Page 46 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
I slide out of the bed. Riley stirs. I freeze, wait until her breathing deepens. Whew! If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be turning down gigs to spend time with my daughter… W-e-l-l, I’d have laughed long and hard. The final joke is on me, though. I smooth the cover about my daughter’s shoulders. Her cheeks are rosy, her cherubic face relaxed in sleep. She’s so fucking gorgeous. Fuck, don’t swear—not even by way of thinking, in relation to her. Bloody hell, this parenting thing? I suck at it.
I back away from the bed, close the door behind me, keeping it slightly ajar, exactly how Riley prefers it. I head down the steps toward the kitchen. The empty kitchen where Meredith put aside dinner in the fridge, no doubt. She’s taken to coming by more and more often. Clearly, she's worried about me. Hell, she treats all Seven of us as part of her extended family. She’d helped us after the incident, given us a place to hang out away from our homes where we could be ourselves without the constant worried attentions of our close families, or worse, the kind of indifference that came from parents who couldn’t cope with what had happened. Like mine. They’d been alright though, I suppose. They’d taken me to shrinks, helped me to deal with it. Just... They had never been able to stop treating me with kid gloves. The result? I had rebelled in the typical way…
I had left home at eighteen to form a rock band. It hadn’t been easy, but the challenge of it…had kept me going. And the Seven. All of them had encouraged me. Even that fucker, Baron, who’d preferred to leave the rest of us behind as he travelled across the world to wherever the hell he is right now... He’d made sure to send me a letter congratulating me when my first album had been a hit.
Now that I am scraping rock bottom… Yeah—a rock star bottom, I suppose. I can call it that. I snicker—Well, now that I am as close to the starting point as I had been, in terms of being a failure, that is… I have nothing to lose, huh? I can simply follow my instinct, give tune to the kinds of words I wouldn’t have been caught dead writing before… At least, I am writing, thanks to her. I walk into my study and make sure the baby-cam is switched on, so I have eyes and ears on my angel.
Then strum my guitar as I begin to compose the rhythm for the words that have been buzzing in my head from earlier.
Space, presence, amalgamation of a lifetime.
I take,
You yield.
My presence fills your void.
Balance...
I claim the openings you leave.
The chase,
The hunt,
The thrill of the beyond.
Taking, moving, taking, moving.
Empty as a dance without a partner.
Demented as a man without his wife…
What the hell? My fingers slip on the chords, the sound jarring in the empty space. Wife? Where did that thought come from? I place the guitar on the couch, then jump up to my feet. Shit, this wasn’t meant to happen. This…this itch inside of me, the crawling, damning need that lodges in my gut and aches to get out and I cannot, will not, let it… I hope.
I snatch up my phone and dial.
"Hello, motherfucker." Arpad’s voice comes through.
"Hello to you, too," I blow out a breath.
There’s a pause, then he switches to video. His face appears on screen. "What’s wrong?"
"What could be wrong?" I rub the back of my neck.
"You wouldn’t be calling if there wasn’t something."
"True," I concede.
"Your stalker bothering you again?" He scowls.
"It's been quiet on that front." I sigh. Maybe too quiet. Not that I am complaining. I'd gone off social media but it hadn't deterred the die-hard fans from trying to track down where I live. One of them had sent me threatening notes, then had been caught trying to sneak onto my property a few months ago. It's why I’d had Karina beef up the security around the house; and why I had cancelled my gigs and all engagements to stay home. No one can protect my daughter the way I can, after all. And no way, am I going to let anything happen to her.
"What are you going to do about it?" He frowns.
"About what?"
"Her."
