Page 2 of Dirty Dillon

After my mom died, my father got more and more distant and less and less indulgent. By the time I graduated high school, I was ready to get out, and I don’t think he missed me. I haven’t been home for many of my breaks. Not even Christmas.

“Father’s waiting for you in his study,” Chad says as he hops out of the truck, not bothering to help me with my bags. My jaw clenches in annoyance, but I grab the suitcases and stack them in front of the door and head inside.

I pause outside my father’s study, taking a deep breath before I knock on the door. When I hear his gruff voice telling me to enter, I push the door open and find him sitting behind his desk, looking every bit the polished, soulless politician he is.

“There she is,” he says in a joyless tone. “My pride and joy.”

“Hello, Father,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to keep my temper in check. It’s not easy, especially when the man has made it clear that he sees me as nothing more than a nuisance.

“Take a seat, Cressida,” he orders, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. I do as I’m told, but not without rolling my eyes first.

“Why did you bring me home? You obviously don’t want me here,” I ask, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice.

“Because you can’t seem to avoid trouble anywhere else,” he replies, his eyes cold and unyielding. “I’ve turned off your phone.”

“You what?”

“Your credit cards, too.”

“Father...please...”

“I’m done with your nonsense. I have invited my lawyer, Blake Masterson, to dine with us this evening. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Do you understand? This is a very important dinner. You are to be very nice to Masterson. I’ve picked out your dress.”

“What?” I’m getting whiplash from this conversation.

“It’s on your bed. Do something with your hair. You’re a mess.”

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

Well, that went well.

It takes me several trips to lug my suitcases up to my room. That’s when I notice the dress I’m supposed to wear.

He cannot be fucking serious.

It’s a very small, very red dress with a plunging neckline. It is not the kind of dress a young woman wears to impress her father’s business associates unless...

It’s like getting kicked in the gut when I realize that Mr. Family Values is using me like a piece of meat to impress his colleague. I can’t believe he’s stooped so low.

I take a deep breath and try to push down the anger that’s bubbling inside me. I can’t let him get to me. I don’t have any options if I can’t figure out a way to placate my father. I just need to behave the way he wants until he forgets he’s mad at me, and then I can approach him about school again.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the red dress.

What kind of man is my father, really? He’s always been cold and controlling, but this is next level. Chad said he has a lot on his plate right now, but downtown looked so much better than the last time I was in Tempest. So why is he so stressed that he needs me to impress this Blake person with my tits?

I take a shower and put on a full face of makeup, needing the mask it provides. Slipping into the revealing dress, I cringe at how exposed I feel. The fabric brushes against my skin whispering promises of humiliation and embarrassment.

I mean, usually when I wear something like this, I feel powerful. I know my assets and how to use them. But it’s different when a man is using your assets. When it’s your own father. There’s nothing powerful about this situation. Nothing that isn’t completely disgusting.

At dinner, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the fabric of the dress clinging to my body as I pull at its hem. My father’s eyes are stern, and Blake’s linger just a bit too long on my exposed skin for my liking. I sip more wine, desperate to regain some semblance of control over the situation.

Chad never looks up from his phone.

Blake Masterson is not as old as my father, but he exudes the same level of power and control. The way he’s looking at me is making me feel small and insignificant. His face is...weird. Like he’s not young, but his face is unlined and an unnatural color. His hair is dark, but styled like a plastic doll. In fact, that’s sort of his overall vibe. Plastic.

I try to focus on the conversation, but my mind is racing. I can feel Blake’s eyes on me, like he’s undressing me with his gaze. My father’s words are just background noise as I try to keep my composure.

Usually, I wrap men like Blake around my pinky. Generally speaking, men are easily controlled by increasing and decreasing the throttle of my feminine charms to keep them off balance but wanting more. However, having my father involved has thrown my confidence. I get the feeling I don’t know the entire scope of this situation, either.

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