you,” he says slowly, heaving a thin, regretful sigh. “It’s just one night.”

“Just one night.” I turn to my locker. “Let me put on some pants first.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

He spins around and walks out. Head down. Eyes barely open to hide his shame.

Fucking hell, Dad. He owes money to some “bad people.” Again. If I know my father, it’s all gambling debt. Mafia gambling debt. Every damn penny of it. He’s got a knack for losing at poker. And blackjack. And horse racing. If you can lose even a single penny at it, you can bet your sorry ass my father has chanced it and failed.

I never understood why my mother spoke so harshly about him when I was a child. Back then, he was Terrance Vaughn. The Terrance Vaughn. Chicago’s very own dancing sensation until about fifteen years ago when he busted his ankle and hung up his dancing shoes for good. He started the Vaughn Company after that to train the next generation of ballet dancers to take on the world and I’ve basically lived here ever since.

It would have been a happily ever after for all of us if the damn Italian mafia didn’t own the neighborhood it sat on.

I was thirteen years old when I discovered my father’s gambling problem. My parents did a decent job of keeping it quiet until the day my mother walked out on us. Apparently, he drained her entire savings and blew it all on one hand of five-card stud.

Full house. Aces over kings.

I haven’t seen her since. I get a phone call here and there on birthdays and major holidays. It used to hurt. A lot. Why didn’t she take me with her if my father was so horrible and irresponsible? Then, I realized the obvious…

Because she was worse.

My father is a world-class fuck-up, but he’s never abandoned me. I’m not about to abandon him either.

I strip off my leotard and tights and slip into a pair of jeans and a black blouse I find stashed in the back of my locker. No sense in getting all dolled up if it’s just going to be on the floor of some weirdo’s dirty bedroom in an hour. I cringe at the thought.

I run a brush through my hair and slam the locker closed before going outside to meet my father in the hall.

“Smile,” he whispers as he leads me toward his office.

I lick my lips to loosen them and throw on the most adorable face I can while flipping him the bird.

He sighs and pushes his office door open. I hesitate for a moment before stepping inside, preparing myself for the worst. I picture a mighty, ugly man with proud scars all over his face and blubber about his waist. Yet another one of those sour Chicago gangsters who loves mama’s spaghetti just a bit too much.

My eyes fall on him and I pause. He stands up from the chair in front of my father’s desk, casually sliding his cell phone into his breast pocket as he moves. His gaze travels the length of me as mine bounces down his. He’s younger than I thought he’d be, probably not a day over thirty. Tall with short, ash brown hair, tanned skin, and a clear face — not a scratch on it meaning he’s either very new or very, very good at his job.

“Hello, Ms. Vaughn,” he greets me. His voice is dark, low, and fiercely American. He wasn’t born in old Italy and imported later, that’s for sure.

“Hello,” I say. My father nudges my back. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

He steps forward and extends his hand. “My name is Dante Hart.”

I fix my eyes in my skull to stop them from rolling back into oblivion.

Dante? Hart? Is this guy for real?

I throw on a pleasant smile and lay my fingers in his. I half expect him to lean over and kiss them like the schmuck he is, but he shakes my hand instead. I squeeze his knuckles tighter than he squeezes mine and his eyebrow twitches.

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