Page 7 of Daddy's Game

“Holy shit, was that Brock Richards?”

I jumped out of my skin at the sound of Selma’s voice. I hadn’t realized she was there.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know you’re going on a date with a billionaire,” she replied, staring out the metal laced window as Brock walked to the parking lot. “And a damn fine one at that.”

“Are you kidding me?” I gave a snort of derision. “It's so not a date, and anyway, he’s old enough to be my father.”

“He’s old enough to be my Daddy,” Selma said, pursing her lips and giving an appreciative cluck of her tongue. “There’s something about a silver fox. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Oh please,” I said with a sigh. “I’m not into that sort of thing.”

“Why not?” Selma’s question hung in the air like a blanket of thick smoke. “I mean, you’re always complaining about how immature guys your own age are, and how they don’t take you seriously unless you’re naked and ten feet from the bed.”

I slapped a hand over my face and wiped it down in exasperation.

“Selma, come on.”

“No, you come on. What are you going to wear?”

“What’s wrong with what I have on?”

Selma sighed and shook her head sadly.

“Look, you know I have your back, right?”

“Right,” I said cautiously, feeling as if I were being set up.

“And I’ve been with you since day one of this cray cray center, right?

“Yes,” I said, dragging the sound out on my tongue. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m just saying I’ve got your best interests at heart. So when I tell you that this evening requires an epic glow up, you’ll believe me.”

“Epic glow up?”

She faced my incredulity head on.

“I didn’t stutter. Just trust me. Put on something tight and slinky, maybe show some leg or cleavage, and your evening will be nice.”

“Not a date, Selma.”

Her expression told me she was dubious about that at best.

“Well, maybe he’ll donate more money. You know that cash is already spent and it doesn’t fix half of what’s wrong with this place, right?”

“Oh fine, I’ll put on a dress, maybe even shave my legs. But it’s still not a date.”

In spite of my vocal protests and private reservations, I thought about the impending dinner all day. It lurked in the back of my mind like a tiger, ready to pounce on me at any moment when I was not actively doing something else.

I headed for my meager, rent-controlled apartment around five and hopped in the shower. I wrapped myself in a towel and went to my closet. I didn’t have much in the way of cute clothes. Most of my private budget went to supplement the center and I hadn’t been shopping in months.

I dug out a little black dress I’d gotten on discount from a thrift store. It wasn't a designer label, but the fit was excellent and the material surprisingly good.

I ran my fingers over the fluff of hair on my legs, saying goodbye before I shaved it off. Unfortunately, I wound up with a lot of red razor burn and wound up having to sheathe my legs in dark, almost opaque hose. Fortunately, the hose looked good with the dress, almost like I’d planned it that way.

I checked myself in the mirror after applying minimal makeup. I wondered if Brock would find me enticing in the ensemble…

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