Leashed by Luxury

XII. Toss & Turn Tart

Letting Daddy in only feels good in doses. Dopamine waves before the crash. The thrill of knowing I shouldn't then watching him take me anyway. And the tingles linger long after he's asleep. I almost pity him as I tousle long, brown hair from his tawny forehead. The lines only leave when he's dreaming. Or when I'm not here, I wonder. Unable to make up my mind.

Lying sideways, it felt soo good when he gripped my hips and we watched him hammer away, sliding my slick in and out, until my breath caught. Until my tummy flipped and I tumbled over the edge, gushing and gasping, "Daddy, Daddy!" maybe disturbing Joles from her downstairs game in multiple ways.

I bet I look slapped across the face. My cheeks burn shame as hot and pink as the sting of fingers. You'd think maybe he could f**k away the shame, since it's what makes him touching me so hot. If I got relief and release down there, and nobody of note knows, why do my heart and lungs store the stuttering anxiety minutes to hours after?

Guess abstinence makes the w***e grow fonder. That's why I wanted him so bad after a boulder of disrespect.

"Please mean it when you say you'll change," I whisper to his flickering lashes. "Stay like this." I hug his right arm, then drape it in super soft fleece. I slip into Finding Nemo shorts and onto the edge of my bed. Rub my temples like summoning a genie from a lamp. Daddy's right. I don't have many friends. No one I want to confide in about this. My "boyfriends" have pretty much just been him and Giovanni, who technically also bought me. And though I treat and talk to my sugar daddy more like a friend, and he obviously knows who Angel is to me because he sold me (my time) to him early on...it's not a fun conversation. It's not what anybody would wanna finance or really even have advice for...

God, how do I imagine the convo to go with Giovanni?

Hey, so instead of calling you at a reasonable hour when your wife's not around, I decided to hook up with my dad. Well, not my dad dad, but close enough. Maybe I won't be damned to as drastic a ring of Hell. Did I mention it's not the first or even the fortieth time we've banged since I been your sugar baby? Even though I make like I resent him like last week's leftovers, am too good and gracious for him. No, I never told you he forced me into anything. Quite the opposite, really. But I let you believe we've been 'broken up' since you became my number one bae/lay/cray gateway to the kind of life I wanted. Simple luxury. Or is that an oxymoron? Oh, well, you know what they say about Italian stallions and their sausages. Dickmatized, I heard a girl on the radio call what I have. Anyway, thanks for the penthouse, allowance, and Cartier karats. Maybe I'll hit you up when Daddy calls me a b***h or a brat or thankless slut again. Let's reserve a play date for sushi and shibari then.

XOXO ~ Your favorite freak, Naria

Sigh.

An escort is supposed to be an escape. A fun, flirtatious phenom. No wonder Daddy thinks Giovanni is a "dead end" for me. He thinks Giovanni won’t move forward with me (and this week, I'm not letting him). That he's renting my best years and high-rise apartment. No real estate, no ring to even play temporary trophy wife. I know he's right to an extent, but I've gotten used to our relationship being "too dangerous, too close to all those lawmen types. Those snooty PermaDent creeps with money that's not even theirs but are too stingy with."

Whenever I say, "But he's different, Daddy," I know what a cliche I sound like, even though we're the same race and this isn't some squabble about him being a guitar-playing jock and me being some glowed up dorkerella.

I deflate, folded over, fingertips dusting my ankles. An ivory box peeks under the bed skirt. A sucker for distraction, I scoop it up.

Mr. Shells! I pop open the ring box, smirking at the sea spiral I glued googly eyes on a jillion summers ago. The keepsake from when Angel saved me from the surf in Sicily. That undertow was as treacherous as a tsunami for teeny, tweeny hot-air-between-the-ears me. He warned me not to swim far out--and I didn't. I swam sideways toward the dock rocks like an idiota.

"At least I still have this," I mutter, tracing the pink curves of the baby conch. Smoother than my slaughtered pearl bracelet. Daddy also got me that, but, to be honest, I'm not sure when. The shell feels sweeter for obvious reasons, but also in part because it's free. From the Before Times, where I didn't even know how to earn a dollar. Or what daddy issues mean.

Before I can rumminate into another tummy ache, my phone buzzes. I flail around for it before Daddy wakes.

"Wh-- Hello?" I answer, rubbing the langor from my eyes.

"Naria, you okay? Haven't answered all day. Are you still..."

"Oh! No, Gio, I..." I look to Daddy, bathed in the room's gray. It seems so much sadder in here at night. With the distant, mockingly cheery but muffled sounds of video games downstairs. "Well, I mean, I'm still with him, but... He's... Um, let me go into the hall."

I hear him grinding his teeth, making his gum squeak against molars. He usually does that before a meeting with some Seantor he hates. "It's that bad, huh? Have to hide in the bathroom?"

How'd he guess that, I think, as I close the door. "Well, no, but..."

"You're acting suspicious. Is it safer to text? Do you need me to send a car or--"

"He's not like a serial killer, Gio," I huff. "Gesù."

"Just your average, every day family pimp. My mistake," he says as snarky. "Naria, I don't like how--"

"He's dying," I blurt, bug-eyeing myself as the silence and shock spools out between us like cable that'll hook our feet. "W-Well, I mean not this second, obviously, but--"

"Good."

"Gio!"

"What? I mean, good it's not so imminent, but--"

"That is NOT what you meant. You had that locked and loaded before I finished my breath a--"

"So what if I did?" He sighs, probably a fist to his forehead. "I thought you would too, Naria. Then it's all finally over."

"...It is not," my voice cracks, teeth chattering. "Don't say it like that."

His voice softens. "...Like what?"

"Like…we won’t get better…before he gets worse."

He takes a breath. I hear him slide a door, step on gravel, light a cig. He used to rag that he only smokes when I'm going through something. "What do you mean, Narie? That’s why you're staying there, he’s guilt tripping you again? As if Father's Day wasn't tense enough a concept. What proof does he even have that he's really si—"

"You sound like Joles."

He pauses, light eyes probably drawing wide over his Benson & Hedges' cherry. "All the more reason to listen to us then. His golden girl is turning on him too?"

I bite my teeth, not correcting that I'm his golden goose even if she's mostly been the easygoing favorite since her introduction. "I know none of us get along great, but when there's life and death invol—"

"He once told you your rabbit died instead of admitting he let it out. He spent your college fund on blackjack and scratchers. He made like you're exclusive then brought Joles home with the casual air of winning a fair fish. Except he got to f**k her in f--"

"Cut it out! I don't wanna hear that s**t! Like I don't know. It's just--"

"Most obviously and importantly, he sold your virg--"

"I said stop!" I realize I'm heaving after a few seconds. Gripping the crystal door handle until my nails bend, polish cracking.

"...I bet you said stop when he--"

"I'll hang up right now!" I whisper-scream. "You're not making me feel better. You're making me feel--"

"Like him."

I hang up. Hold my pained squeak as I slide my phone back on silent.