Page 14 of Big Daddy

“How often?” I press.

“Uhh,” she hedges nervously.

“If he’s a jerk nonstop, say,I’ll transfer you, then transfer me, and we’ll both know that he’s a jerk nonstop, and I’ll get to talk to my father.”

Another quiet beat, then, “I’ll transfer you.”

I shake my head, sending a dose of resting bitch face to a nosey woman in the chair adjacent to me. What is with Quincey?I should have known he has his office terrified if his own daughter ghosts his calls.

This makes perfect sense. After all, I’m attracted to jerks and I’m finding myself attracted to Big?—

“Brielle?” Quincey’s voice shreds through the silence on the line. “You’re supposed to be at the apprenticeship right now. This is week six. If you falter on your obligations on week six, in the meat of things?—”

I mean, I know I’m not Brielle but Jesus Christ, really? Quincey did not want Brielle to accept the apprenticeship at Crave & Cure, the top adult film company in the nation. He said porn is beneath her and not what he paid for, and hassled her endlessly about getting assigned somewhere else. Now he’s dragging her for calling him midday on a workday?

“Jesus Christ, pick a lane. For weeks it’s all ‘my daughter will not work there! I paid for my daughter to receive the best, not porn!’ and now you’re spanking me for calling you midday? I could be calling youfromwork you know, asshole.”

A heavy sigh feathers over the phone speaker, followed by a gruff and husky, “Winnie.”

“Yeah,” I reply, chewing the inside of my mouth as I send another warning glare to the nosey woman in the Ugg boots. “It’s Winnie. It’s Winnie pretending to be Brielle because that poor woman that works for you is too fucking scared to send anyone else through because you’re mean! You’re so mean to everyone, Big Daddy!”

My temples pound with each truth I hurl at him, and I don’t know if I’m upset on Brielle’s behalf, or on Kennedy’s, or what. I glance up at the counter, remembering where I am and why I’m here, then, in a lower, calmer tone, I add, “and thank you for the money.”

He erupts in laughter, so loud and boisterous that I can’t help but press my fist to my lips to absorb the laughter he pullsfrom me. “You realize I gave you money to make your lifelessdangerous and you called to tell me I’m mean to everyone.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s smirking or scowling, because his voice is so husky and rich, it’s hard to tell. Commanding, that’s what his voice is. Commanding. Bumps spread down my arms and legs, and suddenly, the waiting area feels cold. It must be getting cold. Since my nipples are hard now, too.

“Two things can be true at once,” I argue softly, struggling to focus on the conversation and not the pulsing that has emerged from between my thighs.

“Are you calling to reject the money?” he asks.

“Did you tell Brielle you gave me the money?” I ask, but I know the answer. I also know what I’m doing by asking, and since Big Daddy is seven thousand years old, I’m gonna wager that he knows what I’m doing, too.

I’m saying, we’ve done nothing physically inappropriate, or verbally either. But we’re doing things behind Brielle’s back, and that can’t be denied. If we continue, we fall deeper into something together. Whatever it is. Even if he just wants to truly help me because of my proximity to Brielle, still, we’re sharing a secret.

I hate having a secret from Brielle. But Big Daddy’s heavy breaths flank the phone, and I find myself squirming in the plastic chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

Iwanta secret with Big Daddy, as much as I don’t want to hurt Brielle.

I’m a horrible friend.

Finally, he answers. “I did not.”

I lick my lips, studying the worn tops of my sneakers. “I’m gonna keep it,” I finally say, ashamed of the fact that I want and need it badly enough that I simply cannot turn it down.

“No more photos?” he asks, his voice quieter, almost like the question is private or… secret.

“Why do you care?” I ask, then grow bold as I get to my feet and begin pacing next to the wall of Band-Aids and blood pressure cuffs. “And don’t say it’s because of Brielle. Brielle doesn’t know. I’ve never told her.”

“I thought Brielle is your best friend,” he adds, and though he isn’t being condescending, my guilty conscience turns me defensive.

“Sheismy best friend. I’m just… embarrassed,” I admit, saying it aloud for the first time. I don’t judge the people who come toFeetFans, that get off to feet, or anything like that. I’m embarrassed that at age 26, with a bachelor’s degree and almost a master’s degree, I have nothing but debt to show for myself. I don’t have a long-time partner, goals or plans for the future, my own place, a handle on my student loans, or parents to help guide me. I feel empty, a lone vessel waiting for someone to stumble across and fill. And that embarrasses me.

But I don’t explain any of that. Instead, I say, “I don’t want her to think less of me.”

Big Daddy laughs humorlessly, almost with irony. “The porn director judging the woman who sells photos of her feet.” He clicks his tongue, and my eyes flutter closed at the sound of his big office chair tipping back. I can imagine those solid thighs, one draped over the other, feet stacked on desk, San Francisco skyline behind him painting the moment in ethereal romance.

“I won’t be able to pay you back for a long time,” I tell him, adding, “because I’m going to keep seeing Dr. Wilder, and as you know, he’s expensive.” The news of my medication is on my tongue, but telling him that I started antidepressants exposes a layer of me I do very well hiding. And, for all intents and purposes, I don’t think he needs to know.

“I don’t need you to pay me back at all,” he says.

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