Page 13 of Big Daddy

I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, the corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk. Brielle is always complaining about what a controlling asshole he is. And, I’ve witnessed the fallout of his antics, after which Brielle has been a mess to be put back together too many times.

Yet I click accept without a second thought.

“Do not send any more photos.”

Beneath the message, there’s an attachment. When patrons make donations, they’re attached to messages just like this, along with some stupidFeetFansgraphic with a reminder that should we choose to meet up,FeetFansis not responsible for what happens.

BIG DADDY has donated money.

I’m almost scared to click it, because the truth is, I want another reason to talk to him. Another reason to barge into his office and suck up his sexy as fuck rich man smell and give myself a little more to cling to when I squeeze my eyes shut and touch myself later.Again.

Yep, I’ve already double-clicked the mouse a few times to the memory of him barging in with groceries, absolutely owning that fitted suit.

I click Big Daddy’s donation link, and scream out loud at what I see.

BIG DADDY HAS MADE A DONATION OF 5000.00 US DOLLARS.

BIG DADDY HAS PAID PLATFORM FEES OF 50.00 DOLLARS.

Holy shit. The scream I scrumpt! Loud and obnoxious, according to the glares I’m receiving by the others waiting for meds. But I don’t care, because again–

Holy fucking shit.

Holy fucking shit on a stick.

Letting my phone rest on my lap, I dig out my wallet and retrieve the business card he gave me. I want to say I kept it for the appointment information, but that would make me a big old liar. I kept it because I wanted to have his number.

Stupid.

I could just Google him. And having this card puts me at risk to be caught by Brielle.

But I wanted it. My gut, full of old take out and Diet Coke, told me to keep the card. And now I’m so glad I did.

Quickly, I dial his number.

A woman answers on the fourth ring. “Parker & Pen, Mr. Parker’s Office. Kennedy speaking, how may I help you?”

Kennedy. That must’ve been the terrified woman trying to keep me out of Big Daddy’s office.

“Put me through to Quincey right this second,” I demand, whisper hissing into the phone like an angry housewife whofound a fingernail in her husband’s pants pocket and is calling to blow her whole life up. “Right this second,” I hiss into the phone as Kennedy falls silent.

“B-Brielle?” she questions, whispering, her voice shaking with nerves. Jesus, how big of a prick is Big Daddy to have this woman this terrified of simply sending a phone call to his office?

I make a snap decision. “Yes, it’s Brielle,” I say, stuffing some haughtiness into my tone as I lie through my teeth. Going to see Big Daddy was thrilling, but left me feeling slightly guilty. This is the second thing that I feel guilty about, because if Brielle found out, it would be hard to explain.

Still, I lie.

“Wait, Kennedy, can I ask you something?”

“Uhh,” she draws out, and I can just see her looking around, making sure Quincey doesn’t see her wasting company time gossiping about him.

“Is Big D—,” I correct course, “ismy fatheran asshole that terrifies you?”

She’s silent, and I reword my question, realizing she’s too scared to answer something so pointed. Especially to his daughter.

“I mean, is my father hard to work with? Don’t worry, Ken, ovary owners stick together. I’m not throwing you under the bus. I swear.”

A beat passes. “He can be, yes.”

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