Page 1 of Doughn't Let Me Go

Slice One

Porter

“Are you sure you’re good watching her?” I glance back into the house for the billionth time. “You know what? I’ll just take her with me.”

Foster, my best friend, steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Dude, we got this. Besides, your kid loves me.”

“She loves you because you feed her sugar and let her bounce off the walls.”

“So?” Foster shrugs and sends me an evil smirk. “It’s not like I have to deal with the fallout.”

“Dick.”

“You love me, which is why you moved out here—to spend time with me.”

“I moved out here for my daughter, to raise her in a good community, and that’s it.”

I did miss my best friend, but I’m not about to get all mushy with him. Being sentimental with anyone other than my seven-year-old daughter isn’t my style.

“Don’t worry, I know how you really feel. You confessed your love for me when you got trashed a few months ago.”

“It was my birthday! One of the last of my twenties, thank you very much. You’re saying it like it was some random Wednesday day drinking or some shit. Birthday blackouts don’t count as blackouts,” I argue.

He leans into me. “You got naked and swam in the ocean. In the middle of the winter. It counts.”

“It was so fucking cold too.”

“Oh, weallsaw just how cold it was,” says Foster’s wife, Wren, as she slides up next to him.

I don’t even bother getting embarrassed. It wasn’t my first time getting butt-ass naked in front of strangers, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. I’m fairly sure those lyrics about tequila making clothes fall off were written about me.

“We’ll be fine. Now go, or you’re going to be late for your appointment, and you don’t want to set a bad example for your future employee.”

“Good point. I’ll be back by six.”

“We’ll be here.”

“Kyrie?” I call out. “Be good for Uncle Foster and Aunt Wren, okay?”

“I will! GOSH!” She rolls her eyes.

“As you can see, seven is really fun so far,” I say to the couple as I try to suppress the urge to ground my intolerable child.

I love my daughter, I love my daughter, I love my daughter.

“So much attitude for such a little person.”

“Don’t I know it. Good luck with that.”

I wave goodbye to them before they can change their minds about watching her and climb into my luxury SUV, steering it toward my destination.

I won’t lie, this car has gotten me more than oneWTFstare since Kyrie and I moved here. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a multimillionaire under thirty and live in a small beach town. You’re bound to turn a few heads.

Granted, I wasn’t a multimillionaire when I first bought the house out here. That didn’t come until later in the year, after another night of tequila and nakedness I won’t discuss with anyone other than my former intern who had to sign an NDA.

Most people would think I’m insane for leaving behind my million-dollar internet security business in California and moving to North Carolina, but I want something stable for Kyrie after a rocky first six years of her life, and I know I’ll be hard-pressed to find what I want in LA.

I’m not out here looking for love or the white-picket-fence thing—though I wouldn’t argue with it, either—but having a good group of friends I can rely on would be the dream come true.

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