Page 2 of Dad Bods and Blizzards

I focus on gathering the essentials—foundation, mascara, and the smoky eye palette that makes my green eyes pop.

The drilling starts up again as I toss everything into an overnight bag.

I slip into black sweats and a baggy shirt since they have custom dresses for us at the club. That alone was a reason to apply for the job.

I swing my purse and bag over my shoulder, prepared to tell Dad I’m going to run errands if he asks why I’m not dressed in my waitressing attire.

But when I grasp the door handle and turn it, I slam into it awkwardly. It doesn’t budge. Stunned, I try the handle again, putting more force into it.

“What the—”

“You’ll be staying in tonight.” Dad’s voice comes from the other side of the door.

“I have to go to work,” I say, trying to understand what’s happening. The handle turns… “Why won’t the door open?”

“Some business stuff came up, and I need you to stay home tonight.”

Was all that noise him installing a lock? The lockpicking skills he taught me as a kid won’t help if I can’t see the lock. My heart drops. He planned this. The new anti-tampering hinges he installed last week make sense now.

My limbs go weak. My voice matches. “I can’t ask someone to cover my shift on such short notice.”

“About that—You’re getting your wish to help with the family business.”

My chest tightens. My hands are clammy. My first attempts to speak come out as a croak. I finally manage a weak, “From my bedroom?”

“Just do what you’re told.” Dad’s voice has never sounded so dark.

If I’m getting my wish to help with his home security company, why does he need to lock me in my room? The convoluted thoughts racing through my mind refuse to be dismissed. “What am I going to do for the business?”

“Don’t ask questions. All you need to know is that I’ve been in a financial pinch, and you’re going to help me out of it.”

That explains why he took money from my bank account. But whatever he has planned for this evening doesn’t sit right. No one should be locked in their room. If it’s money he wants… “I have a little savings.”

“It’s not enough.”

The doorbell rings. Before I can explain how much I have, Dad says, “They’re here. Sit tight and you’ll know how you can help soon enough.”

The bags slip from my shoulder and thud onto the floor. They? As in whoever he owes money to? Indiscernible conversation prompts me to put my ear to the door.

I try the handle again just in case. No luck. I cup my hands around my ear.

Dad’s using hisI’m taking controlvoice. “Calm the fuck down, Griz. I have a plan.”

They talk over each other before my dad lowers his voice to the point I can’t make out his words.

One of the men says emphatically, “You’ll trade your daughter for your debt?”

Uh… Daughter… That’s me… What the hell? I’m not for sale.

Why would someone want to house and feed another human as part of a business deal?

The auction comes to mind—women attributing value to their virginity to raise money for charity. And of course, bragging rights that the guys show the virgin how great sex can be. I can live with that.

But assigning monetary value to virginity as a power play over a woman is cringey. That has to be what my father is selling—my virginity. I can’t think of any other useful attributes. I wasn’t a prodigy violinist, and the national women’s soccer team would be wise not to let me anywhere near the ball.

I have to get out of here. The door isn’t an option, which only leaves the window. I grab my bags and rush over.

Why does it look so much further to the ground now that I’m an adult? The oak tree held me ten years ago. But ten years ago, I was fearless. Ten years ago, I didn’t think about things like not being able to waitress if I broke my arm, leg, or any other body part.

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