by Adams, S. C.
Plus, I used to be married, so my ex did a lot of the kid-related things like pick-ups and drop-offs. But that arrangement has gone the way of the dinosaur like everything else about my marriage.
Technically, we’ve been divorced for a year, but the drama has showed no signs of letting up. After a protracted legal battle and a whole lot of time spent in court and lawyer’s offices, we’ve finally settled our custody issues. My ex, Lindsay, and I have hammered out an agreement to share custody of Katie, our little girl. The schedule is asinine, like most things devised by my former spouse, but it’s good enough for now.
But it’s been a huge change because before, Lindsay took care of most kid-related activities since I had no time. Now, I’m making an effort to participate in Katie’s life. It’s the right thing to do because I’ve heard the horror stories: supposedly little girls who grow up without father figures are insecure as adults, and let men treat them badly. As a result, I’m having to rearrange aspects of my work to spend more time with my daughter, but it’s worth it.
After all, I do love my daughter. I can’t regret my marriage, even though it was something of a disaster, because it brought me Katie. I just wish I didn’t have to deal with my ex. Lindsay is a train wreck mixed with a personality disorder, and it’s only gotten worse since we divorced.
I was going to send my assistant, Bernard, to pick Katie up today, but at the last minute I decided to head over myself, since I’d never been to the place before and figured I ought to check it out and make sure everything is going well for my little girl. Ever since the break up, I’m doing everything I can to make sure I’m being the best father I can be. I know the divorce hasn’t been easy on Katie, and I don’t want my choices to mess up her life. The most important thing in the world to me used to be myself, but now it’s this child.
“I’m Rob Lockhart,” I say to the beautiful woman, who stands up, smoothing down the front of her dress. I notice that she’s got glitter glue stuck right above her left breast. They’re quite the set: big round mounds that stretch the fabric even though she’s obviously going for a conservative look.
“Katie’s father?” asks the woman, who I can’t help but notice is blushing beautifully, her round cheeks turning a particularly appealing shade of pink.
“That’s the one,” I say, smiling. Although it sounds stuck-up, she’s far from the first woman to have such a reaction to me. Girls have been throwing themselves at my feet since my voice dropped at age fifteen. I’ve loved and left my share, but something about this one feels different. She seems so sweet and innocent, and not at all like the desperate cougars in my social circle dripping in designer duds.
In another life, I might have invited her out to my car or a cloakroom and had my way with the woman, but having a daughter of my own has slowed my roll on that sort of thing. I don’t want to take advantage of a sweet woman’s heart, especially not one who’s responsible for my daughter’s care. She intrigues me, however.
She nods, pulling herself together. “I’ll get Katie,” the woman says simply. Her voice is very soft, gentle and warm. When she turns, I watch her ample buttocks sway as she moves, my attention focused on her like a laser beam. It’s as if the motion of her generous ass is the only thing in the whole world. I wouldn’t even call myself an ass man, but I want to get lost in this one.
This girl is not my usual type, but something about her makes me feel a pulse of instant attraction, like a magnet pulling at my eyes, my heart, and my thick shaft. My skin starts to tingle, the air between us pulsing with some strange electricity.
But what the hell? We’re surrounded by little children at the moment. In fact, I’m about to pick up my own little child. It would be deeply inappropriate to allow the rising arousal that I’m feeling make itself known. I pinch my arm and force myself to focus on the image of a smashed rat that I saw the other day on the sidewalk on Park Avenue, flattened like a sheet of paper. It was disgusting with bloody, matted fur and grisly rat organs oozing onto the cement. There, that does it. The edge is taken off.
Besides, usually I date blondes with bodies like whippets, thin girls with thigh gaps and small breasts and skin stretched taught over countable ribs. The day care provider is almost an exact opposite of my go to type. She’s young, but her body is that of a real woman, and not a girl. She’s very curvy, plus sized even, with luscious tits and wide hips. I search the files of my memory, but I don’t think I’ve touched a pair of breasts as large as these.
Her hair is a wild mane of brown curls, which match her velvety coffee-colored eyes. Her face is open and kind, with a gentle smile. I love the sound of her voice. Plus, she seems really with good with kids. As she walks to get my daughter, other children come up to her. She treats all of them with kindness and care.
Maybe being a father has changed me. Maybe the ongoing drama with my ex has soured me on skinny blondes forever. Or maybe the girl is just so gorgeous that my usual tastes don’t matter. Either way, I can’t stop thinking about her.
When she returns, I have to force myself not to stare at her cleavage. She’s got Katie by the hand, which helps. My little blonde angel squeals when she sees me. “Daddy!”
She runs towards me. As I lean down, she throws her arms around my neck. I can feel her heartbeat. Her hair smells of Johnson and Johnson’s baby shampoo. My own heart swells with love and pride.
“Katie! Were you a good girl today?” I ask her.
She regards the question, deliberating, her little lips pursing in thought. The day care provider smiles, hiding a laugh. “Yes,” Katie says. “I was good today.”
I flash a look at the provider, entreating her opinion.
The woman’s cheeks turn pink again, a little less pronounced than the last time, but impossible not to notice. “She was great today,” the brunette says, smiling. “She sang the whole alphabet song today, didn’t you Katie?”
My daughter nods, seemingly proud of herself. “Do you want to hear it, Daddy?”
Normally, I’d want to get this pick-up done quickly and be off to my next thing, but I’m enjoying the brunette’s company, and the room full of children is strangely soothing. I could get used to this. I get down on one knee, so I’m closer to Katie’s level. “I would love to hear it, sweetheart.”
She starts slowly at first, as if she’s having some trouble remembering the words. I notice a chart of the alphabet on the wall, but Katie doesn’t look at it, singing the letters from memory alone. “A... B... C...”
As she keeps singing, Katie gets into the groove of it, her pace quickening as she remembers all the letters. When she gets to “Z” she’s positively beaming.
“That’s amazing, sweetheart!” I tell her, tousling her hair. “That was perfect. I’m so proud of you.”
She hugs me a little bit harder. I look over at the day care provider. “You’re doing a great job with her.”
The woman shrugs, smiling. “It doesn’t even feel like a job. Katie’s a lovely girl.”
I feel a tiny shred of shame for using one of my usual lines on the lady, but it wouldn’t be a “usual line” if it didn’t work. I make eye contact, and speak in a low voice. “I’m afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The woman shifts her body back and forth, subtly but unmistakably aroused by the attention. “Oh. Sorry. I’m Ally. Ally Summers.”
“No need for an apology. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ally Summers.”
She starts to laugh throatily, and then puts her hand over her mouth to stop it. Instead, the woman speaks quickly, trying to seem professional. I know the drill.
“Mr. Lockhart, Katie is a great girl and she’s doing really well here. She always eats her snack and naps during nap time, and she’s usually really good about getting along with the other kids. There was an incident today, however, when she refused to share a toy with a little boy named Victor.”
Katie’s energy rises. “That was Victor’s faul
t!” Her little voice is indignant. “He pulled my hair. I didn’t want to share with him. He’s a bad boy. I hate him!”
Ally chides her softly.
“Katie, it’s not O.K. to hate people. Remember yesterday when Victor shared his lunch with you? Remember how you love playing Duck, Duck, Goose with him? You don’t really hate him, do you?”
The little girl sighs and reconsiders.
“No. I don’t hate him. I used to think he was my best friend. But he did pull my hair!”
“He just did it because he likes you,” Ally says, her voice full of patience. “It doesn’t mean it’s O.K. You can tell him to stop or come get me so I can talk to him about it, but sometimes little boys do that sort of thing because they want to be friends.”
“Really?” Katie’s eyes widen.
“Yes,” says Ally. “Boys don’t always know how to express themselves in the right way. Victor likes you.”
Katie’s brow knits.
“Boys are weird.”
Ally nods, smiling.
“Yes, Katie. I think you’re right.”
The luscious brunette turns her attention to me, smiling with those pouty lips.
“What’s your opinion, Mr. Lockhart? You’d know better than either of us.”
My fingers twitch. I have a very strong urge to pull Ally’s hair, right here, right now, as if I’ve been transported back to the playground myself. I stare at her brown curls, studying the gentle waves shining under the fluorescent overhead light. I don’t pull them, but only because I have built up significant self-control through years of practice. I wouldn’t have made it to where I am, leader of a successful business empire, if I couldn’t keep my base impulses contained.
“Boys are very weird,” I growl, interlacing my fingers together to reduce the temptation. “It’s a bizarre thing.”
Both girls laugh. Katie’s giggles are like the tinkling of a Christmas bell, while Ally’s are like the sound of a songbird. It’s all very beautiful. Neither of them knows how close I am to acting like a caveman right now. I join in the laugh fest, keeping my animal urges to myself.
“Well, Ally, it’s been lovely to meet you,” I rumble when the girls have finished being amused by the mad behavior of the male species. “I trust that you’re taking very good care of my daughter, and helping her with all the weird boys?”
She smiles again, sweet and true.
“Girls can be weird too. I’m sorry I was harsh to you when you arrived. I just hadn’t seen you before, and we’re not supposed to let just anyone pick up our kids,” she says.
It turns me on, the way she says our kids. But I have to keep it together. After all, she and I just met.
“No, I’m not bothered. I wouldn’t want you to let my daughter go with some random stranger. But now you know who I am. I won’t be coming every day, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Before I met the woman, I wasn’t looking forward to coming back here, but now I’m certain I’ll find the time.
Ally nods.
“See you later,” she says, with a big, warm smile. Her brown eyes meet mine and electricity flashes in the air between us, before she turns away quickly, her cheeks flushed.
As a father, I feel happy that my daughter’s care is entrusted to someone with such a good heart. But as a man, I can feel the sparks flying between us. After my divorce, I told myself I was done with women, but this one makes me feel something different. I don’t know that I’ll do anything about it, but I do know I’ll be back to see her again.
“See you next time,” I call over my shoulder, taking Katie by the hand. “O.K. sweetheart, let’s go home.”
“Which home are we going to?” my daughter asks innocently.
It stabs, but I don’t let her see it. “My big house, baby,” I say.
We walk out of the door and out to my black Rolls Royce, waiting outside the day care center. Katie waves at my driver, Alex. He produces a strawberry lollipop, which in turn, elicits a huge grin. The Russian sure knows his way to a child’s heart.
I sit in the back on the luxurious leather seat with my daughter as she prattles on about what she’s learning and her interactions with other kids. I learn more than I ever needed to know about the names and personalities of a particular line of plastic pony dolls. Something about the purple pony being better-educated than the pink? It’s weird how toy manufacturers invest so much into the toys’ back stories.
My mind drifts and suddenly I’m thinking about Ally Summers again with her gentle smile and generous curves. I don’t think she knows how beautiful she is, which makes her all the more appealing.
“Daddy!” Katie’s voice rises, breaking me out of my reverie.
“What’s that, sweetheart?” I say. I suppose I haven’t been listening.
“Didn’t you hear me? Which pony is your favorite?”
I make a show of deliberating. “Sparkle Pony,” I answer, certain that was one of them.
She laughs her Christmas bell laugh. “No, Daddy,” she scolds. “That’s not a pony! You’re so silly. Let me tell you about all of them again.”
I try my best to pay attention but it’s hopeless. The beautiful brunette is all I can think about as my daughter chatters on beside me. Ally Summers. When will I see her again?
3
Rob
Traffic is terrible, but the Rolls is so comfortable that it doesn’t really matter. We arrive some time later to the concrete skyscraper that houses my Park Avenue penthouse.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I say to my daughter while ushering her into the building. “Let’s get you changed out of that uniform.”
My doorman is a portly older gentleman with a pronounced Brooklyn accent, his bald head concealed beneath a jaunty cap. “How’s my favorite blonde?” he teases Katie as I lead her into the foyer.
Katie thinks about it. “Pretty good,” she replies. The doorman smiles. My daughter is one of those little kids that’s an absolute hit with everyone she meets.
We ride the elevator up to the top floor. Katie sheds her backpack at the door like a lizard wiggling out of its skin, dropping it on the ground and running to her bedroom. I follow her at a far more leisurely pace. I peek in the door, watching Katie play.
It’s a sweet scene. I’ve had her room done up to be the envy of any princess. Her room features a four-poster bed with a pink canopy, equine-themed wall paper, and lush carpet. She has a huge dollhouse and a toy collection worthy of a magazine spread. As was obvious in the car, she’s in a plastic pony mood today.
I stay by the door for a while, watching her play with the brightly colored horses. She’s lost in her own world, imagining stories for her toys and doing different voices while neighing and snorting. I can’t quite follow the action, but I know my daughter is happy and that’s all that matters.
Before too long, she’ll take a nap. I leave her to her own devices, trusting that she’s safe in her room, and wander back to the entrance to retrieve her backpack. I like my apartment to stay as tidy as possible.
Shit. It’s wet. I recoil as I touch it, surprised by the water. Her water bottle must have spilled. Never a dull moment with a kid. I open the Frozen-themed sack and confirm that her water bottle is indeed leaking. I withdraw the thermos and place it on the marble counter. Stuck to it is a piece of paper.
Peeling off the orange slip, I notice that it’s a flyer for something called “The Annual Fair.” I read it, taking it all in. It seems to be some kind of family fundraiser for Ladybug Tots.
I feel myself making a face, grimacing at the flyer. I hate this kind of thing. It’s bad enough that I have to attend fundraising events for work, but I didn’t realize having a child came with its own set of such events. I’ve never done anything like this before. Before the divorce, I was a pretty hands-off dad. If I’d known about the annual fair at all, I would have just sent my wife and some money.
I sigh. Oh well. I guess this is what it means to step up to the plate. I’m probably going to have t
o hob-knob with teachers and parents and listen to some speeches. Or maybe I’ll just write a check and skip the bullshit. Whatever. It’s not that big of a deal. I’ve certainly done worse things for less important people than my own child.
I feel my pocket buzzing. I pull out my cell and see the hard eyed smile of my ex, staring back at me from her profile picture. I told myself I was going to change the pic to one of Cruella DeVille, but never got around to doing it. I steel myself, and answer.
“Hello, Lindsay,” I say, trying my best to sound civil. She’s the mother of your child, I remind myself.
“Hello, Rob. Did you pick Katie up from daycare?” Lindsay’s voice is like nails on a chalk board, high and shrill. I must have liked it years ago, somehow, but now it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. She always sounds like she’s trying to pick a fight with me. Even though we’ve settled our custody issues, she just has to needle me.
I take a deep breath, resolving to remain calm no matter how much she irritates me.
“Yes, Lindsay. I picked her up right on time. You can call the day care if you don’t believe me.”
There’s a small pause, as if my ex expected the worst from me and doesn’t know how to respond.
“Well, that’s good,” she says eventually, in a tone that makes it seems like she doesn’t think anything I do could possibly be good. I am so fucking sick of this tone. I have heard so much of it from her over the years.
“So,” I say, flatly. “What’s up?”
Her shrill voice taunts me. I know she’s just trying to get under my skin, and it’s working, even though I know what she’s doing. I hate that she has this effect on me.
“So, will you be going to the preschool’s Annual Fair? I trust you know about it. It’s next week.”
Speak of the devil. I’m holding the flyer in my hand, and Lindsay is needling me like a fucking mosquito in my ear.
“Yes,” I say, in a tight voice. “Of course I know about it. I was already planning on going next week.” Well, damn. Now I’m stuck.