Page 4 of Dwayne
I could pull her close and kiss her and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t push me away.
But I’m her boss. I’m probably twice her age. And it looks like I’m about to go through a long and messy custody battle for the only person in this world I truly care about. My daughter.
“Come on,” I say, pulling my keys out of my pocket and heading for the door. More than anything I want to fuck this beautiful new woman in my life. But it's not a good idea. Not yet anyway. “Let’s get out of here.”
3
Rhonda
“Malissa, please. She’s my daughter.”
I’m standing outside Dwayne's office. It’s the end of my first week. He’s supposed to be giving me a performance review and paying me my wages. But from the sounds of it, he might not be in the best of moods.
“You can’t do this,” he says. “You can’t take her away from me.”
My fist is still hovering in front of the door. I was just about to knock when I overheard his conversation.
Slowly, I step back into the corridor. This can wait. He can pay me tomorrow. No big deal.
“You really want to do this?” he says. His voice is growing louder and angrier. “You really want to drag her through the courts? Make her choose? She’s seven, for God’s sake. And it’s not you who’s going to have to pay for all the counseling afterward.”
A part of me wants to stay and listen. I can’t help it. I love a bit of juicy gossip. Even if I’m never going to tell another living soul.
But the other part of me - the sympathetic, kind, and caring part - says this is a private conversation. I shouldn’t be hearing this. It’s between him and whoever he’s on the phone with. I’m intruding on something personal. Something painful.
“Fine!” Dwayne says. “Have it that way.”
Suddenly, I hear his footsteps pounding across the floor. I try to move, but I’m frozen to the spot.
I need to run away, but my legs won’t carry me.
Dwayne swings open the door. He looks like he’s ready to punch someone.
“Rhonda?” he says.
My mouth is hanging open. I could catch flies in it. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He lets out a long breath. His shoulders sag. “You heard that?” he says.
“I didn’t mean to! I was just coming up here to get my weekly performance review. My wages. But then it seemed like you were busy, so I thought I’d come back again tomorrow.”
He looks at his watch. I bet he has a million other things on his mind. “That’s right,” he says, “your first week.”
“I can come back tomorrow.”
“Nonsense.”
He rushes back into his office and grabs an envelope. My eyes light up as I see my name on the front.
He passes it to me. “Your paycheck.”
“Thanks, chef.”
“Now, how about we take this somewhere a little more relaxed. I don't know about you, but I could do with a drink. I know a great little bar close by. We could grab a beer and talk about how you’re getting on.”
The idea of grabbing a drink with him sounds nice. More than nice. All the little butterflies in my belly are jumping up and down and dancing and screaming at me to take him up on his offer. “As long as it’s no trouble.”
“Trouble?” he says, taking me by the elbow and leading me down the stairs toward the exit. “It’s no trouble. I promise. It’ll be my pleasure.”
