Page 12 of Big Daddy

“Why do you even care what I do?” she asks.

I don’t answer, because I don’t have one. I shouldn’t care. I have no reason. All I should care about is her going to class and not doing drugs. That equates to a stable influence around my daughter.

But the image of a mouth-breathing, basement dwelling thirty-something with his cock in his hand and her muddy feet on his screen is an affront to my rationale. Fury consumes me.

It also keeps my jaw held tight, my absurd and irrational reasons locked tightly inside, along with all of my other feelings.

Winnie rolls her eyes and gets to her feet, the bow of her hips and swell of her swaying ass walking to my door, furthering my erroneous anger. She casts one look over her shoulder before she leaves, but I watch her ass all the way to the bank of elevators.

She turns, and our eyes lock as the doors slide closed.

I open a new tab in my browser, navigate through my history to herFeetFanspage, and reach into my back pocket for my wallet.

chapter five

winnie

I don’t knowif it’s a good or bad thing that it only took two sessions with Dr. Wilder for him to prescribe me something for my depression, but either way, here I am. In the line at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up my bottle of serotonin.

After an old woman with a grocery sack full of pill bottles is done, I step up, passing the folded paper to the unhappy technician on the other side of the counter.

He reads it, and without making eye contact says, “It’ll be twenty minutes” and begins inputting my information at the speed of light. The keyboard rattles against the desk as he types with authority, making me anxious to ask my question. But it’s pretty important that I do.

“Do you, uh, know how much that will cost? Without insurance?” I keep my voice low.

The breath he sucks in between his teeth paired with the way his eyebrows lift easily to his hairline has my stomach in knots.

I sold some photos to pay for therapy, yes, but that was pretty lucky. Selling enough to pay for anything of substance takesrepeat customers, loyalty, time. I’d been wasting all of that shit on Harold, and now I’m chomping at theFeetFansscraps.

The man in the white coat types. If it’s under fifty, I can do it. Anything over that, and I’m going to be in a pinch.

“Eighty-seven dollars and ninety-three cents,” he deadpans.

“Almost 90 dollars for one prescription?” I balk, unwilling to accept that mental health has such a steep price tag. I’d been feeling darkly directionless for so long, and the health center on campus is only available (and free) to undergrads. I really thought I could ice cream and TV my way out of it.

Then came Quincey and his damn assumptions and his fancy doctor.

And I enjoyed therapy. Really fucking felt better after. I liked Dr. Wilder. He made me feel heard and normal, and after just the first session, I already felt more at peace with working through my sadness than ever before. After two? I’m feeling like I can’t quit therapy, or Dr. Wilder’s advice. It’s really working.

The man in the white coat lifts his gaze over my head to the customer next in line. “Next,” he calls, completely done with me.

Walking to the blue plastic chairs in the waiting area, I take a seat and dig out my phone, all while my pulse echoes in my ears.

Therapy gave me hope. The idea of releasing that hope now feels cruel and unfair.I need this prescription.

But what if I can pay for it this month then not the next? What’s the point then?

Quickly, I pull my phone from my purse and unlock it, opening theFeetFansapp immediately.

NO NEW REQUESTS.

Fuck. I have no requests, which isn’t completely unusual since I’ve had my profile marked “matched” for the last year. Everyone in this little foot kink community believes I’m spokenfor. It will take time for word to spread that54035forYOUis available again.

Tears well in my eyes, but before I can have a complete mental breakdown in the Rite Aid next to a man with no shoes on, I spot a red number one over my private messages.

Clicking it, a name appears next to the message request.

BIG DADDY wants to send you a message. Do you accept?

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