Page 47 of Off Limits

“You were whistling.”

“I was?” The revelation surprises me. “Huh. Well, the concept approvals for the bank on West Fourth have finally gone through, so I guess I’m glad about that,” I venture. One of our biggest clients, a national bank, are notoriously critical of our early design concepts. It was Bob who brought the client in but now I work with them almost exclusively.

“That’s good. Only took, what? Six months?” he cracks. “That must be a record.”

I slide a mug under the coffee machine and move out of the way as a busy intern bustles in, grabbing a coffee carafe and a carton of milk before bustling back out. Bob grins at me.

“I think you’ve been happier since Danica’s been back,” he suggests.

“Sure,” I reply. “Yeah. It’s nice having her around. And I’m relieved knowing she’s safe.”

He nods grimly, pressing his lips together. “Any word from Mel?” Bob’s known Melanie since day one, from the first day I confessed I met someone special at a party, to the first time she ran off, right up to the end, when I’d finally had enough. Other than Dani, no one has lived through my ups and downs with Melanie more than Bob.

I shake my head. “M.I.A. To be honest, I was expecting to hear from her. I cut off her allowance.”

He pinches his eyebrows together. “Any chance she’s missing for real this time?”

“I don’t know.” The thought had occurred to me. In the past she’d run off for four or five days, tops. Never longer than that. Never two months. If something’s happened to her, if her body’s found somewhere, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t know how Danica would handle it.

I know that, on some level, her absence has to be resolved one way or the other. Irrationally, I wish it could just stay like this. Melanie just not in the picture. Mommy simply absent.

Bob looks troubled. “I know a P.I. if you want one,” he offers, in a way that makes my heart sink. Maybe I’ve been naive to not take action sooner. “If cutting off her money doesn’t flush her out…” He shrugs. “Hard on the kid to go through that, though.”

“Yes,” I stir my coffee and take a sip. “But she’s a tough one, Dani.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing her at the wedding.”

The clicking of her stiletto heels down the hall announces Cynthia’s arrival before she walks in. She’s wearing a form-fitting red dress, and her long, straight hair is swinging down her back. Her almond-shaped eyes flick between us as she walks to the fridge. Her stride doesn’t falter for a second.

“Gentlemen,” she says smoothly, pulling out a bottle of kombucha.

“Cynthia.” I give her a nod.

“Hello,” says Bob.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bob eyeing Cynthia with a hungry gleam. There’s a taut, ready energy to him that I can just sense, as if he’s fixing to jump on her. She uncaps her bottle and watches us back with a half-smile.

“Well,” I say, hoisting my mug. “Back at ‘er, I guess. See you both later.”

Cynthia smiles at me, but Bob doesn’t take his eyes off her.

When I pull up to the school that afternoon, Dani is waiting by herself on a bench near the curb. I’m pleased to see she’s alone—pleased especially that there’s no sign of Kye. Her hair is in the two neat braids I set it in this morning, and she’s the agonizing picture of innocence: white knee socks, black shoes, plaid skirt and white blouse. She’s the quintessential innocent schoolgirl. Her face lights up when she sees me, crystal blue eyes shining, and her uncomplicated joy, her pure love for me, makes me feel raw, tender, and sensitive.

When she gets into the car, I lean over and kiss her cheek, inhaling the cotton candy scent of her hair, and scan the school’s sprawling lawn quickly. There are pockets of students here and there, but none of them are looking at us. I speak in a low voice in Dani’s ear.

“Show me your panties.” The soft pink that blooms on her cheeks in response satisfies me.

“Dad.” It’s a protest. She’s shocked. But I need to know that she’s my good little girl who does what she’s told. I need to know that she’s as perfectly innocent as her little school uniform and her two neat braids.

“No one’s looking. Show me.”

She casts a quick look out the window and then lifts up her skirt, making blood rush to my cock. The small triangle of white cotton is perfect, perfect, against the tender, soft flesh of her young thighs.

“That’s good,” I say softly. “It makes me happy when you’re a good, obedient girl.”

I shoot another quick look out the window and then kiss her on the cheek again, this time placing a hand on her thigh and giving it a squeeze.

I’m actively trying to ignore the voice in my head that’s shouting at me about making a habit of checking my stepdaughter’s panties, about letting her sleep on my wife’s side of the bed, about fucking her mouth, while telling myself I can still somehow rein things in.

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