Page 131 of Fly Boy
“Yeah,” he says, drumming his fingers next to the keys, each thud against the wood, making the keys jingle. “As in, drop off. As in, the service we have never done, nor do we intend on starting.”
I snort, removing my baseball hat to push back my overgrown hair, before setting the cap backward on my head. Reaching to take the keys, Dad’s hand covers them, little strands of pink fuzz poking out between his fingers. He pulls on his desk drawer with his other hand and digs inside before putting something next to the keys.
My eyebrows dip, meeting in the middle, as I glance down at the long metallic object on his desk.
“You might want to speak to your girlfriend about how much she’s costing her father. This is the third time this month I found something like this,” he says, tapping the broken nail file with pink rhinestones on the thin handle.
What the actual fuck. That was in her tire? And third time?
And wait, what did he say?
My eyes flash up to his.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say vehemently. “She’s just…” I trail off. I don’t exactly want to say she’s just a fuck buddy, a hook-up, a pretty twenty-one-year-old with a stick so far up her ass, she thinks she’s doing me a favor bylettingme fuck her.
“Yeah, well, as long as you’re being careful. Ms. O’Malley is not someone you mess around with. That kitty’s got claws.” He picks up the nail file like he’s trying to prove a point.
“It’s not like that. She knows the score; it’s just a bit of fun.”
Dad hums thoughtfully. “You’ve been havinga lot of funsince we moved here.”
“Didn’t realize you were keeping track,” I mutter, and Dad raises an eyebrow suggestively.
Fuck my life.
“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re twenty, you can do whatever you like. And you’ve certainly not lacked for anyone todothings with anyway,” Dad jokes, and I cringe. I’ve never tried to hide my sexual activity from my dad—c’mon, I’m a horny as hell young man—but having the “sex talk” with your parents is like being tied up and tortured for information.
Adjusting the framed photo of my mom, his gaze flickers back to me. “Don’t you want more? Something meaningful?”
I shake my head so forcefully I swear I can feel my brain move. “Fuck no. Not with anyone from here.”
“Why not?”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Have you seen half the girls who live here? This place is full of trust-fund-Instagram-model wannabes who are practically lining up to get a piece of this...” I wave a hand downward, and Dad rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Yeah, your son’s a cocky bastard. Wonder who I got that from too.
I offer a small smile, then lift my shoulder dismissively. “I’m not ready for anything serious, plus, what’s the point in startingsomething, when pretty soon, I’ll be looking to move back to Phoenix?”
“That still the plan, then?” Dad asks, and I nod. He looks at me thoughtfully, bobbing his head like he’s answering an internal question. “Morgana is a nice girl.”
“What?” I ask, scrunching my face in confusion. How did we go from moving back to Phoenix to our neighbor’s daughter? “Are you alright, old man?”
“Just sayin’.” He itches at his beard, trying to look all coy like this is something that just popped into his head and not something he’s clearly been mulling over for a while.The sneaky fucker.Bet Mom’s in on it too.
I can’t deny that Morgana Adler—the girl with the wild golden curls, burnt-out freckles, and a death glare that makes my cock stir when I call her by the little nickname I gave her—is a nice girl. A littletoonice. But I’d rather agree to a life of celibacy in this town than let Dad know that, even against my better judgment, I’ve already noticed her.
A noise falls from my lips, and that I hope it sounds more like a lighthearted laugh than one of frustration. Being so close to someone I can’t have—shouldn’twantto have—is infuriating as hell. “Yeah, alright. The sayingthe apple doesn’t fall far from the treewas invented for the offspring of the WickedBitchof the West.”
Dad tuts. “Morgana is nothing like her parents. She’s polite and sweet and your mom loves her.”
Interesting.
“Good to know,” I say drily.
“She’s around your age too.”
“There’s no way. She looks about fifteen.” I scoff, trying harder to deflect, but I know all too well that innocent baby face hides a sharp tongue and a voice I’d love to hear moaning my name.
