Page 8 of Big Daddy

Quick on my feet, I open my mouth for a snarky retort but one shake of his head stops me. I hate that it does but I can’t help it. His disapproval renders me silent for another moment, allowing him more ground to speak.

“Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket again, this time passing me a credit card that says PREPAID on it. “Fare to the office, as I am making an assumption you likely can’t afford to get there.”

“I don’t need your weird charity,” I tell him, wanting so deeply to just be offended. I mean, I am offended. But I’m also… god. I don’t even want to say it. But…

I’m also secretly, very, very, very deep down inside me in a suitcase double-zipped,touched.

Whether it’s because I’m his daughter’s ride or die, or not, he thought of me. And that’s just not something that happens to me all that often.

“You will pay me back for it once you’re on your feet. Does that suit you? Either way,” he says, tapping the card with his thick, long finger. For a moment, I wonder if he’s curled that finger inside of a woman and made her moan.

“I’m not going and I think you should leave.” I let the card drop to the floor as I fold my arms over my chest, glaring up at him.

His eyes drift back to the classified ads. “Are you out of work?”

“No,” I smile. “I write classified ads and I was just admiring my work.”

“Brat,” he mutters beneath his breath as he turns, heading toward the door, finally.

“If you’re so concerned with your daughter’s best friend being stable, maybe don’t call her a brat.”

With his large hand swallowing up the tiny gold door knob, Big Daddy looks over his shoulder at me, eyes smoldering. “I’ll call you a brat as long as you behave like one.” He looks at his fancy leather shoes then back at me one last time. “Goodbye, Winnie.”

He closes the door, and I give him the bird, because screw him and his attitude and assumptions.

Having someone to talk to would be nice, though.

From the coffee table, my laptop pings, the noise distinct. I pull it into my lap and sink into the couch. It’s myFeetFansaccount. Clicking the new message, I see it’s one of my former clients, looking for a set of photos. He’s offering $450 for six photos of my feet in mashed potatoes.

Letting out a sigh, I reply that I’ll post the photos later today. My eyes slide to the address on the business card. I don’t have plans tomorrow other than plucking my eyebrows and waxing my upper lip. Big day, I know.

Maybe I will go.

Then maybe I’ll pop in on Big Daddy the same way he pops in on me. Let’s see how much he likes it.

chapter four

quincey

“What’s your point?”

Pen fans his fingers over his shirt, dusting away sourdough crumbs. “Well,” he says, dragging the crumpled napkin over his lips, “the point is, you need a new assistant. Kennedy’s the office manager. She can’t keep running across the office to fax and file things for you.” He smirks. “I got myself a new assistant.”

“I know, Ken had her helping me in the file room this morning.”

His face falls. “Get your own assistant.”

My brows sail to my hairline, a smirk curving my lips. “Worried she’s gonna like me more and leave you for me? Hmm?” I fold the wax papers with traces of banana peppers and breadcrumbs, and toss it into the garbage. We have sandwiches on Wednesdays. It’s been our thing since we opened the firm. I don’t even like sandwiches, I’m so fucking sick of them after eating them once a week for eighteen years that I could scream.

But the man who owns the sandwich shop brags about being the guy who feeds the best lawyers in the city. I keep up with thetradition for him, though I’d take that sentimental truth to my grave with me before I’d share it.

Pen erupts in laughter, each chuckle booming and uproarious, coming from deep in his belly. “No one likes you, so no, I’m not worried about that at all.” He wipes a tear borne of hilarity from his beady eye. “I’m more worried she’ll quit because you’re an asshole, and then we’ll both be shit out of luck.”

I ignore his commentary about my personality. I’ve been told by my daughter most of my life that I’m a jerk, a prick, an asshole, an assjacket (that was creative), and every other concoction under the sun. Maybe I am. But I don’t care. I’m effective and successful, and that’s what matters.

“She’s a secretary,” I grit, annoyed, my neck flushing.

“Executive assistant,” he corrects, inciting me to mime jacking off.

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