Page 79 of Duty and Desire
And I was honest enough with myself I knew that I was that girl who needed to be daddy’s little girl. Daddy’s princess. His sun and moon and stars. The girl he threatened all her boyfriends so they wouldn’t hurt her, but mostly he was working out his issues because he didn’t want to let her go. The girl he choked up about when he gave her away at her wedding.
Our dad had gotten his shit together.
But I would never fully trust it, and that was part of my plight, and his punishment.
Because all of what I’d needed when I was a little girl and growing up was lost to me.
I could never again be five and walking through the fair with my hand in my father’s and have him cry, “Gotta get some cotton candy for my best girl!” making me feel loved, treasured, safe, protected…
Special.
Okay, he’d done that when I was five.
And when he’d stopped because the poker table was more important than his wife and daughters, that was when I’d learned what missing something felt like.
And how that missing it could turn to needing it.
And how that need became seeking attention.
Not to mention how to hold a grudge.
So on Day Three with The Supreme Asshole of All Time (Mo), Sunday, one of my two days off (I had Sundays and Mondays off), Mo was still sleeping on my couch in my room. He was also still standing backstage when I danced (except the second dance, that was when he handed off to one of Smithie’s guys and took a shower and changed).
And I had absolutely no idea what was going on with the crackpot who wanted to “cleanse” me because I couldn’t ask Smithie considering he probably thought I was getting briefs from Mo and I didn’t want to tell him Mo was the Supreme Asshole of All Time.
This was due to my desire for Mo not to get fired (or reprimanded or something) after I explained why we weren’t talking, which would make Smithie do something rash, like attempt to Tase him then kick him in the balls while he was down.
Or demand Hawk fire him.
Mo was an asshole, but he was vigilant, I was still alive and safe (ish). Not trapped in a well only to be drugged and dragged up and “cleansed” repeatedly (though, according to that letter, a “cleansing” sounded a lot like rape and torture, and I wasn’t real sure how that would make a girl clean, then again, I wasn’t a crackpot).
So I decided not to rock the boat.
Mo wasn’t the only person I’d run into who had a problem with strippers.
I was used to it.
It hurt (coming from Mo).
It sucked (coming from Mo).
He was still hot as hell and I really wanted to pounce on him.
And occasionally (all right, frequently), I remembered him telling me I didn’t need the strips or the face mousse or the implants, remembering this while also remembering how nice that felt.
But…whatever.
I’d been wrong about him.
He was one ofthose guys.
And one day he’d be gone.
Of course, this was what I told myself.
But at night, while trying to put my body to sleep bit by bit, knowing he was right there in the room with me, and remembering how sweet it was when Mo had helped me do that, my mind often wandered. When it did, I’d end up feeling my throat close, my nose sting, and my eyes feel hot wishing I hadn’t been wrong about him.
(Another reason for the grudge.)
