Chapter 1
Lina
There are still tears in my eyes as I wait for the security gate to swing open before driving through, then watch it swing closed behind me in the rearview as the sun starts to dip toward the horizon.
My stepfather bought this Spanish revival colonial estate a year ago, and I don’t think my mother has ever visited. It has ten bathrooms. Ten.
My stepfather lives here alone, and sometimes I wonder…does he pee in all the commodes like on rotation? Like giving every one a chance to serve its purpose? Or does he only use one, or two, and all the others just sit there…unused.
I shake my head. I have weird, childish thoughts like that more than I should. But that one in particular, about the bathrooms…it also gives me a funny, butterfly fluttery feeling down in my girlish parts, because it makes me think of my stepfather’s ownman-ish parts. Something I definitely should not be thinking about.
This place is not my mother’s style. This is old-world and classic, with white walls, red tile, and the sound of California Quail in the spring. Mom, who prefers penthouse suites, glass and chrome, and luxury that shows off, would call it ‘charming’, which in her language means not new money fancy enough to impress whoever it is she is currently trying to impress.
I wipe a hand over my face, sniffing and trying to force a smile as Daddy appears in the doorway ahead of me, and I pull my Lamborghini Temerario in beside his plum-colored Bentley Continental GT.
Before I open my door, he’s already there. Dex, my stepfather, taking my hand to pull me out. I struggle to tug down the hem of my pink Oscar de la Renta dress, the one he sent over for me a week ago, to avoid flashing him my panties, and pull back to grab the cherry cake off the seat beside me before he hauls me out onto the gravel drive.
When he sees my puffy, tear-streaked face, his own darkens.
“Who hurt you?”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Just me being a silly goose—”
“Like fuck. Who was it, Lina?” His eyes are on mine, his mouth set in a line behind the salt-and-pepper beard.
My gaze is drawn to the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and the scars from his semi-pro boxing days. He still fights, but it’s only for fun now. Mom always complains about the scars, calling them common, but I always thought they were comforting. I always knew that Daddy was afraid of nobody.
I swear I can hear his jaw clicking as his teeth clench. “Give me a fucking name.”
“It’s… It was just, someone honked and flipped me off. They were trying to pass me on Miller Road, and there wasn’t another lane, or anywhere to pull in and let them by, and I didn’t want to speed up… I think… I think they thought because of my car…”
“You get a license plate?”
“No…”
“Next time, baby girl, you get a license plate, and I’ll make sure they know not to hassle you again. You hear me? You remember what I told you about fast cars?”
I nod, sniffing. “Yes, Daddy, but—”
“No buts. You drive carefully, or I’ll take away your car, and you can have me drive you everywhere.”
I don’t answer that.
See, the thing is, I love my car. He owns like twenty luxury car dealerships across ten states, and he got me the Lamborghini for my sixteenth birthday. Daddy had them respray it in pink, because he knows that’s my favorite color, and it’s such a pretty little car, but… I don’t know. It’s a Lambo, so yeah, I could go fast, like super, super fast, but he always said if he catches me driving in a dangerous way, he’ll take it away.
I think part of me would prefer if he drove me everywhere. I like spending time with him. Always have, ever since he came into my life when I was thirteen years old.
Before that, the most parenting I received was my mother telling me not to slouch, or that I’d never attract a man if I kept putting on weight.
Well, I did anyway. I don’t think my body was made to be a size zero like hers. I guess I must take after my biological father, but since I have no idea who that is, I can’t say for sure.
All I know is, by the time my mother married Dex Walsh, I was already starting to fill out, and I haven’t stopped since.
I hold up the cake. “I baked this for you.” His frown softens, and I feel my own body start to relax. I smile and shiver as his eyes rake over my body in the pink chiffon dress. It’s a little bit see-through, and I self-consciously try to cover myself as I stand in front of him. “It’s cherry. Your favorite. Happy birthday, Daddy.”
“Not just for me, though,” he points out. Then he opens his arms.
I fall into them gratefully, suddenly feeling so much safer wrapped in his big, strong embrace. Dex is massive. Over seven feet tall, with a body honed by a home gym, all those years of boxing, and an attitude of never being too good to get his hands dirty. Objectively speaking, my stepfather is hot. In fact, when one of my school friends told me she had a little crush on my dad, I nearly clawed her eyes out.
