Page 20 of Big Daddy

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re a brat,” I say, slipping out the parking garage door after the attendant returns, giving me the nod.

I slip into the driver’s seat and hit the Bluetooth button, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. With another press of a button, I dial my driver, letting Winnie hear the entire conversation.

“Who are you calling? Wait, you have two phone lines in your car?”

I ignore her, steering my way onto the busy city streets as Ralph picks up.

“Mr. Parker, hello.”

“Ralph, when I hang up, please call 555-425-8791. She is going to give you an address, and you are going to pick her up and bring her back to my home, please. Thank you.”

I end the call before Ralph agrees, because he will agree. That’s his job.

“I’m not—” she stops. “I have a call on the other line.”

I can’t help but smirk. “Answer it, Winnie.”

She hangs up, and I navigate home, drumming my fingers on the wheel, ignoring the world passing by my windows as I think of Winnie at my house.

It’s wrong.

Brielle would lose her fucking mind.

Winnie is way too fucking young for me. When she was toddling around in a diaper with a balloon tied to her wrist and first birthday icing all over her nose, I was crushing beer cans, celebrating my 23rdbirthday.

She is too goddamn young.

Still, I drive to my house with my hand on my cock, unable to stop myself.

chapter eight

quincey

I don’t knowwhere Winnie lives, but my office isn’t far from my home. Twenty-four minutes, to be exact. And when I arrive first, I refuse to acknowledge the panicked idea that she may not show up.

Instead, I head inside and pour myself a glass of scotch.

With my cell phone staring up at me from the countertop, I decide to call my daughter while I wait. It is very much a guilty conscience driven call, but knowing she’s okay soothes my nerves nonetheless. I suppose the call is whole heartedly selfish.

I suppose that’s me.

Dialing, I glance at the screen of security camera feeds in the corner of the kitchen, checking for motion detection on the long driveway. Nothing.

“Dad?” Brielle answers, whispering. I glance at the gold watch on my wrist. It’s three in the afternoon. Fuck. I forgot I’m playing hooky. “Is everything okay?”

“Ah, yes. I was just calling to… schedule a dinner.” I clear my throat, glancing at the bank of camera feeds again. “It’s been a while.”

“Okay,” she draws out, still whispering while a soft rush of noises fills the space around her. She’s working, and I interrupted her. That is something I’d yell at her about as a child, when she’d toddle into my office with something cool she wanted to show me.I’m working, and work pays the bills, Brielle. I cringe at the way my own words haunt me.

“Well, I’m at work right now, Dad. Email me. I’ll put it in my calendar.”

I did my best to make her feel bad about this film school apprenticeship, knowing she herself didn’t want the assignment either. And now she’s working at it, thriving, and, quite frankly, I’m proud.

“Will do. Take care.” I end the call and stare at the screen that tells me I just had a conversation with my daughter that lasted one minute and two seconds.

One minute and two fucking seconds.

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