Page 35 of Who's Your Daddy
“Trying out nicknames, what do you think?”
“Everyone else calls me Murph.”
I shrug. “But I’m your dad.”
He sighs, his little body slumped like his backpack is full of bricks. “Are we going to your office?”
“Actually,” I say with a smile, “we’re going to get slushies. After, we have to drop T.J. off at Sloaney’s office, then we’ll head home. That work?”
Murphy lifts those shoulders again like he couldn't care less what we do.
“I told Uncle Cal I wanted a red and he’ll get a blue and we can mix them,” T.J. grips the railing at the bottom of the staircase and swings himself back and forth. He can’t sit still for even a moment.
I back up, waving for them to follow me. “How about we all get red and blue slushies? We can mix them together at the machine.”
T.J. says, “Ah, yes, Uncle Cal. Murphy, you’reso lucky your dad is the coolest.”
Murphy doesn’t respond, but I’m certain his lips lift just a little.
“Now boys, we’re walking into enemy territory,” I explain as we ride up the lift, slushies in hand. I stick out my tongue, assessing myself in the stainless steel wall. My reflection is hazy, making it hard to get a good look, so I spin, my tongue still out. “Is my tongue blue?” Theissounds more likeith.
Murphy hides his smile behind his extra-large slushie cup. T.J., on the other hand, lets loose a loud laugh.
“No, Uncle Cal! That’s why we mixed it with red!”
“Oh.” I take another obnoxiously loud slurp. “I thought that was just because it tasted better.”
The lift doors open, and an elderly couple stands on the other side, eyes wide. “Scuse us.” I hold the door open and motion for the boys to head off the lift.
We step out into a bland reception area where Mozart is playing at a barely audible level. Pretentious fuckers probably don’t even know the classic tune, only that it sounds like money.
I’ve never been inside this office, but I’m not surprised at all by the bland gray and blue hues. It looks like every other law office in Manhattan. Sterile décor, a shot of the Empire State Building at night, and a photo of the New York City skyline included.
If there’s anything New Yorkers are obsessed with, it’s that.
Best City in the world, I love New York. It’s a mantra that many residence seem fond of. Including the lovely Lola, I can imagine. She probably chants the words when she’s getting off.
Fuck. I’m a wanker. Why the hell am I even thinking about Lola getting off?Now I’m plagued by images of her in her flat doing just that. Hands trailing between her thighs, a vibrator cranked to its highest setting. If I had to guess, the woman likes it rough.
“Uncle Cal, who is that man talking to my mommy?”
T.J.’s question shakes me from my far too vivid daydream, but it’s the scene before me that has my blood running from hot to cold.
Yes, why the hell is Will Higgins talking toourSloaney?
Side by side, they amble down the hall. She’s laughing while he yammers on, her arms cradling a file to her chest, her posture easy, her face lit up.
I hate to say it, but I haven’t seen her this relaxed in years.
My brother is so fucked.
When she spots us, she goes stiff, guilt flashing in her eyes.
Oh yeah. So fucked.
She recovers quickly, forcing a bright smile—not an easygoing one—and bows her head, focusing on the boys. “Hey,” she says, her tone far too chipper. “How was the first day of school?”
Yes, my sister-in-law is feeling guilty about something, and I don’t like the looks of it at all.
