Page 9 of Driven Daddy

I flipped my suitcase open and pulled out one of my four pairs of black jeans. Since September was finally starting to show a little chill, I pulled out a dark green Henley.

I just managed to get my jeans buttoned when a beefy hand hit the door before opening it.

I gave my dad an arched brow as he walked in without invitation.

Another reason not to stay in the house too long—privacy was non-existent.

Hank Masterson was definitely the blueprint for most of the men in my family. He was barrel-chested with a shock of close cut white wavy hair and topped almost 6’5.

Unfortunately, I was the beanpole next to most of them. I did get my dad’s curls and thick beard at least. I was fairly sure there’d be no hair loss in this family. We all had a thick head of it.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“I heard you’re going into town.”

I grinned. Another fun part of being home—I was the errand boy. “I am. Need something?”

“You going to Every Line?”

I nodded. Word spread fast. I was fairly sure my parents shared a brain—or at least an active text thread.

“Airplane glue. She’s got a little section of model trains and planes.”

“I think I can handle that.”

He rubbed his big hands together. “And maybe a case of that Firefly cider from the market?”

The close by Brothers Three Orchard’s steadily growing line of ciders was a favorite for many of us Mastersons—hell, most of the Cove, to be honest. We all loved to support local businesses. Since there would be a bunch of us here for the family dinner, I made a mental note to make it two and add a few bottles of wine to that list. I was pretty sure no one was pregnant at the moment, so most would be able to enjoy an adult beverage.

I pulled on my shirt and pushed up the sleeves. “Anything else?”

My father was peering around me to my bag.

He lowered his voice. “You wouldn’t be hiding smokes in there, would you?”

“I would never bring smokes into this house.”

My dad narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m not saying I don’t have a half pack in my glovebox. If you’re quick enough before I leave.”

He hightailed it out of my room and down the stairs, far faster than a man of his stature should be able to do. I shook my head and grabbed my phone, wallet, and keys.

I was about to leave when I dashed back to my bag and grabbed my travel art supplies. Maybe I’d get some sketches done while I was out. I’d been drawing since I could pick up a pencil, but character studies kept me tight and the ideas flowing in between editions.

My fingers tightened on the black leather case as that reminded me of a few rather tepid reviews I’d gotten on my last release. I was paying too much attention to the business andnot as much on my storytelling lately. And my more ardent fans were letting me know it was showing.

I’d definitely coasted on the last volume. Somehow I was on volume thirty forKnights of Chaos. I wrote longer form stories than what people would assume from the much more well known comics out in the world.

I wrote and illustrated my series, unlike most comic artists. Graphic novels were more involved and some of my stories took the better part of a year to write and illustrate.

The last one had not—which was probably why it sucked.

I took my time tying my boots to give my dad time to find the pack. I’d quit years ago, but when stress was really high, I found myself craving one.

That pack was half gone and I’d only bought it last week.

Not great.

I tucked the case under my arm and left before I got too in my head about that again. I was still working on what was next for Moksha and today was not the day for ruminating on it.

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