Big Daddy Page 2

  In my mind, I’m transported far away, drifting on the winds of fantasy. Gloved hands grabbing me around the waist. Prickly jawline brushing against my ticklish neck. A harsh growl at my ear and a hard cock pressing against my side. I touch myself faster, quickening the tight circles around my clit until I’m almost gasping for air. My heart pounds faster and harder. That tautly-bound coil deep inside of me seems to burst free of its shape all at once, like a rubber band being flung across a wide chasm. My tension breaks and a climax shudders through my trembling body, making the water shake and splash with each involuntary spasm. I picture my mystery guy scooping me up and carrying me off, still twitching with release, to some highway clubhouse for a second round. Oh, what a delicious idea.

  I’m still coming down from the head-spinning high of orgasm when I’m rudely interrupted by a loud buzzing sound. I sit up quickly, startled, only to realize it’s just my phone vibrating on the bathroom counter. Of course. So much for a moment of peace and alone time. For a few seconds I just stare at the phone without moving. Maybe it’s just a fluke. A random message. Nothing urgent that needs my immediate attention and response.

  But then it vibrates again and I have to face the reality that my lovely little bath session has come to an end. I pull the bathtub plug and stand up. Goosebumps instantly poke up on my body as I grab a towel and start drying off. I pick up my phone and, sure enough, it’s a couple text messages from my mother just down the hallway, requesting my assistance. Duty calls.

  So I hastily towel my long black hair until it’s mostly dry and fluffy, then retreat quickly to my bedroom to get dressed. I pull on a pair of tight black jeans that hug my rounded hips and taut ass, then throw on a lacy black crop top with a slightly oversized black-and-green plaid flannel shirt over it. I slip on a pair of thick black socks to combat the October cold snap raging outside the walls of our house in Laramie, Wyoming. Well, I say ‘our house’ but it doesn’t feel much like home for me. Not for a long time. But I guess I’ll just have to adjust, because Mom needs me, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I stop and glance at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall in my bedroom and can’t help but grimace. Somehow, despite the fact that I’m twenty-five, I feel like I’m looking at the teenage version of myself. Maybe it’s the context, the fact that I’m standing in my childhood bedroom. It’s the second week I’ve been here attending to my mom’s medical needs, and while it feels slightly less foreign now, it still isn’t comfortable. Like wearing a shirt that technically fits, but doesn’t feel right. Like there’s an itchy tag or an asymmetrical hem stitch. Too tight in the chest, too boxy in the waist.

  The truth is, I moved out when I was eighteen and I never really looked back. I still maintained loose contact with my mom, making sure to call her on major holidays, but that was pretty much the extent of our relationship once I left home. As soon as I could burst free of this tight little bubble of a community in nowheresville, I headed straight for Denver. It was hard work. Expensive. Stressful. Sometimes even overwhelming. But I found work as an at-home carer, utilizing my complete lack of squeamishness and my ability to chat with just about anyone from any walk of life to my advantage. My patients looked forward to my visits, even if I was only there for an hour to cook some soup and do some light physical therapy. I worked a lot of hours, and it showed. But I was willing and happy to do whatever it took to support myself and make it work out there in Denver. I craved the anonymity and endless possibilities of a big, shiny metropolis. I wanted to walk down unfamiliar streets, see unfamiliar faces. I wanted to escape the little box I grew up in. I guess it runs in my blood. We’re a family of birds who do not like to be caged, we just find different ways of spreading our wings. Our own little brand of personal freedom. Mine was Denver.

  But now? I don’t really know. I’m still trying to get my bearings. Seven years I have been away. And yet, it feels like nothing has really changed here at all. I’m different, or at least I think I am, but it’s so easy to fall back into old patterns. I walk through a room and relive every memory embedded in the floorboards and the walls and the same old furniture. I’m pushed back in time, back into the body of a seven-year-old Juliette or, even worse, sixteen-year-old Juliette. I see my mom as she once was-- seemingly healthy and on her feet, darting around the house cleaning and cooking like a domestic goddess. I don’t know how she ever had the time or energy for all that. Sometimes I even wonder if all those years of hustling have caught up to her. She definitely needs a lot more help these days. Her illness isn’t life-threatening, but it is chronic. It saps all her energy and makes her dizzy. The power-mom of my childhood has been slowed down to half speed. But she’s my mother, and despite the distance (and the literal distance) between us for seven years, I love her with my whole heart. I wouldn’t want anyone else taking care of her. Besides, I’ve got all the training and know-how. Might as well be me.

  That’s what a good daughter would do, right? I’m always trying to do the right thing. Usually, it’s pretty obvious what the right thing is, at least from my experience. I trust my gut. And my gut is telling me that my mom needs me now more than ever, and I owe it to her. I just wish I had kept up closer contact with her when I moved out at eighteen. Sometimes it does get a little awkward in the house. After all, we have had seven years in the void between us. Seven years to grow out and apart. I have changed a lot. But apart from her physical illness, Mom is pretty much the same. And now that I’m back, I feel those old habits creeping up again. That diplomatic urge to fix things, to be the mediator, to put a bandage on every problem. I learned how to do that at a young age, and being back in this house reminds me of every lesson. It’s wild to me how it can feel the same, and yet the soft, warm vibe I felt here as a small child is… different now. Like something has been disturbed in the air. Altered irrevocably.

  The texts from my mom are strange enough-- that she’s reminding me to start the preparations for dinner instead of whipping up a hearty meal in the kitchen herself. I know it must be at least as annoying for her as it is for me. After all, I know exactly from whom I inherited my need for control. I come by it honestly. But her overly-detailed instructions and insistence on a rigid schedule for everything does prick at my nerves just a little bit. Oh, and then there’s the fact that the only thing that seems to both entertain and soothe her enough to chill out and get the bedrest her doctor insists on is a steady stream of Jeopardy! reruns. I’ve had the theme music stuck in my head since day one of my arrival here. I don’t know how she stands it, but she’s the one in pain, not me. If she wants to veg out with Alex Trebek, that’s her prerogative. Maybe the monotony of it comforts her in some way. Who knows? As long as she’s happy, I’m happy to deal with it. Besides, her game show-watching does come with a hilarious side effect: I get to hear my mom shout out her answers to the questions posed on the show. And even though my mother is a perfectly reasonable and intelligent woman, she is miraculously bad at trivia. Like, astonishingly bad. She’s the opposite of a good guesser, which makes for a good bit of entertainment on my part.

  “You going downstairs to start on dinner yet?” she calls out down the hallway as she hears the telltale creak of my bedroom door. Ears like a bat, that woman.

  “Yes, Mom. I’m going now,” I assure her, trying not to sound irritated.

  I know she doesn’t mean to pick and prod, but she can’t help it. There’s a lot to juggle around here. Between cooking, cleaning, making sure all the bills are paid on time, maintaining the small but precarious garden out back, and caring for my mom, it’s a full-time job. And it’s not just my mom’s trivia guesses that break the quiet. For some reason beyond my understanding, my mom recently decided it would be a great idea to adopt a dog. She selected a very cute, very tiny, and very particular terrier. His name is Guacamole, and he constantly barks at me. Only at me. I don’t know what it is.

  Whatever the reason, Guacamole’s barking is just one little facet of the stressful environment I find myse
lf in here. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m staying in my childhood bedroom. It’s hard to feel like an accomplished, capable adult when you’re lying awake in the same bed you used to not-sleep in as a kid. Back then, my insomnia was probably just a symptom of my energetic personality. Not exactly what one might call bubbly, but certainly socially active. Nowadays I think it’s more worry than excitement that keeps me up at night. But perhaps that’s just part of growing up. We’re all just doing our best-- including my mom. She really has tried to make my return home less fraught. I do wish she had taken the time to pull down all my old band posters, though. That’s a little embarrassing to look at.

  I hurry down to the kitchen and start taking out items on my mom’s (very thorough) recipe she sent me over email. Yeah, email. I know. I listen to music and sing along under my breath, dancing around a little while I cook dinner. I do enjoy cooking-- it’s a great opportunity to keep my hands busy while my mind wanders. I wash and slice up a bunch of veggies, making sure all my ingredients are prepped as I start the cooking process. I let myself get lost in the music and the rhythmic movements until something prickles at my periphery. Something worrisome. I freeze up and listen hard, tuning out the music to hear the singular but distinct click of a door opening.

  For half a second, I assume it’s my mom. But she’s upstairs.

  And that click? That’s the sound the front door makes.

  My heart starts to pound like crazy as I reach for a cutting knife from the block. Adrenaline starts to flood my system, and I hold my breath without meaning to. I stand perfectly still, watching the entrance to the kitchen, which is just down a short hallway from the front door of the house. I can hear my blood rushing in my ears as a long, tall shadow stretches down the wall, framed in the doorway. The breath catches in my throat and my eyes widen. I clench the handle of the knife more tightly. I’m poised to defend myself if need be.

  But no sooner has that thought crossed my mind than the figure stepped through the door of the kitchen. I let out a little gasp of fear and fall back against the counter, only to immediately roll my eyes when I see who the mysterious intruder is.

  “Clint! You asshole. You scared the hell out of me,” I groan.

  “Not my fault you’re jumpy,” he replies with a smirk. He sniffs the air conspicuously. “What are you making in here? Smells like roadkill.”

  “It’s called a vegetable. I know you’ve never seen one of those before, but I promise it won’t bite,” I toss back.

  “Yeah and neither will I,” he murmurs.

  “Don’t worry. There’s pasta, too,” I assure him. I don’t know why I feel the need to try with him, but I do. Guess that’s the mediator in me.

  “Good. Go light on the veggies for me, eh?” Clint says with a nudge to my shoulder.

  “Who said I’m making enough for three?” I reply.

  “I do. Besides, you eat too much anyway. You can spare a little for me,” he jokes.

  I roll my eyes. I know that’s not true. He’s been cracking those lines for years.

  “You’re tracking dirt through my clean house,” I point out.

  “Well, then I guess it’s not a clean house anymore. Looks like you’ll be cleaning again before bed tonight,” he teases.

  “Great. Looking forward to it,” I grumble as I turn back to tend the stove.

  “Me too,” he retorts. “Not that anyone even told me you were back in town, much less inviting me to dinner. You know that just breaks my heart.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right. Like you even have a heart to break.”

  He pulls a sarcastic frowny face and places a hand over his heart. “Ouch,” he pouts.

  “My bad,” I quip.

  “Yeah. Your bad,” he agrees.

  Half an hour later, dinner is ready and I help my mom down the stairs so we can all sit in the living room to eat. My mom is perched in a comfy, supportive armchair with a food tray and her feet propped up per the doctor’s orders. That leaves Clint and me on the couch, sitting as far apart as humanly possible as we pick at dinner. It’s awkward as hell, but Mom tries her best to make it nice, as usual. I see where I get it from.

  “Oh, it’s so lovely to have everyone back together in the same room once in a while,” she remarks sweetly, looking back and forth between us with genuine affection.

  “Yeah, well, we’d do it more often if Juliette hadn’t skipped town on us, huh?” Clint snaps back, casting a cruel glance my way. I glare right back at him.

  “I’ve been back for over a week. You could’ve come by earlier,” I remind him.

  He flicks his gaze back to Mom. “And you know, I’ve been real busy with the club.”

  Mom brightens up, trying to warm to his topic. “Oh, that’s nice. How is the, uh, motorcycle thing going?” she asks.

  I have to resist the urge to laugh. Clint looks prickly at her reductive phrasing for a moment, but he shakes it off.

  “Long rides and lots of dinners on the road,” he replies coolly. “You know, this meal actually reminds me of some of the skeeziest diners I’ve stopped at.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “It’s still free food, you know.”

  “Well, yeah. You certainly couldn’t charge a dime for this mess,” he teases.

  It doesn’t bother me. Truthfully, Clint’s comments slide off like water off a duck’s backside. I have enough self-confidence to not let his barbed criticisms cut deep. But it’s still grating on my nerves, and as usual, Mom doesn’t say or do a thing to stop him. She never does. I know he’s the favorite, after all. He continues to be an ass throughout dinner, but the conversation remains mostly civil. At the end, I help Mom get back upstairs and she reminds me to lock up after Clint leaves. Just like always, he gets to be irresponsible and I have to make it right. Some things never change.

  I hurry back downstairs just as Clint is pulling on his leather jacket to leave. Now that we’re out of earshot of Mom, it’s my turn to throw daggers. I quirk an eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest, watching him shrug into his sleeves.

  “Nice jacket. You still going to put that ridiculous bull-ring back in before you get back to your man-club, Clint?” I jab. “Or wait-- is it still Diesel now or have you been downgraded to Premium Unleaded?”

  “Hilarious,” he quips, throwing me a middle finger as he walks out the door. He glances back at me and adds, “You’re lucky you’re my little sister.”

  I give him the bird right back. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” I reply.

  Big Daddy

  It’s been a week since she’s been back home, give or take, and this town is small enough that when an out-of-state license plate like hers sticks around, it stands out. A warm breeze ruffles the tattered kutte hanging on my shoulders as my bike idles under me. I watch her sleek car fly past the highway below the hill I’m keeping watch from, off a dirt road from which I can see those tags clearly in the late morning light. I don’t even need to check them. A glance in the window is all I need.

  It’s her, alright. I’d never forget that face.

  The last time I’d seen her, we’d just been kids, but I’d still had a heart back then like I have a heart now. I just put on a little more muscle to house it, but it never forgot Diesel’s little sister Juliette. I never told anyone about the day we crossed paths, but it had stuck with me. We barely even talked to each other. I doubt she’d remember me out of the sea of bikers, but that’s fine by me.

  She doesn’t need to know I’m watching for me to keep her safe.

  Once she’s far enough ahead of me on the road, I slowly roll down the dirt path to the highway and get back on asphalt. I start tailing her from a distance, and I can keep a hell of a distance, thanks to how much her car stands out on the open roads and plains. Besides, I’ve tailed people before, even out here where you have to hide in plain sight. She won’t see me unless I want to be seen.

  I’ve been keeping tabs on her indirectly over the years, but now that she’s back in Wy
oming, I want to see what she’s up to. Once she gets into town, I see her park at a bank and head inside. When she gets out, even from a distance, I’m struck by the sight of her.

  Changed isn’t the right word for her. More like blossomed. She’s even more beautiful than I remember her, and considering the way she appears in my sweetest memories, shining and full of light despite her dark aesthetic, that’s saying something. We may have been kids back then, but the woman in a warm cardigan, jeans, and comfortable boots all in the same shade of inky black as her hair looks more like herself than even my memories tell me.

  It takes everything in me not to rocket over to that parking lot, cut her off halfway to the doors, and tell her to saddle up, because I’m taking her home. For a worrying second, it actually doesn’t sound like the worst idea, considering the storm brewing for the MC.

  But I keep my distance several blocks down, and when she keeps going, I follow.

  The route takes her to a grocery store, a pharmacy, and a few other odds and ends that add up to a whole hell of a lot of errands. She looks more stressed out with each place she goes to. She spent more time in the pharmacy than anywhere else, and through the window, I could see an exasperated silhouette at the counter and a large number of pill bottles getting shuffled around between her and the pharmacist.

  I don’t know her life that closely, but I’m fairly sure I’d have known by now if she were the kind of person who needed that many medications, and it seemed like there was a lot of explaining going on in there. To me, all that pointed to was that she was running someone else’s errands.

  Family must be involved here. And that’s bad, because family means Diesel, and Diesel means death.