Page 28 of More, Daddy (Bluebell Bruisers #3)
Covering the strappy filigree lace set is my favorite fancy winter coat—one I got after graduation as a treat to myself. One that coincidentally, Cadence Caine actually owns. She shrugged it off in class one day and I happened to see the label when I got up to sharpen my pencil.
I bought myself the same coat, and it’s my cover-up for tonight.
If West has ever seen her in it, or if he has any hesitations or reservations, hopefully the small familiarity of the coat will keep his curiosity in check.
Honestly, though, I don’t think I’ve raised a single red flag.
I said I was Cadence. Then I messaged him from Cadence’s work computer. That can’t be faked.
Tying the coat at my waist, I flip my hair out from under the collar, letting it fall in long waves down my back. My hair isn’t as light as Cadence’s but I am a blonde. It’s longer than hers, though, which is better. Gives Daddy more to play with when he wants to.
Applying a thin layer of mascara to my already doused lashes, I spritz on another few pumps of perfume, rub my lips together to spread the red lipstick into all the fine lines, snatch my purse from my bed and make my way down the hall, nothing but my shrimp line nude stockings and my high heels exposed.
Muted light flickers against the old wood paneling in the living room, and when I make it to the end of the hallway, there’s a news program playing on TV. Some man is missing in Oakcreek, or something. Dad holds a glass of whiskey in one hand, the back of his hair already matted from headrest rub.
Sticking my finger through the keyring, I snatch up the keys to my old car and move for the front door, not bothering to say goodbye.
But my dad seriously believes he still has some say in what I do, nevermind that I’m almost twenty and pay for as much as or more than he does. No way.
“Briar, is that you?” he struggles to twist in his chair, searching for me through the haze of his alcohol-driven incompetence.
I roll my eyes. “No, it’s not me.” The stupidity of his question—caused, of course, by his perpetual inebriation—makes me narrow my eyes at the side of his face. Rolling them wasn’t enough. “Do you need something?”
His voice is hoarse and his words have space between them, strung apart like pendants on a string. “Come over here, let me see you.”
God .
I hate it when he’s an emotional drunk. Mean drunk is my favorite, because then we have a row, and I can hold my own against him. But crying, regretful dad? No thank you. Disgusting.
“No.” Then I enunciate each word as if it were its own sentence. “Do you need something?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I turn to leave when he adds, “Just your car keys.”
I look down to my palm, where my keys rest. Those keys are my freedom, my way out of this responsibility hell-hole, my way to my safe places, my way to West. I need this car.
“It’s my car.” I almost want to stomp my foot.
“It’s my car,” he softly asserts, "because I paid for it.”
“But I pay the insurance,” I counter, already running through scenarios in my mind in which I can make tonight happen without my car.
Because tonight is going to happen. I could get a Wheel Get You ride share but…
I still have to shoplift. I can’t expect a rideshare driver to wait while I steal wine.
Plus they’d be able to find me by tracking down the driver, then me.
“My truck ain’t runnin’ and I need to get to the truck stop tomorrow. You can pick the car up from there.” He lets out a sigh as he flips the channel. “It’s just one day.”
Fuck the day. It’s about now. It’s about tonight.
I drop the keys, unwilling to let this little hiccup stop me.
In the backyard, I find my old ten-speed, one I haven’t ridden in at least three years.
After adding some air to the tires and wiping the dusty seat with an equally dirty chamois snagged from a faded folding chair, I straddle the seat and get peddling.
My hair is going to take a hit, that’s for sure, but I am going to get there. After a few minutes of deep breathing and patting myself on the proverbial back for solving my problem so quickly, I hop off my bike and lean it against the side of the Stop ’n Go and head inside.
In greeting, I tip my head to the man behind the counter perched on a stool with a cell phone held tightly between his hands.
He hardly acknowledges me when I enter, then move through the narrow aisles to the back, careful not to knock over a poorly balanced end cap of cellphone charging cables.
Facing the wall of wine, I remove the gold ring from my right finger and hold it in my teeth, careful to not have it clink against the neck of the bottle as I snatch it up then shove it deep into the breast of my coat.
With it tied at the waist, the bottle rests perfectly against my chest, the waist of my coat keeping it upright.
I flip my hair over my collar and chest, hiding the bulge, and slip my ring back on.
I lift a worn box labeled USB-C to USB-C and hold it up.
“No USB-C to lightning?” I stick my bottom lip out in a pout long enough for the clerk to briefly glance up and see me, my lip, and the box.
He shakes his head no as he tips his phone to the side, tapping badly as he bites his bottom lip. He’s killing someone in some game, and I thank that game for keeping him distracted.
“Thanks anyway.” I make my way outside, hop on my bike and take off.
West’s house is thankfully only about two miles away, but I take it slower than usual so that I don’t get sweaty.
As soon as his street comes into view, I decide to hide my bike two houses down from his, because their garbage cans are in the side yard and offer a perfect hiding spot.
Once it’s nicely tucked behind the cans, I slide off the bike and pull the wine from my jacket.
It’s warm from being pressed against my body, but with the way West and I are currently feeling, I doubt we’ll even get to the wine .
He and I are going to be so unstoppable once we’re in each other’s arms. Of that I have no doubt.
Carefully, I make my way up the old walkway, blinking down to analyze the detail in the stones. I’ve only ever seen them driving by, I’ve never actually walked on them.
Holy shit.
I freeze, just three paces from the old wrap around porch.
I’m really here.
While I’ve always known myself to be resourceful when it came to getting things that I desperately wanted, I can’t deny the tiny little shimmy of surprise that wiggles down my legs as I peer up at West’s house.
I really did it.
I got him.
I got him to fall in love with me and now West Dupont is mine.
My daddy. My lover. My everything.
With dark blue quickly usurping the traces of purple and pink left in the night sky, I make my way to his front door and tousle my hair to cover most of my face. When I reach out to knock, I find a note on the door, small and yellow, almost hidden by impending darkness.
It’s open.
With a deep breath, I gently twist the doorknob, and the old, heavy door swings open easily.
The inside of his house is dark—as promised—with a little bit of early moonlight peeking through a gauzy looking curtain on the back wall.
I close and lock the door behind me, immediately weak in the knees from the patchouli and sandalwood scent of his place.
That’s what he smells like, and being in his space where he breathes, eats, sleeps, yawns, laughs, coughs, comes—my gosh. It makes me a little loopy.
Reaching out, I steady myself with a palm to the wall, making small steps, my patent nude heels clicking quietly against his wood-paneled floor.
Surely West knows what Cadence Caine sounds like. While I’ve never seen the two of them exchange more than a couple of words, it stands to reason that if they’ve worked together at the school for years, they’ve likely spoken.
That means, until I’m ready to make the reveal, I can’t speak either.
I have to be all nods and mewls, which I can do.
He must’ve heard the door, so he has to know I’m here. I lick my lips, my heart rate beating loudly in my own brain as I continue forward, silently praying that my eyes adjust to the darkness and start showing me something.
“Hi there,” he says, causing me to catch a gasp of surprise with my hand, crushing my back against the wall. I look around into the darkness, but still can’t see anything beyond the shape of a couch. It’s really fucking dark in here. Daddy did keep his promise.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” he asks, and suddenly, his words are dusting my ear, his breath is hot on my face.
His hand comes to my hip, gripping me with disorienting force.
His other hand comes to my throat, where he holds me gently, extending his thumb up the underside of my chin as he forces my head back.
My scalp grates against the wall, and I blink a few times, reaching up to wrap both of my hands around his wrist.
“My pretty little girl,” he coos, turning my insides to molten lava.
I hadn’t expected him to jump into roleplay, but I’m ready.
I’m ready for anything he has in store. With a hand on my hip, he hooks a knuckle in the tie at my waist and before I can stop him, he snags it, letting the long dog ears of the belt fall free, sending the bottle of wine to the floor in a loud cacophony of shatters .
I look down at my feet, but it’s still so dark that I can’t make out the splashes of crimson on my nude leather heels. But it’s there. The mess is there, and the smell of wine overwhelms me as his hand around my throat tightens.
West’s lips, soft and full and everything I’ve ever dreamed of, dust the tip of my nose, growling out a string of words that steal my breath and scramble my brain?—
“How. Fucking. Dare. You.”