Her Dad's Friend (6 page)

I
don’t have a car
. Well, I did, but ended up selling it for a few hundred dollars. I was lucky to get that much. It was an old Datsun that was literally held together with duct tape. At least the doors and windows were. Some things had to be sacrificed to get my apartment. Gas and insurance were expenses I just couldn’t afford.

Normally Emily gives me a ride home from school, but she had somewhere she needed to be so I’m taking the bus. It’s about an hour trek across town when it would only take ten minutes by car, if that. At least the weirdos riding with me are entertaining.

As I’m walking out to the parking lot, I see a tank-sized pickup truck with a lumber rack taking up two spaces in the lot made for eco-friendly subcompacts. Paul is standing next to it with a fist full of lilies. This contrast of soft and hard is almost jarring to the eye. My heart jumps around in my chest. I should not be this happy to see a man who’s going to bounce out of my life just as fast as he swept in.

“What are you doing here?” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of keeping my shit together.

He hands me the lilies, our fingers grazing as I take them. His hands are the only thing even remotely aged about him. They are calloused and scarred from a lifetime of hard work, building things, and putting them together, making sure everything fits just right. But it’s exactly those “flaws” that make them sexy as hell.

He kisses me lightly on the mouth, then follows up with a peck on the nose. When we separate, people are watching us. They probably thought he was my dad before that kiss, but since Paul doesn’t seem to mind what people think, I sure as shit don’t either.

“I want to spend some time with you out of the bedroom.” He nudges my shoulder playfully. “Until later, that is.”

A swarm of pterodactyls rises up in my stomach. I’m beyond butterflies at this point. At least I have the promise of another night with him. I’ll take what I can get.

He opens the passenger side door, and I get in. It’s an older pickup with the black paint chipped and peeling. The interior is ripped up and dirty and smells like gasoline and burned oil. The floorboards are covered in chunks of dried cement and drywall dust. The whole thing just oozes testosterone. He could afford any vehicle he wanted, according to my dad, yet he sticks with tried and true. I find it so endearing that I can’t help but look at him adoringly with a stupid smile on my face.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise.”

He drives with one hand loose on the steering wheel and the other dangling out the open window. There’s something arousing about a confident driver. Or maybe I’m just really horny. Doesn’t seem to matter what Paul does; it’s all a turn on for me.

He heads for the freeway. On our way we drive through one of oldest neighborhoods in town. There are a lot of Victorian homes in this area, their paint salt-bleached and flaking off from the harsh winds coming off the Pacific. On a cliff overlooking the ocean like a stern nanny, is a gothic Victorian home I’ve always been obsessed with my entire life. As a girl I thought it looked like a giant dollhouse painted white with pink gingerbread trim. The colors leave something to be desired, but it’s impossible not to see the beauty beyond that.

“That’s my dream house,” I tell him, pointing to it.

His gaze follows my pointed finger. He raises his brows. “Really? Looks like a place someone was probably murdered in.”

I laugh. It really is in bad shape. It has been vacant more often than not. I imagine the previous owners who’d bought it had done so with the hopes of fixing it up to its former Gone with the Wind glory, but once they realized the staggering amount of work that would need to go into it, the
for sale
signs were back up in the yard again.

“It does have a bit of American Horror Story curb appeal,” I admit. “But I love it. It’s different from all the other houses around it and that view … I could stare out those windows and be content for the rest of my life.”

“Those old homes have good bones. Old things aren’t always useless,” he says, winking at me. He reaches over to where my hands rests on the seat and wraps his fingers with mine. I look at our intertwined hands, again, the contrast of hard and soft. His tan hands against my pale ones. It’s so comfortable and effortless, it feels as if we’re old pros at this whole being together thing.

We chat easily as we drive down the freeway, and even when we’re not talking, I feel completely content next to him just staring out the window and listening to the low growl of the diesel motor. We’ve been in the truck for half an hour when he pulls off into a town that is so small it has one exit. If you blink, you’ll miss it. The entire town consists of a motel, gas station, Denny’s restaurant, and a furniture store.

I doubt he took me out of town to eat at a run-down diner, and he has plenty of fuel. So that leaves the motel and the furniture store. Since my apartment gives us plenty of space to hook up without getting caught, my only conclusion is that he’s looking for furniture and my heart lifts because it possibly means he’s moving back to town.

He parks right outside the furniture store and we walk inside. It smells like pine and varnish. Everything is hard, heavy woods, handmade. I’m stunned at how beautifully crafted everything is. Ikea, eat your heart out.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

“Just looking.”

He takes my hand and we wander through the store. We stop in each department: kitchen, rugs, dining room, living room, and he asks my opinion on different pieces that he likes. It’s all beautiful to me, but I tend to like the more weathered, beachy items better.

Eventually we end up at the back of the store. We go through a door and I’m not sure we’re supposed to be back here, but when the man carving wood at a saw table looks up, he smiles and says, “Paul! Hey man, I haven’t seen you in years.” He takes off his protective glasses and reaches out his hand for Paul to shake. He’s a hippy-looking older guy in his fifties, a Big Lebowski type with long dreadlocks, wearing tie-dye. “Did you finally move back?”

Paul looks at me then back at his friend, ignoring the question. “How’s it been going? The place looks great.”

“Same old thing every day.” His friend looks at me and smiles. “And who’s this goddess on your arm?”

“This is Rachael, my …” he hesitates a moment and I think he’s about to introduce me as his best friend’s daughter, but he utterly stuns me and says, “My girlfriend.”

I blink away the shock on my face. Girlfriend. Really? Did I miss something? Don’t get me wrong, I love the sound of it, but it kind of comes out of nowhere and I’m trying to figure out if he meant it, or if it was just easier to introduce me that way rather than explain our unique situation.

“Finally!” his friend says, shaking my hand. “I thought this guy was a terminal bachelor. Nice to see he’s calming down in his old age. So what can I help you with?”

“Well, Rachael has terrible taste in furniture—what little of it she has.”

I roll my eyes. What little furniture I have was all I could afford—and I worked really hard at figuring out the instructions and putting it all together with a tiny Allen wrench by myself, thank you very much. I may have spent a total of two-hundred dollars on my furniture in my apartment. These homemade beauties are definitely not in my price range.

I look up at Paul, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“I’m buying you furniture.”

I know he can afford it, but why? Because we had sex? It feels like a strange gift.

“She seems to like the drift wood pieces best,” Paul tells his friend.

“Good choice. I think I can help with that,” the man says.

Paul is relentless. I keep telling him no, it’s too much, but he’s not having any of it. He refuses to leave the store without buying me an entire bedroom set including headboard, bedside tables and lamps, and a dresser. He tries not to let me see the price tag, but I sneak a peek at the receipt while he’s helping to load it in the back of the delivery truck and it’s in the thousands.

I want to tell him he doesn’t have to buy my affection, or whatever else he’s getting from me, but we are having such a good time and I love being around him. I’m afraid that bringing up money will put a damper on things.

I thank him profusely and we head back toward home. I thought we were going back to my apartment but he’s not done spoiling me yet. We have a couple hours to kill before the delivery truck makes it to my apartment, and he’s dragging me around to clothing stores to fill up my new dresser. He’s so stubborn, and I’m kind of having a Pretty Woman moment in the store trying on all these clothes while he waits outside of the dressing room to give his opinion. Thankfully he manages not to make me feel like a call girl. Instead, I just feel special. It comes as no surprise that he likes the skimpy items best. Honestly, I do too.

While we’re out he insists on buying me proper school supplies rather than all the crumpled notebooks and chewed up pens and pencils he saw on my kitchen counter the first time he was over. It really is too much. I tell him so several times, but he pretends to be old and hard of hearing. Eventually, I just go with it because it’s easier than arguing with him.

“I think that’s everything unless you can think of anything else you need,” he says when we’re back on the road.

“Well … there is one more thing,” I say.

He pulls over and gets out of the truck. “You drive. I’ll go wherever you want.”

I get behind the wheel and have to pull the seat all the way forward and adjust his mirrors. Not having a vehicle has left me slightly uncomfortable behind the wheel, especially driving such a big truck. Once I get my bearings, learning where the turn signals and lights are, we’re on our way.

He’s looking curiously around, trying to figure out where we’re going. “Oh, yeah, I should’ve known we were heading to Chuck E. Cheese,” he says when the big smiling mouse billboard comes into view.

I laugh. “Maybe I’m dropping you off at the Sizzler for the early bird special. Do you get senior discounts yet, ‘cause you might be handy to have around.”

“If you’re not careful, I’ll bend you over my knee.”

I remember the brief spanking I’d received in the pool at my party and in bed and I feel a jolt of excitement between my legs. “Don’t make promises unless you plan to keep them.”

He chuckles and pats me on the leg, leaving his hand there. His thumb caresses my knee while I drive.

My destination is near my apartment, about two blocks away down a narrow alley away from the public eye. When he realizes where I’m going, he laughs and says, “Oh yeah, definitely better than Chuck E. Cheese.”

I park in front of
Hush
, a small adult novelty store. We get out and head inside. I’m carded to make sure I’m at least eighteen, which Paul finds amusing.

The place is packed with rank, hairy men that look as though they bathe in Crisco. I feel eyes following me through the story. Paul must notice it too because he puts a protective arm around my waist and we walk like that the entire time.

“So what are we looking for here?” he asks with a boyish smile touching his lips.

I pick up a large bottle of strawberry flavored lube. “Oh, I don’t know. Just browsing,” I say in the same casual tone he’d used on me in the furniture store.

I put the lube back on the shelf with the others. From the corner of my eye I watch him pick it back up and carry it with him. “By all means, take whatever you want,” he says.

I’m looking at a wall of vibrating eggs. He grabs one off the shelf that has a cord and battery pack. He’s like a little kid in a candy story, stealthily putting things in the cart after his mother had put it back on the shelf. Next I make my way to the toys. There are all kinds of dildos: little, big, and absolutely brutal. I pick up one shaped like a fist and fight laughter when his eyes stretch to fill his face.

He says, “Trust me, that won’t fit.” He leans over and whispers in my ear, tickling my skin. “I’m lucky that tiny little hole of yours fits me …
very
lucky.” He kisses me on the jaw and I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even make it the apartment before I maul him with my vagina.

I have a lovely collection of my own dildos—and they’re all quite junior compared to the fist of fury—so I bypass those and finger a pair of fuzzy handcuffs. Looking back over my shoulder, Paul’s eyes are ballooning out of his head again and he’s over-eager when he says, “Yes. Grab those. Now.”

I giggle and take them off the shelf.

By the time we get back to my apartment the delivery truck is waiting outside. Paul and his friend unload everything and start carrying the dresser upstairs. I rush ahead of them to unlock and open the door. When I get to my door, Jeremy is leaning against the door jam.

“Jeremy, what are you doing here?”

Hearing my surprise, Paul looks around the dresser and almost drops his end. “Steady there,” his friend says.

Paul gives Jeremy an intimidating look and tells his friend, “I got it, keep going.”

As he passes Jeremy, Paul gives him a nod that lacks any friendliness.

Once Paul and his friend are inside the house, Jeremy says, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after our date. I was going to text before coming over, but I wanted to say this in person.” He reaches out and touches my fingers, hooking onto them. I want to pull them out of his grip, but Jeremy seems like a nice guy and I don’t want to make a big deal out of this even if I can feel Paul’s eyes at my back.

I glance behind me, just to confirm, and there he is, at the threshold. His hands are tucked protectively in his pockets to hold himself back, his jaw clinched as if he’s ready to toss Jeremy down the stairs.

Paul and his friend make several more trips up the stairs, slowing down when they get near me and Jeremy—I suspect it’s to eaves drop.

Jeremy seems oblivious to the intrusion and says, “Let me take you out again. I can cook this time. I make a mean fettuccini alfredo.

Paul has come to a complete stop and his friend seems just as intrigued by my conversation with Jeremy. Paul looks ready to launch out of his skin.