Page 73 of Big Daddy

“I was too proud,” I admit. “Anyway, I was onFeetFansfor about a year, and I was making good money from one client only. It was perfect.”

Brielle laughs. “I’m hoping there’s an asterisk on that perfect.”

I shrug, gathering my curls to put them in a bun, welcoming the cool air against my neck. “Well, perfect in that I could makemy student loan payments and pay all my bills and have money left over. That hadn’t happened to me ever until him.”

Brielle cups a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god, my dad?” she asks right as I take another sip of my drink, which I promptly spit across the table.

“What? No! He came into your apartment after my client dumped me and I was crying, he wasn’t the client. No, no, no,” I amend, though in the back of my mind I can’t help but think about the way Big Daddy loves me to jack him off with my feet, the way he groans seeing his cum roll between my toes, and along the arch of my foot. I clear my throat as my cheeks flame from the steamy memories. “No, he saw me crying and told me I needed therapy, then made me an appointment. Prepaid.”

Brielle studies me for a moment, and I can’t tell if she’s trying to picture how it all played out, or trying to pull apart my story and find lies. She won’t find one. Not anymore.

“I’m never going to lie to you again, Brielle. Okay?” I reach for her hands again and this time she makes it easy for me to embrace her. “I’m sorry I hid things with your dad from the start. I am. It was stupid. I should have trusted you to understand.”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t have understood. It took me falling in love with two men to understand.”

I cock a brow. “And all the kinky pet stuff?”

She smirks. “That, too.” We eat a few fries and Brielle finishes her small cup of fruit. “So, he helped you get into therapy.”

“He did and he was so irritating and offensive about it that after I went to my first session, I went down to his office with a wad of cash to repay him and… I know you don’t want to hear this but Brielle, I haven’t had someone truly care for me in a long time. But when he looked at me, when he heard I went and realized how I’d been making money, the emotion was there.The care was there. And he helped me.” I shake my head because I know I sound like someone recanting insta-love on an episode of60 Minuteswhere one of us is behind bars because we’re, according to the show, “too passionate.” Still, it’s the truth and I trust her to know me well enough to trust my gut. “You have been an amazing friend. But the way he guided me, the way he jumped in and took action, I needed that. I didn’t know it, but I did.”

“He’s great at taking care of me. He’s always been great at that. The care wasn’t the issue. His personality was.” She sighs. “But that’s why we’re in therapy.”

“I’m happy for the two of you. I think you can have the relationship you wanted, even now with this little wrench in the plan.”

Brielle sinks into the wooden chair, the ironing lines still intact on the arms of her camel sweat suit. “You make him happy in ways he’s never been. At least, in ways he hasn’t been since my mom. And if his happiness is what he needed to gain perspective on our relationship, that’s a good thing. And I realize that.” She rolls her eyes. “Lance and Aug helped me come to that realization, but still, I do realize that.”

“How are things with Lance and Aug, by the way? Your dad said you got a full-time job out of your mentorship. That’s incredible. You’re incredible,” I tell her, meaning every syllable of every word.

Suddenly, she pales. “Things are… good.”

My chest squeezes. “B, what’s wrong?”

She steals another fry from her plate and swirls the end of it around in ketchup without taking a bite. “Nothing is wrong, per say. Just… some things are happening sooner than we’d planned.”

Confusion knits my brows. I’ve been out of the loop regarding Brielle’s life for the last few months, so I’m not surewhat she means, and I hate that. “What do you mean?” I ask, a twinge of guilt slithering through me at the fact I even have to ask.

Her eyes come to mine, serious and turbulent all at once. “Don’t tell my dad?”

I want to prove to Brielle I can be her best friendandher dad’s girlfriend. That I have enough in me to be both. That I can have an allegiance to her and him, and they can both be successful. Something in my gut, though, doesn’t want to agree. Still, I look into her eyes and say, “I won’t.” And then I foolishly, eagerly add, “Ipromise.”

chapter twenty-five

quincey

I have never beena desperate man because desperation is bred from weakness, and I am not weak. Even after I lost my wife, no part of me was desperate. I was and am always sharp and resourceful, never allowing myself to be helpless or confused.

But I haven’t been head-over-heels sickeningly in love for many years until Winnie, either.

And I find myself now, after a week of enduring what I can only describe as the silent treatment, desperate as fuck. Why? Because love has made me a weak bitch.

After picking up Winnie’s favorite breakfast from Rise & Grind as a surprise, I’m padding down the hall, a cup of coffee in one hand, a bagged breakfast in the other, praying to whoever the hell is up there that this morning is the moment. The time we climb out of the silent funk we’ve somehow fallen in.

I’ve run it all down in my mind at least a hundred times since last week.

Did I say something? Do something? Miss something? I pause by our closed bedroom door, staring down at the shiny tile beneath my feet. Winnie has been working from home on hergraphic design business, she walked in her graduation ceremony last month, and things are going good with her and Brielle, as well as with Brielle and myself. Winnie’s comfortable here and a month ago even mentioned that she truly felt like it was her home, not just my house.

Yet something shifted. I left my woman happy in bed at home with coffee on her night table and the blinds pulled back to allow the sun to kiss her lips as she woke. And when I returned home, she was asleep, or pretending to be. We haven’t made love in a week. We haven’tfuckedin a week and yes, those are two different things.

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