Page 36 of Who's Your Daddy?

In my defense, I took her back to the motel on Monday morning like I promised. She warned me that this place was dingy, and yet I still wasn’t prepared. I took one look at her room, and it was a fuck no from me. No way was I going to let her stay in that dump. Paint was peeling off the walls. All the pipes were rusted, and she only got hot water about thirty percent of the time. There were trash bags all over the floor filled with her designer clothes. She can’t live like that. Out of a fucking trash bag? No one should live like that.

I did what any reasonable person would do. I grabbed the bags, tossed them in the trunk of my car, and told her she could stay with me for a few weeks. That would give her enough time to get a job and find a decent apartment. And here’s the kicker. Noble Nick decided to rear his stupid, ugly head again, so the most nonsensical drivel was falling out of my mouth.

I told her I would set her up in her own room all the way down the hall if that would make her feel more comfortable. She was under no obligation to even share my bed. I took sex off the table. Imagine that. Imagine that kind of soy boy energy just permeating off me with such reckless abandon. There were times I caught myself sounding so much like Dylan that I felt like I needed a life jacket so I didn’t drown in the shame.

I asked the hottest woman alive to live under the same roof as me with NO sex! I have obviously lost my mind. Next thing you know, I’ll be ordering pumpkin-spice lattes topped with extra fricken cinnamon. And I made this suggestion, knowing full well that fucking her is the best thing I’ve ever experienced in my whole goddamn life. That was the kind of stupid shit I was saying. And I meant it. Yet even after making this offer, her response was still a resounding and vehementNo!

It was then that we had our first heated argument, right there in the parking lot of the motel. I told her I wasn’t leaving without her. She stormed into her room and slammed the door shut. She caved six hours later when she found me outside, sleeping in my car.

When she jumped into the front seat, she asked me why I cared so much. I told her not to throw around loaded words like that, but now I have to take a step back and self-reflect. I need a measured and strategic plan to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me. Why do I care?

I want to say it’s because the sex is amazing, but that goes without saying. The sexisamazing. I can tell that she isn’t very experienced by the way she reacts to me. The sex isn’t great because she knows exactly what to do. The sex is great because she’s still learning her body. Everything seems new to her and there’s something so erotic about her eagerness to explore, her willingness to push her own boundaries. That’s what keeps me coming back for more.

I’ve been with many women, and bar an exceptional few, one time is...sufficient. But Lia has created this insatiable chasm inside me. I can’t seem to get enough of her. I love her taste. I love her smell. I love the way she looks at me with that burning passion in her hazel eyes.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize the depths of my idiocy. I was willing to giveallthat up. Thankfully, it didn’t play out that way. We have a hard time keeping our hands off each other, so the no-sex thing lasted all of three hours. But that’s not the point. The fact is, I was willing to make that sacrifice, so it’s not about the sex. I’ve proven to myself on more than one occasion that I would choose her company over sex. It’s torture, but I’ve done it a few times already.

So, if it’s not the sex, what is it about her that draws me in? Maybe it’s because she’s this unsolvable puzzle. On the surface, she’s fun and a little flirty, with an unpredictable sense of humor. I don’t know if it’s because she had a sheltered life before her dad kicked her out, but there’s an innocence about her that sometimes comes across as childlike, and she seems younger than her actual age.

But peel back a layer and she’s a complete enigma. She shows her vulnerability so easily, but that’s the only thing she shows. Everything else about her is a mystery. She’s stoic, emotionally detached. I don’t know what her asshole ex did to her, but I suspect he destroyed something very special inside her.

Now, maybe my subconscious has taken that information and manifested it into an unhealthy compulsion. I seem to be on a mission to find that special thing and possibly rebuild it. It’s stupid. More stupid than sacrificing sex. But it’s there and I can’t get rid of it.

I keep telling myself that this woman wants to get married, and instead of that quality scaring me away, it actually infuriates the living hell out of me. She wants a nice guy to settle down with. Great. I’m not that guy, so it shouldn’t bother me.

But it does! Every time she says that, some guy walking around in her imaginary world of book boyfriends gets punched in the fucking face. Shit, how much time have I spent with her that I know what a book boyfriend is?

And eventually, one of those guys is going to walk straight out of her imagination and wife her up. And he would be winning the jackpot because this chick is proper wifey material.

She’s always cooking or baking or cleaning. She straightened out my entire walk-in closet, right down to my sock drawer. She reorganized the entire kitchen. Everything is in glass jars with little labels on them. She even folds the towels in the bathroom in that fancy way the hotels do. In a mere five days, she terraformed my place to look like the set of an IKEA commercial. This intrusion of my personal space should bother me.

But it doesn’t! I happen to like the slight touch of femininity she’s sprinkled throughout my house. Though, I shouldn’t get used to it. This is only temporary.

“So, they called me back,” Lia says, stepping into my bedroom. She shuts the door, then sits down on the bed beside me.

We brought back multiple bags filled with designer clothes, and she still wears my T-shirts. It’s another infringement of my personal space that I let slide because...I like it.

I sit up against the headboard and rub the sleep from my eyes. “And what did they say?”

“I didn’t get the job.” She releases a heavy sigh of disappointment. “I don’t have the necessary skills, experience, or qualifications.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I was sure you had that one in the bag.” This is her third rejection. I didn’t know finding a job was so difficult. “What qualifications are they talking about, though? That one just required a high school diploma.”

She wrings her hands, looking nervous. “I’m not sure. They didn’t give me any details.”

Her uneasiness escalates, and she becomes more fidgety. See, this is the part of her that’s a mystery. We could be in the middle of a normal discussion, and out of the blue, she’ll withdraw for no reason. Or maybe there is a reason, and she doesn’t want to tell me what it is. I don’t know if she’s hiding something or if that’s just an odd personality trait, but she’s got a wall up with a big no-entry sign in front. I’m not allowed past that point.

“Peter, I shouldn’t be staying here.”

Oh, God. Here we go again. She does this every day. Sometimes two, three times a day. Even though I’ve told her that I don’t mind and she’s not a burden, it’s the same song and danceeverytime.

With an irritated groan, I get out of bed, pull on my sweatpants, and walk into the bathroom. “Lia, we’ve been over this.” I smear toothpaste onto my brush and start brushing my teeth.

She follows behind me but stops at the door to lean against the frame. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take for me to find a job, and I can’t just...stay here...indefinitely. It’s not fair to you.”

My response is clipped. “I told you it’s not a problem.”

“But it is. You had alifebefore I came along. Don’t you want things to go back to normal? You’re supposed to be going out with your friends, drinking and partying, sleeping with a girl every night.”

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