Page 23 of Daddy's Pretty Baby

Mr. Lancaster started then, that big body going hard beneath me.

“When did you get out?” he growled, blue eyes intense. “When did you leave the group home?”

And I was silent for a moment. Did he really want to know? It was painful relaying my past, there was nothing good to say, nothing positive, nothing girly and happy, such a contrast to my little girl life here.

“I left about a year ago,” I stated, holding my chin up. “You’re a ward of the state until you’re eighteen, and then you’re cut loose.”

Mr. Lancaster jolted once more.

“Cut loose?” he ground out. “What does that mean?”

I shrugged, trying to look casual.

“Well, we’re expected to get jobs, to support ourselves once we turn eighteen. And yeah, there are some young adult transition services, but it’s not like college was on my horizon. There’s no way college was possible,” I stated more clearly, “so I got a job at Dunkin’ Doobie to pay the rent. And I figured the waitressing would give me time to fit in art classes on the side. Maybe I’ll be a graphic designer one day, it doesn’t take that much formal training, it’s more about instinct and love for design.”

Mr. Lancaster was silent, those blue eyes shuttered.

“So you only got out of foster care a year ago?” he rumbled, that gaze piercing me.

“Not foster care,” I corrected. “I was never picked up by a family, not even a temporary one. I got out of a group home,” I reiterated again. “I lived with a bunch of kids in a government facility.”

And Mr. Lancaster shook his head again.

“Holy shit,” he ground out, almost under his breath. “You’re a much braver girl than I thought, Melly.”

And I nodded, understanding his point of view. At age twenty I’ve already lived nine lives, had a couple close brushes with death, my entire life a study in danger and hazards. No, there were no pink princesses or unicorns in Melissa Carlson’s life, no happy endings. Her experience was much different from Melly’s.

“I think,” I said slowly. “I think that’s part of the reason why I’m so adaptable, why I’m able to take to this little girl stuff like a duck to water. One, because I don’t have many options,” I acknowledged. “I can’t go back to the group home, I’ve already aged out of the shelter system and was evicted from my old apartment. And two, because I’ve been living by my wits for a long time,” I said truthfully. “To survive for the last decade, I’ve had to,” I added simply. “There was no other way, it was either man up and get smart, or bad things would happen.”

Mr. Lancaster’s big hand trailed up and down my back thoughtfully, the alpha saying nothing, merely looking at me thoughtfully.

“I see,” he said, the voice deep, those blue eyes taking me in once again, as if I was different from what he expected, someone with a past, a human being with a myriad of experiences, a lifetime of hurt under my belt. And caressing my back soothingly the again, he asked, “And what are your plans after your three months here are up?”

I took a deep breath.

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “I think I can get my job at Dunkin’ Doogie back, god knows no one wants to work there,” I said wryly. “They don’t even pay us minimum wage, did you know that? The owner’s such a cheap bastard,” I said. “But the truth is, I don’t know. The fifteen thousand from this job is gonna help a lot, it’ll tide me over until I find something. So thank you for that,” I said quickly. “Thank you, I appreciate it, especially since housesitters usually work for free, well at least for room and board only.”

And Mr. Lancaster remained silent, although a muscle twitched in his jaw, a big hand stroking up and down my back.

“I see,” was all he said again. “I see,” that deep voice rumbled.

And now, I didn’t know what to say either. My story was such a sad one that I hated sharing because it was a conversation stopper. People were stumped, feeling sorry for me and uncomfortably tongue-tied afterwards. Because what could anyone say? “I’m so sorry for your loss?” “I’m so sorry that you had such a terrible childhood?” I wish you hadn’t had to grow up in a shelter?” The truth was that my past made everyone uneasy, people were always biting their lips, eyes shifting back and forth, paralyzed by the misery. And I hated making people uncomfortable, so most times I said nothing.

So I smiled wryly then, and tried to wriggle off Mr. Lancaster’s lap.

“Now you know,” I said breezily, like it was no big deal although there was a lump in my throat as big as a bread roll, making it difficult to swallow. “Now you know.”

And to my chagrin, to my utter horror, tears started falling. Tears started welling in my eyes and coursing down my cheeks like I was a waterslide, the hot rivulets dripping off my chin.

“I-I’m so sorry,” I murmured, not meeting his eyes, wiping the wetness futilely with the back of my hand, smearing it more than anything. “I know this isn’t what you expected.”

But instead of abruptly pushing me off his lap, or even acting “Daddy-like,” Mr. Lancaster was curiously mature, like we were a man and woman, sharing deep intimacies. He merely cuddled me close, whispering into my hair as I sobbed.

“Don’t worry,” he ground out. “These things always work themselves out. It’ll be fine, you’ll see, pretty baby.”

And I lost it then. I bawled into his shoulder, the years of hurt, the years of pain and loneliness finding their way out of my soul, airing themselves in front of this big man. It was a torrential downpour, like a dam had burst, years of agony erupting from my body, layers and layers of grief unlocked for the first time. And to his credit, Robert absorbed it, shouldering the burden, lessening the painful ache that had been locked in my heart for so long, bruising and raw.

“No worries, little girl,” he murmured once more, big hands soothing my shaking and trembling form as I wailed like a banshee. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

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