Page 12 of Who’s Your Daddy (Dadcoms #1)
Cal
“ T esting. Testing.”
The guy next to me is watching, biting back a smile.
“You mind holding this and standing right here?” I ask, holding up one brand-new walkie-talkie.
The man shrugs. “Sure.”
I count my steps until I’m about ten feet away, then hold the second walkie-talkie up and press the button. “Can you hear me now?”
He nods.
I walk another ten feet. “How ‘bout now?”
When he gives me a thumbs up, I stalk back another ten.
“And now?”
He presses the button on the device in his hand. “Yes.”
“My man.” I grin. “That’s about the distance from here to the school, right?”
Eyes narrowed, he studies me, like he’s cataloging my features so he can give them to a sketch artist.
“I’m not a creep, I swear.” One hand held out, I dart back to him. “I’m a dad. A new one,” I explain.
“Ah.” He nods, his expression relaxing. “It’s hard to leave them. ”
“Exactly! I’m Cal.” I hold out my hand.
He returns the gesture. “Roger. My daughter is in fourth grade.”
“My son is in first.”
With a flick of his wrist, he turns the walkie-talkie off. “He’ll probably like this. My daughter would never go for it. Ten going on seventeen and all.” He chuckles.
“Yeah, I’m really glad my surprise kid was a boy.”
His eyes go wide. “Surprise kid?”
Before I can explain, the double doors fly open, and a rush of kids descend the steps.
T.J. is leading the pack, but even once I’ve scanned the crowd, Murphy is nowhere in sight.
“Uncle Cal!” My nephew launches himself into my arms.
Fortunately I’m used to his enthusiasm, so I catch him easily.
“Are you going to pick me up every day? This is the bestest! I don’t like school but if you take me for a slushie, I’ll like you!”
Have I mentioned the kid is a con artist as well?
I nod, preoccupied with finding Murphy. Tendrils of panic grip my throat, tightening with every second that passes. “Where’s your cousin?”
T.J. shrugs. “Slushie time? I’m thinking a blue one, but if you get a red one and I get a blue one I can have them both.”
Ignoring his chatter, I hike him up a little higher and stride for the front of the building.
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman standing at the door.
She looks exactly like the strict teachers from my private school in England.
Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her clothes have nary a wrinkle.
Immediately, I’m transported to that time.
Suddenly, I’m a lad searching for my mother in the crowd of parents.
My endeavors were always fruitless. My mother never picked us up.
One day, though, she promised she would. My birthday. But she never showed. My driver didn’t either; he thought she was coming to get me.
My heart rate ratchets up. I had Sully back then.
He and I stood together waiting and eventually walked home.
He always had a few quid on him and that day he used them to buy a Lion bar for me.
The caramel chocolate wafer was always my favorite as a child.
He pretended that had been the plan all along.
I knew better, but I went along with it.
It helped. But Murphy doesn’t have a Sully. He’s stuck with me.
Dammit, where is Murphy?
The woman turns my way, her nose in the air, her back completely straight.
My stomach rolls.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for my son. Murphy Macallister. He’s in the same class as my nephew”—I heft T.J., keeping him in my left arm—“but he didn’t come out.”
Eyes narrowed, she unclips a walkie-talkie from her belt. Instantly, all of my worries fall to the wayside. She can’t be that bad if she has one of those.
She presses the button on the side and uses two fingers to cover one of her ears, appearing very official.
I make a note to try it that way next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference. “Gerry, I’m looking for a Murphy Macallister. First grade. Could you send him out?”
She pulls it away from her mouth and holds up a finger to keep me from talking. Five seconds later, the device crackles and beeps.
“He’s talking to Mrs. Benoit, I’ll have him head your way.”
She offers me a silent, perfunctory smile. Nothing more.
Alright.
“Who’s Mrs. Benoit?” I whisper as I set T.J. on his feet at the bottom of the steps.
“Our teacher.”
Hands in my pockets, I pace the tarmac. With each pass, I glance at the door, willing it to open. Is he in trouble? Murphy doesn’t seem like the type of kid to get in trouble, then again, I barely know him.
After a literal eternity the door eases open, and Murphy appears wearing the cool expression I’ve come to expect from him. He doesn’t light up in excitement when he sees me, though I swear there’s a flicker in his eyes. Like maybe he didn’t expect me to be here, and he’s not mad that I am.
It hits me then that maybe my son has experienced situations similar to mine. Maybe he’s been the kid waiting at the school for a parent who didn’t show up. And based on the closed-off expressions, there’s a good chance he’s been through it more times than I ever have.
He’s probably used to people not showing up.
And that breaks my fucking heart.
I take three big steps toward him, not bothering to hide how excited I am to see him. “Mack Attack! How was your first day?”
His brows jump to his forehead. “Mack Attack?”
“Trying out nicknames, what do you think?”
“Everyone else calls me Murph.”
I shrug. “But I’m your dad.”
He sighs, his little body slumped like his backpack is full of bricks. “Are we going to your office?”
“Actually,” I say with a smile, “we’re going to get slushies. After, we have to drop T.J. off at Sloaney’s office, then we’ll head home. That work?”
Murphy lifts those shoulders again like he couldn't care less what we do.
“I told Uncle Cal I wanted a red and he’ll get a blue and we can mix them,” T.J. grips the railing at the bottom of the staircase and swings himself back and forth. He can’t sit still for even a moment.
I back up, waving for them to follow me. “How about we all get red and blue slushies? We can mix them together at the machine.”
T.J. says, “Ah, yes, Uncle Cal. Murphy, you’reso lucky your dad is the coolest.”
Murphy doesn’t respond, but I’m certain his lips lift just a little.
“Now boys, we’re walking into enemy territory,” I explain as we ride up the lift, slushies in hand.
I stick out my tongue, assessing myself in the stainless steel wall.
My reflection is hazy, making it hard to get a good look, so I spin, my tongue still out.
“Is my tongue blue?” The is sounds more like ith .
Murphy hides his smile behind his extra-large slushie cup. T.J., on the other hand, lets loose a loud laugh.
“No, Uncle Cal! That’s why we mixed it with red!”
“Oh.” I take another obnoxiously loud slurp. “I thought that was just because it tasted better.”
The lift doors open, and an elderly couple stands on the other side, eyes wide. “Scuse us.” I hold the door open and motion for the boys to head off the lift.
We step out into a bland reception area where Mozart is playing at a barely audible level. Pretentious fuckers probably don’t even know the classic tune, only that it sounds like money.
I’ve never been inside this office, but I’m not surprised at all by the bland gray and blue hues. It looks like every other law office in Manhattan. Sterile décor, a shot of the Empire State Building at night, and a photo of the New York City skyline included.
If there’s anything New Yorkers are obsessed with, it’s that.
Best City in the world, I love New York . It’s a mantra that many residence seem fond of. Including the lovely Lola, I can imagine. She probably chants the words when she’s getting off.
Fuck . I’m a wanker. Why the hell am I even thinking about Lola getting off? Now I’m plagued by images of her in her flat doing just that. Hands trailing between her thighs, a vibrator cranked to its highest setting. If I had to guess, the woman likes it rough.
“Uncle Cal, who is that man talking to my mommy? ”
T.J.’s question shakes me from my far too vivid daydream, but it’s the scene before me that has my blood running from hot to cold.
Yes, why the hell is Will Higgins talking to our Sloaney?
Side by side, they amble down the hall. She’s laughing while he yammers on, her arms cradling a file to her chest, her posture easy, her face lit up.
I hate to say it, but I haven’t seen her this relaxed in years.
My brother is so fucked.
When she spots us, she goes stiff, guilt flashing in her eyes.
Oh yeah. So fucked.
She recovers quickly, forcing a bright smile—not an easygoing one—and bows her head, focusing on the boys. “Hey,” she says, her tone far too chipper. “How was the first day of school?”
Yes, my sister-in-law is feeling guilty about something, and I don’t like the looks of it at all.