Page 5 of Big Daddy

Davis laughs as he sinks in one of the leather client chairs in front of my desk. Stacking his leather shoes on my mahogany desk, he steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “About that. Looks like we both need new assistants.”

Holding my tie, I take a seat and direct my focus to my computer screen, on my work, where it belongs. “I’m not asking what happened because I don’t need to know,” I reply, typing an email to HR about finding another assistant.

“Maybe this time I’ll get a male assistant. You know, so I won’t be distracted,” he says, twirling the end of his bolo around his finger. “Then again, that doesn’t seem like any fun.”

I glance over at him, finding his smarmy smile pointed my way. “Do whatever you want. Just… leave my office now,” I tell him, refocusing on the email at hand—a letter to Kennedy, our office manager.

Make sure this one is a professional assistant with experience in a law office this time.

I hit send and when I look up, Davis is closing the door behind him. Sinking back against my chair, I let out a hearty, long-suppressed sigh. I should be focused on the brief I’m working on.

Yet all I can think about are the tears.

Winnie’stears.

As soon as my chest softens and my muscles relax, I remember her smart mouth, and my jaw tenses. I can’t imagine Brielle speaking to a friend’s father the way Winnie spoke to me.

She was a brat.

A big fucking brat.

Still, imagining her alone in my daughter’s apartment, crying… I don’t fucking like it. Brielle doesn’t just sit around crying. At least, I don’t think she does? Glancing out the window of my office, I spot Suzanne gathering things from her desk drawer. I pick up my handset, and ring her desk.

“Come in here a moment,” I tell her, to which she simply nods, knowing I’m watching. A moment later, she stands before me, tears staining her cheeks, hands behind her back.

Interesting. I feel nothing for Suzanne’s tears or emotion. Maybe that’s because I know why she’s crying and therefore know I have zero reason to feel bad.

“Suzanne, do you ever just cry? When you’re alone?” I ask uncomfortably, hoping for some insight into Winnie’s odd behavior. I don’t know the girl, but from the hours of information I’ve been forced to hear about her from my daughter, she doesn’t seem the type. Strong, funny, a “baddie”, if I remember Brielle’s exact words. That doesn’t fall in line with crying alone in the middle of the day. “If nothing’s wrong, do you ever just cry?”

Her face twists with confusion as she drags a hand beneath her nose. “I’m crying because you fired me and you’re really mean,” she says, narrowing her eyes, anger eating up her sadness.

I roll my eyes. “This isn’t about you, Suzanne. Now answer the question.” My eyes dart to her box of belongings. “Please.”

She blinks at me for a second, nostrils flaring with what appears to be righteous indignation.

“Spare me the soap opera act and answer the question.” I clear my throat. “I saidplease.”

She lifts her hand, extends her middle finger, and smiles. “Fuck you, Quincey Parker.” And with that, she’s gone, snatching her box full of trinkets from her desk, heading straight for the elevators.

I reach for my phone and consider texting Brielle, but I’m not exactly the random text message kind of father. I know that. As much as I desire tobethat father, it’s too distant from our current reality. I call and check in, and remind her to work hard, keep her grades up and head on straight. I do that because I’m her only parent—and when you’re the only parent, you have to be both cops. Good cop foots the bill, bad cop does the rest—lectures, warns, etc. But nowhere in that scenario is there a peace officer asking about the emotional health of another woman.

No way.

I set my phone down again and think, staring at my desk full of shit. My eyes wander to the business card on my desk. We handle a lot of high-profile divorce cases at Parker & Pen, and divorces can be hard to mentally and emotionally reconcile. Seeing a therapist or psychiatrist is something we often advise. I saw this doctor years ago when my wife passed, and have stayed in touch with their office for my clients.

Snatching the card, without a second thought, I pick up the handset and make the call.

“Dr. Wilder’s office. This is Ida. How can I help you?”

I clear my throat. “Yes, this is Quincey Parker of Parker & Pen Law, and I’d like to make an appointment for a young woman.”

“Mr. Parker. Great to hear your voice again,” Ida greets. “Client?”

“Hi there, Ida. Ah, no, not a client. She’s actually my daughter’s friend. I’d like to pay, and put my card on file if she chooses to make future appointments.”

Ida asks me a lot of questions about Winnie, most of which I don’t know the answer to. We make the appointment for next week, and I write all the pertinent information down on the back of the business card.

She didn’t ask me for help, nor did she tell me what was wrong, but my daughter needs her best friend. And I need for my daughter to have a sharp, stable best friend in the event that Brielle becomes impressionable. She needs good influences around her.

---