I thought of the marked improvement in my daughter’s already chipper disposition since Hannah moved in. Thought ofhow the house felt lighter, smelled better. It even looked better. Fucking flowers. Pillows that Clara insisted she pick out.
Hannah made my life fucking miserable.
Hannah made Clara’s life brighter.
Therefore, she’d stay.
So instead of watching some brain-dead show to get my mind off her or taking another drink before forcing myself to sleep, I opened the Kindle that I’d bought the day I’d spotted Hannah reading a book.
She was a voracious reader. She read almost a book a week, sometimes more. Her tastes were varied and impressive, from war biographies to books on trauma and psychology to sprawling fantasies. I’d read each one I’d seen her with.
I noticed that the books she read bore stickers from the local library. Who went to a library anymore? How was Hannah even old enough to know how to check shit out? Didn’t everyone in her generation read on devices? Not her. I barely saw her on her phone unless she was snapping photos of Clara, which I’d told her she’d never be able to post. She then informed me that she didn’t have social media, only wanting to send them to me and have them for herself. Yet another way she surprised me, intrigued me, impressed me. Even though I wasn’t supposed to be learning things about her. She wanted photos of Clara for herself. Because she thought my daughter was precious. Because she thought every new hairstyle, new item of clothing, or new activity Clara did was worthy of celebration and immortalization.
I typed the title of the book into my Kindle, bought it, then began reading.
An hour later, I was breathing heavily, my cock hard as a rock as I stared at my bedroom door, my vision tinged red.
None of the books she’d read so far had been romantic. Not in the slightest. Until this. This book had graphic sex sceneswhere the heroine called the man fucking her “Daddy.” Where he took her hard and fast and rough.
None of that should’ve turned me on. I was a fuckingfather,for fuck’s sake. That title, in that situation, should’ve been abhorrent. Then I thought of Hannah. Ass presented to me, flushed with need, impaled by my cock, calling me Mr. Shaw.
That was when I hurled my Kindle across the room. When it hit my dresser with a loud bang, I was grateful to know it wouldn’t wake Clara.
But it would wake Hannah. If she was sleeping. Or if she was in bed, in that hot little sleep set, reading about being fucked by a “Daddy” inmy fucking house.
I fisted the sheets. My brain, my instincts, every cell in my body was telling me to get out of bed and go to her room, rip the book from her hands, and show her what it was like to get fucked well.
I held steady, grinding my teeth to dust.
I stayed where I was.
Eventually, I went to sleep. And I dreamed of Hannah.
four
HANNAH
Clara turned five tomorrow.
Beau didn’t make it home by bedtime on the eve of the day she’d been so excited about. She was disappointed that he wasn’t there to tuck her in on her last day of being four, but she hid it well. Impressively well for a girl who was not practiced at being disappointed by the people in her life.
It was the first time her father had ever let her down. She’d been disappointed by her body, modern medicine, and the universe who’d given such a big burden to a small body. Which was likely why everyone in her life—me included—bent over backward to make her comfortable in every other aspect of her existence.
I’d done a decent amount of research on childhood development and raising children. I wanted to be good at my side gig so that I’d get paid more, and I was curious. Maybe I wanted to heal my inner child too. If such a thing were possible.
I knew that children needed to build resilience to become productive, well-rounded adults. That you shouldn’t go out of your way to help them avoid discomfort. Clara had certainly had her share of discomfort.
Therefore, I was pissed that she had a downturn to her normally upturned lip. That her eyes welled up for a second while looking at the door and understanding that her dad wouldn’t be there to kiss her good night, to help farewell a difficult and painful year in her short life. To usher in a new one of hope and health.
I kept up the cheer—because Clara deserved that—kissed her good night, then started preparing.
I’d stashed the supplies in my room because no one went in there. Clara had been interested in my space when I first moved in. Beau had tried to set boundaries, telling her I needed my personal space, but I’d happily shown her how boring it was. Her room was much more entertaining. That’s where we spent a lot of time, decorating, lying in her teepee, telling stories before bed, having tea parties, doing fashion shows.
I’d been collecting decorations for weeks, finding the most unique things I could—spider garland, black and pink balloons. A variety of little gifts. Trivia books. An elegantly embossed insect encyclopedia that had vivid illustrations. A real porcelain tea set from a vintage store.
Clara had been counting down to this birthday. It felt monumental—her first one not being sick, the first where she could actually have a party. A big one. Well … big for her world.
I’d been praying the weather would hold. The only way she could be around even a handful of people was if we stayed outside, following every protocol, every precaution. If it rained, if the temperature dropped, it would all fall apart.
