Page 95 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
The thought sits with me as Mallory and I climb out of the car.
We did exchange numbers before parting ways, and it’s not like we didn’t agree that what happened at the cabin stays there.
That agreement felt solid in that moment, but now that I’m away and back in my own world, it feels more like uncertain waters.
Inside, the bank smells faintly like coffee and printer paper.
The carpet is that weird, muted blue every bank seems to have.
The lobby is empty except for an old guy at the pens-on-chains station, hunched over a deposit slip and squinting hard while writing.
I head straight for the counter of slips next to him and grab one, clicking the pen a few times before writing down the number I need. My hand almost hesitates before I finish it.
The total looks…actually obscene.
I can’t believe Liam has this much money lying around.
He barely batted an eye after he showed me the confirmation email he’d been sent after the transaction was successful and it nearly made me pass out at his feet.
Mallory leans over to snoop because of course she does. “Uh…are you paying for two months? Or three on accident?”
“Sort of,” I say, shoving the pen back into the cup right as my fingers begin to shake.
I really don’t want to have this conversation with her, let alone in a damn bank. “I had quite a bit of back pay that I owe.”
She tilts her head at me, narrowing her eyes. “And you haveallthat in your account?”
I slide the slip back into my hand, covering it so it will make the number less noticeable. “Yep.”
All technically true, so I’m not exactly lying to her.
I just don’t tell her the part about how it got there or whose hands, mouths, and cocks it had taken in exchange for it.
The teller calls me forward before I can come up with a graceful way to change the subject.
I slide the slip under the glass, keeping my face neutral.
The woman behind the counter greets me with a polite and faintly bored smile all people working in customer service have perfected after years of practice.
She glances at the number, arches her brows almost imperceptibly, then starts tapping something into her computer.
“Just a moment,” she says, before disappearing through the door into the back.
Behind me, Mallory crosses her arms, one eyebrow already creeping upward.
“Okay. But the last time we talked, you said you were hardly getting any orders. Like…the place was panic-level slow. Did someone big book with you?”
I keep my back to her, my mouth hitching into a tight almost-smile that’s nowhere near convincing. “Something like that.”
She makes a skeptical sound in her throat, but before she can press me again, the teller comes back holding a money order, the amount clear and easy to read.
Mallory’s jaw drops so far I think she might trap bugs in it.
The teller slides the money order to me with a small, “Here you are,” before retreating back into her safe little bubble of neutral customer service.
Mallory, however, isnotneutral.
She leans in close, her voice dropping to an incredulous whisper.
