Daddy Dearest

Chapter Four

Mr. Davenport POV

My two eldest children, along with Melody, are hanging out in the den, watching some obscure South Korean horror movie that was just released by the Criterion Collection on Blu-ray two weeks ago. Charlie spent eighty dollars on the damn thing. He explained to me that the disc contains all the movies in the trilogy and at least eight hours of extra features. My son, the horror movie connoisseur, has probably spent tens of thousands of dollars over the years, building his impressive collection. He wants to go into film studies after high school. Naturally. He also wants to become a medical doctor, oddly enough.

He started making movies with his friends in the sixth grade and they've only gotten better in quality the more experience he attains. The bulk of the screenplays he produces are written by Melody, the writer of the group. She is truly talented. She makes schlock seem clever and brand-new.

One of my best mates from uni is now the head of the creative writing department at Cambridge and I've been sending him some of Melody's writing samples for a couple of years now, basically the work she allows me to look over for critique. Henry thinks she is naturally gifted and has mentioned more than once the possibility of Melody attending Cambridge after her graduation from high school.

I've never discussed this with Melody nor does she even know I've been sending her writing samples to Henry Travers. She would be horrified if she found out. She is quite shy about her work.

At first my intentions were altruistic. I truly believe she has what it takes to become a fantastic writer, thus she deserves to get into one of the best writing programs in the world. It wasn't until recently that I realized I want her to go to Cambridge because I need her to get as far away from me as possible. It's the only way I can effectively get some peace of mind. One of these days, I'll bring it up to her and convince her that this is a golden opportunity she shouldn't miss.

With some help from Henry and a recommendation letter from me, she'll be as good as admitted. I still have some good will leftover courtesy of the critically-acclaimed novel I wrote right out of graduate school. It was, after all, short-listed for both the Pulitzer and the Man Booker Prizes for literary fiction. It won neither, but as I like to tell people, "It was an honor just to be nominated."

Waverly is in bed now and I'm supposed to be in my office on the third floor, working on my manuscript, but all I did while I was up there was pace around my office, in constant movement like a shark who would drown if it stopped moving. I felt trapped. I needed to get out of there. I needed a smoke break.

I was a heavy smoker while I was in uni, but Waverly helped me break the habit. I was nicotine-free for twenty years, but picked it up again when Madison was about three years old and I was struggling to get a new novel off the ground. The book came out to modest reviews and moderate sales. A major Hollywood studio optioned it for film rights, but so far, it's been stuck in pre-production hell. I did not sign up to adapt the screenplay myself because my life was hectic at the time. Waverly and I weren't on the most solid ground and Madison somehow contracted bacterial meningitis. For a shaky couple of months, the doctors couldn't definitively tell us our little girl was going to make it through.

I sneak off a couple of smokes once or twice a week and I'm fairly sure my wife knows about it, though she has yet to bring it up. I'm gasping for one right now, but for some reason, I can't get myself to rise from this very comfortable armchair just right outside the den. I am sitting under an art deco-style floor lamp, attempting to read this epic fictionalized re-telling of the attempted assassination of Bob Marley in 1976, but I've been staring at the same page for the last twenty minutes. Intellectually, I know what it is I'm waiting around for, but I'm having trouble consciously acknowledging it. I suppose shame has something to do with it.

Fortunately, before I could make things even worse for myself, my waiting around pays off as Melody exits the den in a white off-the-shoulder nightshirt that goes past her knees. It has "The Doors" emblazoned on the chest in red and black ink. From where I am sitting, I can see that she is wearing pink panties and no bra. Her long, black hair is pulled back into a loose braid and hanging over one shoulder. My trousers immediately become restrictively snug. I must have surprised her because she jumps and yelps as soon as I say hello.

"Oh, Mr. Davenport, you scared the daylights out of me." She laughs nervously, her palm pressed to her breasts. "I was just about to make me and Charlotte some tea. What are you doing down here? We thought you and Mrs. D went to bed hours ago." Her eyes widen for a moment as something seems to occur to her, then her face crumples in dismay. "The movie isn't too loud, is it, sir? I can ask Charlie to turn it down. Did it wake you up?"

I smile at the obvious concern in her voice and shake my head. She really is a very good girl. "No, sweetheart, I just wasn't ready to sleep quite yet. I'm reading this amazing book." I hold up the Bob Marley book.

"Oh, great," she responds enthusiastically, her brown eyes glittering even in the limited light of this part of the house. "What is it about?" She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against a bookcase.

She means to stick around for a moment and chat with me, I realize with marvel. "You like reggae? It's about Bob Marley. Some people back in 1976 attempted to assassinate him just before a really big, important concert and this is the stylized, fictionalized re-telling of that event."

"Harry loved Bob Marley," she tells me with a sweet smile. "When I was a kid and I'd wake up with nightmares in the middle of the night, he'd come to my room and sing me 'Three Little Birds' till I fell back asleep again." Her eyes glisten with tears, which she tries to stave off by wiping one eye with the side of her fist.

"Are you all right, Melody?" I feel like the worst sort of pervert because here I am, ogling the silhouette of her lithe, slender body through her thin nightshirt, when she has just shared a very tender memory about her recently deceased father. "If you want, I can make the tea for you and Lottie. I mean to prepare some for myself, anyway. I'll just let you girls know when it's ready."

She laughs, seemingly embarrassed about her vulnerable moment, and picks up the tip of her braid to fiddle with it. "Oh, no, Mr. Davenport. Please allow me to do this. It's the least I can do as a constant mooch on your family's generosity."

"Ms. Plum, do not ever think of yourself in such a term. I practically raised you alongside my children." As soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth, I wish I could reach my own arse for a good, swift kick. Do I really need to remind her that I'm old enough to be her father? The answer is yes. Yes, I do. That's a little tidbit that slips my own mind every once in a while, more frequently now than it used to. "I'll come with you to the kitchen and keep you company, if you wish?"

Her cheeks turn bright red and she drops her gaze to the ground. The whiskers of her Hello Kitty slippers twitch as she wiggles her toes within them. "Only if you want to, Mr. D. I won't mind."

I release the breath I didn't realize I've been holding. She bobs in an awkward half-curtsey before heading out to the kitchen. I stare at the spot she just vacated for a few seconds before rising from my seat and following her. One of these days, I'll have to ask her why she does that weird bobbing thing. She makes me feel like the lecherous lord of the manor who harbors lascivious intentions about the young female servants under his employ, for God's sake. Now that I think of it, she has always done that for me. Is it because I'm English and she's seen one too many episodes of Masterpiece Theater? It's odd, but it really is quite adorable.

When I get to the kitchen, she is opening and closing cabinets by the sink, probably looking for the kettle. When she finally locates it, she groans upon seeing that it is above her reach. Smiling to myself, I slowly approach and come up behind her to fetch the kettle for her. The middle of my body brushes a spot on her back a few inches above her hips and makes her gasp. God, she is so tiny. I usually prefer women who are sturdier and closer to me in height, so I'm surprised about how fascinated I am with her petite stature. It would just be so easy to pick her up by the waist and put her on the kitchen counter, so that our faces would be at the perfect level for kissing.

She turns to face me in the limited space between my body and the sink and lifts her head to stare into my eyes. For a few beats, time seems to stand still. I could hardly breathe in fear of disturbing this seemingly important moment. I long to place my palm on her cheek and cradle her face in my hand. In her gaze, I see desire and longing that strike a chord of familiarity deep within me.

I force myself to step back, lest I act on my foolishness and do irreparable damage that would affect her relationship with my children. It seemed to do the trick. I blink rapidly as sanity returns to me and take a deep breath in order to restore my bearings. "Sorry about that, Melody. I didn't mean to invade your personal bubble."

In my fantasy, her response would be, "Oh, you can invade me all you want, Milord."

Instead, she blushes madly and gets flustered, spilling water from the kettle and onto the Terracotta tiled-floor, drenching the front of her shirt. With a squeak of distress, she grabs a dish towel from a peg on the wall and covers herself. "Oh, Mylanta. I'm so sorry, Mr. D. I'm such a klutz."

But the image of a wet nightshirt clinging to the light brown peaks of her perky breasts tipped with darker brown n*****s the size of number two pencil erasers, has been branded into my mind's eye. Till my dying day, I don't think I'll ever forget the sight. With a raging erection in my pants, I wish I had one of those rope pull things installed in chemistry labs for emergency showers.

Meanwhile, Melody is as pale as a ghost and looks like she's about to burst into tears. "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. D. Oh my golly, I didn't mean to flash you. I'm so sorry."

"It's all right, dear girl. Please calm down. Honestly, I didn't mind." I groan inwardly. Jesus, did I really say that out loud? I'm pretty sure I just told this child that I didn't mind seeing her t**s.

Instead of calling me a pervert and slapping me, she just freezes for a moment, her dark eyes widening and her mouth forming a perfect O. "Um, right. Okay!" she says with forced gaiety. "I should be getting back to--"

I know I should have let her go then, but the devil in me wants to test the boundaries a little. "Don't you want your tea?" I take the kettle from her cold fingers. "Why don't you sit on that barstool over there and talk to me while I prepare it for us?"

"Uh, yeah, okay." She tucks a lock of hair that escaped her braid behind her ear and accidentally drops the dish towel. "Oh, crumbs!" She dives down to pluck it from the floor, but on her way back up, she seems to pause for a second to stare at my crotch.

Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I think she was about to say "wow." Decency compels me to turn away and pretend that I didn't just catch her gawking at my c**k, but I do neither. I haven't gotten this turned on in a while and my p***s is so hard that I'm pretty sure it can crush bricks. For the life of me, I really want to see what she does next.

To her credit, she recovers quickly and the dishtowel is back on her chest again as she gets up from her position on the floor. "I don't think I'll need that tea, after all, Mr. D. In fact, I'm all set. I ought to be returning to the den."

Suddenly, I feel like a tiger, energy building up in my middle, as I await the perfect opportunity to pounce on the little rabbit and tear it to pieces. "Do I make you nervous, Miss Plum?"

"Whaaat? That's crazy, Mr. D." She chuckles nervously and starts to edge herself away from the sink. She carefully goes around me, as though she were afraid she'd burst into flames if she inadvertently touched any part of me, no matter how briefly. "You're practically my dad."

I close my eyes briefly. Ouch. What am I doing? I'm harassing this poor girl, who sees me as her father, and probably traumatizing her. I turn away from her with the kettle in my hand and take the last few steps forward to the sink, so I could fill it up with water. I have got to stop this insanity. "Melody, honey, you go on back to the den. I'll bring you your tea when it's ready."

"Oh, but..."

"Go on, Miss Plum." I hear a skidding of feet on the bare tiled-floor, a surprised yelp, and a thudding sound that makes my blood run cold. I look over my shoulder and find Melody sprawled on the floor not moving. The dish towel is by her foot. It would appear that she slipped on it.

I scramble to her side and gather into my arms, my heart caught in my throat. There is a reddening bump on her eyebrow, but she's not bleeding from anywhere that I can see. I give her a shake to rouse her. "Wake up, Melody, darling. Come on." I reach down to her neck and place the tips of my middle and index fingers on her pulse. It's there, but thready. "Oh, God. Come on, sweetheart. Wake up."

"Dad, I heard a noise. What happ--" Charlie rushes to my side, getting down to his knees next to me, his hands buried in his thick blond hair. "Jesus, Dad, is she okay? Do you want me to call 911?"

Melody moans softly and I release the breath I didn't realize I've been holding, chuckling in nervous relief. "No, she'll be all right. Just get some ice, wrap it in a dish towel, and bring it over here, son."

Charlie moves quickly, running over to the fridge with the ice dispenser to fill a dish towel and dashing back to my side. "Should I wake mum up? Dad, what happened? What if she has a concussion?"

"No, don't bother your mum. Melody will be fine. There's a penlight in that drawer by the sink, son. Grab it for me, will you?" I press the makeshift ice pack to Melody's forehead, surprised that my hands aren't shaking. I had plenty of medical training from my time as a corpsman while I was in the reserves of the Royal Marines, so I'm pretty confident that she doesn't need to go to hospital. Having spent a tour in Afghanistan, I became proficient at diagnosing injuries and treating them accordingly in the field. "You're all right now, sweetheart," I murmur to Melody as her eyes begin to move and blink open.

"Here you go, Dad." Charlie hands me the penlight. "I got her some water, too."

Melody groans as she wakes up fully. "Ow, my head." She blinks a few times as she tries to focus on my face. "Mr. Davenport? What am I doing on the floor?"

"You tripped, Melody, and hit your head. Now I'll need you to concentrate and follow the light I shine in your eyes, okay?" I turn on the penlight, so I could examine her pupils. "Roll your eyes up, pet, there's a good girl."

Her eyes are normal and she can answer simple questions without slurring, so the last of my worries about her injuries quickly dissipate. She doesn't have a concussion. Cradling her head gently, I help her sit up with Charlie's assistance and guide the glass of water to her mouth. "Drink slowly, pet. That's it."

Melody drinks half the contents of the glass before putting her hand on my forearm to signal that she'd had enough to drink. "I'm okay, sir, thank you," she says hoarsely. "I feel so stupid. I hope I didn't worry you."

"I'm just glad you're, okay, Miss Plum." I force myself to smile. I nearly lost my mind when I thought she was seriously injured. She got hurt because I scared her and was trying to get away from me. I'm a bloody monster.

I pass the ice pack to Charlie. Melody is still clinging to me and her head is resting on my shoulder. I fight the urge to hold her tight into my chest and carry her away. I have to let her go and get away from here before I give myself away further than I may already have.

"Dad, are you sure we shouldn't take her to the ER or something?" Charlie asks, as I put my arm under Melody's legs and carry her up with me as I stand.

"I'm fine, no hospital," Melody groans. "You can set me down now, Mr. D."

Even as she says this, her fingers curl into my shirt. "Let me just carry you over to the sofa, dear."

I exit the kitchen with my son at my heels and cross the living room to set Melody down on the cushions. "All right, Miss Plum. I'm going to leave you with Charlie now. He'll look after you."

She releases me, seemingly reluctant to do so, as a look of longing flashes in her eyes. "Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I was such a bother."

This time, I'm not able to stop myself from leaning over to kiss her forehead. "Good night, Miss Plum. Stay safe."

Behind me, my son is hovering like a buzzing bee. "Dad, do I need to keep her awake or anything? You're not supposed to let anyone with a head injury sleep, right?"

I turn around to acknowledge my son and pat his shoulder in reassurance. "She'll be fine, son. She doesn't have a concussion. Just keep icing her bump, so the swelling will go down. Get a blanket and keep her warm." I stretch my arms over my head and fake a yawn. "I'm gonna go to bed. Wake me up if she vomits or anything like that."

After giving Charlie a couple more instructions, I beat a path to the second floor where I share the master bedroom with my wife. I open the door and close the door immediately behind me, leaning against it for a moment, my knees shaking. I look up at the bed where my wife is fast asleep.

Dear God, what's happening to me?