Page 40 of His Custody

A whisper of breath, the press of her lips against his skin. A far off humming sounded, the echo familiar but one he couldn’t quite wrap his head around because he was so busy willing his body to obey him. What the fuck kind of grown man gets hard from a kiss on the cheek? Maybe one who hadn’t slept with a woman in almost a year. Surely that was the reason, not that he had a specific affinity for Keyne.

He tried to clear the gruffness from his throat but his voice was gravelly when he put a hand to the small of her back and urged her down the cracked and uneven concrete path toward the double doors.

“Come on, don’t want to be late.”

They weren’t. They sat toward the back and Keyne babbled about all the productions she’d seen before, not seeming to notice all the attention she, possibly they, were attracting. He heard more than one gossip speculate to their neighbor that Keyne was that famous actress, you know, the one who’d been in that movie.

The lights went down and it was announced that the role of Michael would be played by the understudy, owing to the original Michael having come down with chicken pox. The production was... not the most professional one he’d ever seen. Replacement Michael forgot his lines more often than not and seemed to be taking direction from someone stage left, possibly his mother. Peter’s entrance was delayed by a difficulty with the rigging and the ticking of the alligator sounded more like an ill-behaved egg timer than a clock. He didn’t care.

Keyne was delighted. Couldn’t take her eyes off the stage. Would lean over and whisper, her breath hot on his ear, or grab his arm when one of her favorite parts was coming up. She had a lot of favorite parts. It required an immense amount of strength to not take her chin between his fingers and turn her face to his to be kissed, thoroughly.

It was such a waste for her not to be kissed. Someone should. He made a note to remind her she was required to go to prom, which was coming up in a few weeks. She didn’t have to have a date—she could go with friends—but she had to go.

During intermission, he bought Keyne concession stand popcorn and a ginger ale. People stared at them and pointed. When she noticed, Keyne giggled.

“Who do you think they think we are?”

Most of them were probably trying to figure out if Keyne was his daughter or his lover. He’d never laid a hand on her, not like that, but even so sometimes he forgot. “At least a few of them think you’re some Hollywood starlet. They probably think I’m your manager. Or your bodyguard. Maybe your accountant.”

She laughed and took a pull on her straw. The amber bubbles traveled toward her mouth, and a stab of envy worked its way through his chest. He’d like to work his way between her perfectly curved pink lips, too.

After she’d swallowed, she shook her head. “You’re too hot to be my manager. And an accountant wouldn’t wear a tux. I bet they think you’re James Bond.”

He could’ve come back with some dry retort likeJames Bond isn’t a real person, Keyne, but he wanted to see her laugh again, so instead he cocked an eyebrow and drew his hands into a gun shape at his chest. “Double-oh-seven at your service.”

Her giggles were drowned out by the noise of the crowd as flickering lights announced the end of intermission.

The rest of the show was just as fraught with errors, but it was the most memorable production he’d ever seen. He made a note to send the Keep Community Children’s Theater a sizable donation. He might not be able to recall the cringe-worthy details, but he would always remember the unadulterated joy on Keyne’s face. He would tuck that memory away in some secret place no one else could see and dig it up when things with her got hard.

He got ready for bed straight after tucking Keyne in. His heart was full and he wanted to enjoy the sensation instead of letting his brain, full of numbers and figures and worries, take over. He was in bed about to drift off when the knock at the door came.

Throwing aside the covers, he pulled on the T-shirt he kept by the bed and strode to the door. Had she had a nightmare? She hadn’t had one for months. At least not one she’d woken him up for. She probably did most nights, but she could soothe herself back to sleep by rubbing the star on her bracelet between her fingers.

“Keyne?”

She stood there in the hall, not in tears as he’d expected, but uncertain. One of her skinny legs was turned out at an awkward angle from those tiny shorts she wore to bed and she was biting her lips between her teeth, her hands twisted in front of her.

“I’m eighteen.”

“... Yes.” What was her point?

Pain like he’d only felt once before ripped through him. She was going to tell him she wanted to leave. She wasn’t a minor anymore, she could be on her own, she didn’t need him, and she wanted out. He could see the words forming on her lips and he clenched his hands by his sides so he wouldn’t grab her above the elbow and drag her back to her room and lock her inside. She was not going to leave. She wasn’t going to leave him.

His features worked into hard-won neutrality. Let her say it. Let her say it and he would placate her, tell her they could talk about it in the morning when she wasn’t so tired. He’d stay up all night composing speeches about why it would be better to wait until she was in college. Or maybe after college. Or, if he let himself think it, maybe never. Regardless of how long, she didn’t need to be in such a hurry. He’d talked scions of industry into all sorts of things, surely he could—

“That means they can’t take me away from you, right?”

Her eyes blinked fast and she swallowed, her face twisting in anxiety.

“Right.” He was hazy on the details, but he could get Deja to explain it to him. At the very least, they could have her declared an adult and she could come back to him. One way or another, he would honor the promise he’d made to her. She would always have a home with him, he would always be there for her. He’d never leave her alone.

“Then can I... can I—”

Her face screwed up into a mask of stubbornness and instead of finishing her question, she plowed past him into his room, shut his door and dragged him over to his bed. He was stunned into speechlessness when she pushed him onto it.

“Move over.”

“Keyne—”

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