For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  Starla doesn’t wait for me to crack my honey walnut shrimp and rice open before she’s digging in, and I have to roll my eyes—fondly. The woman was clearly ravenous but would have starved herself to keep kissing me. I’m not going to lie, that feels good, although also proves that she does in fact need someone to remind her to eat. Though if I weren’t here, she wouldn’t be distracted.

  “How was your day?”

  She slurps a noodle into her mouth, and then chews thoughtfully, her legs crisscrossed on the couch.

  “Mmm, fine. I signed a new client today.”

  “That’s great, congratulations.”

  She smiles and pauses with a few inches of noodles hanging from her chopsticks. “Thanks.”

  “You know, I’m really proud of you—this business you’ve built is filling a very important niche, and you’re clearly excellent at your job. I’m not sure if you hear that enough.”

  Starla looks at me, noodles dangling from in between her lips, and it’s rather comical.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you or to be condescending, but you need to know that, and perhaps I’m making an arse of myself because people are constantly telling you how phenomenal you are, but on the off chance that no one else does tell you how incredible you are, well, that’s my job now.”

  Her only reaction is to blink, so I urge her, “Don’t forget to eat your noodles, don’t want to drip on your shirt. Which is very cute by the way.”

  She eats, looking at me the whole time she chews.

  “What?”

  Did I say something wrong? Have I overstepped already? Am I mistaken and she actually has numerous people falling all over themselves to tell her how brilliant she is? In which case, she ought to dump her lo mein on my head and tell me to get the fuck out, but I don’t think I’m mistaken.

  “You said you didn’t know anything about how to be a daddy because you’ve never done it before, but you’re good at it already. So, um, thank you. I don’t hear that a lot.”

  I don’t press, but tell her as much about my day as I’m able, given that I can’t talk much about my patients, but she understands that and presumably is glad for it, knowing I’ve always given her the same privacy.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She looks at me over the takeout container, chopsticks poised to dig into the lo mein again. “Have you ever not asked me something?”

  Many times. If she took a minute to think about it, she’d realize that. But that’s not something that needs to be discussed, at least not right now. I don’t respond because Starla’s sass doesn’t always require a response. Indeed, she huffs and rolls her eyes.

  “Yes, what did you want to know?”

  “Why do you live here? I mean, in this studio.”

  I know why she lives in Boston. It’s her home and she’s not great with change. Sure, if her job had necessitated a move, I have no doubt she would’ve found the wherewithal to do it, but if there’s one thing that has been made exceedingly clear over the last several months, it’s that Starla has a talent for shaping the world around her to fit her particular strengths and needs.

  Not that I didn’t know that about her before—she’s had a talent for sculpting her environment, unapologetically, since the day I met her—but her capability is sharper now, honed like a knife she wields not just on her own behalf but also to advocate and plow paths for others. In this, as in so many things, she is remarkable.

  She shrugs and stuffs a clump of noodles in her mouth. If I didn’t know her so well, I might leave off there. She likes it here, what’s the big deal? Except I know some things that make this a more invasive and particular question. Since Starla seems content to nosh on her beef and onions and snap peas until I drown in my curiosity, I nudge.

  “I know you didn’t sell the house in Chestnut Hill.”

  Which doesn’t surprise me. Starla isn’t one to throw away something perfectly good, and I know how attached she was to her father. No, it doesn’t surprise me at all that she still owns the sprawling estate. What does surprise me, particularly given her distaste for change, is that she doesn’t still live there.

  “It’s a good investment.”

  Likely true given the real estate climate in greater Boston.

  “Sure. But it would still be a good investment if you lived there. Better, even, perhaps?” Then she wouldn’t also be shelling out rent on this place which, while small, is in a prime location and must run her a few thousand dollars a month.

  “It’s too big for one person.”

  I can understand Starla not wanting to wander around an enormous house with no one to talk to. It would highlight exactly how alone she’s been since her father died. Remind her every day of how much she misses him.

  “Okay, but why don’t you rent it out?”

  Up until now, she’s answered my questions rather docilely, especially for her, but now she’s getting annoyed, stabbing her chopsticks so hard into the container it’s a wonder they don’t come out the bottom.

  “I don’t think my father would care for having other people living in his house.”

  It would be a dick move to point out her father is deceased and that, given her lack of religious convictions, it’s not as though she believes in the afterlife. It’s not as though she actually thinks Jameson Patrick is floating around the estate, measuring the grass with a ghost ruler or swiping a gloved apparitional finger over a thin layer of dust on a mantelpiece.

  She must sense my continued skepticism, though, because with another huff, she drops the lo mein, chopsticks and all, onto the table, crosses her arms across her chest and leans back into the corner of the couch. I have perhaps poked too hard.

  “That much space makes me nervous. And while I’m capable of keeping this neat and organized, there’s no way I’d be able to stay on top of things in that house even with a housekeeper. I’d end up living out of a single room and that would be far stranger than having this place to myself. So I can’t live there, and the guilt of letting someone else live there wouldn’t do me any favors. I know my father would want that for me, but I can’t right now. Someday. Maybe. I’d like to. But today? Not going to happen. So, yes, it’s expensive and ridiculous, and every time I go over these things with my accountant, she shakes her head, but I’ve had about enough of it. It’s well within my means to maintain both properties even if it seems wasteful. Because honestly, how much is my mental health worth to you?”

  I’m such an arse. Yes, I wanted to know, and yes, I’m allowed to ask, but perhaps I could’ve done so more delicately. One thing I know for sure, though, is what Starla is worth to me, and tied irrevocably to that is her mental health.

  “It’s priceless. You’re priceless.”

  I reach for her hand that’s resting on the couch and she doesn’t snatch it away but allows me to take it up, bring it to my mouth where I kiss her knuckles, the top of her hand, before turning it over to reveal her palm.

  So many lines and I know my gran would say Starla’s life is an unpredictable, riotous, beautiful disaster. I’m not sure she’d be wrong, but Starla’s done her very best to keep it from falling into disrepair and I shouldn’t do anything about that except allow her to run her ship as she sees fit. She’s a fine captain, and if she’ll let me, I’d like very much to stick around and be her first mate.

  I kiss the inside of Starla’s wrist before biting the meaty padded section of her palm that joins her thumb and then each fingertip in turn. She lets me. And when I’m done, I press one more kiss to the palm of her hand before taking it and sliding it into the open neck of my shirt until it rests against my heart. Her hand is cold, as ever, so I’ll warm it with my body and let her feel that the muscle pumping my very lifeblood through my body beats for her, and always has.

  * * *

  Starla

  Lowry’s warm. And charming. And brought me my favorite Chinese food. Which makes it easy to let the fit of pique dissipate. I know it’s foolish to live here while h
olding onto my father’s house, but I do. Oh well. I could do a lot worse things with the ridiculous amounts of money I’m currently sitting on.

  Tad had called earlier today, as had a couple of the advisors I’ve been talking to, and it’s clear they’re all frustrated with me. The whole my-father-just-died thing is apparently wearing thin in the face of the grinding wheels of commerce. Part of me would like to hand it all over to Tad because what the fuck do I care? But the truth is that I do care and I don’t trust Tad to handle the business as my father would like. Although to be fair, I don’t trust myself to do that either. Which is a whole different smack in the face.

  I need to shake myself loose of these thoughts. There’s nothing to be done about any of this tonight. What could be done, though…

  Why does Lowry always smell good? And he looks so… I don’t even know. Precisely how a daddy should look, I suppose, with his heather-green collared shirt open a few buttons even as it’s tucked neatly into some dark grey slacks. His cuffs have ridden up enough as he sits that I can see his goddamn argyle socks. See, what I’d really like to do is crawl into his lap and straddle him, but I suspect he won’t allow those sorts of hijinks until I’ve eaten dinner to his satisfaction.

  And right on cue, he’s drawing my hand out of his shirt and pressing another kiss to the inside of my wrist, which makes me all kinds of swoony for him.

  “If you’ve forgiven me for needling you, I think you ought to eat some more.”

  Yes, I suppose I should.

  “Fine, but you’re going to let me have your fortune cookie as penance.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Patrick, but I accept your terms.”

  He gives my wrist a little nip before letting me go and settles back with his takeout carton. I take a couple of bites from my own and then look over the white peaks of my open takeout box. He looks pensive, which you’d think I’d be used to, but I’m not. He’s usually so easy and present that him thinking about something other than what’s in front of him is noticeable.

  “Penny for your thoughts. Or even your fortune cookie back.”

  He blinks up at me with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, love.”

  “Seriously, where’d your head go? Something going on with one of your patients? I know you can’t talk about them much and I’m not sure what to offer other than listening, but if you tell me what would be most helpful, I’ll do my best to do it.”

  “It’s not that.”

  He shakes his head and takes another bite of his shrimp. It looks really good and I wonder if he would share. Probably, if I asked nicely. If I were a brat, I’d reach over and snag one, but that’s not really my jam. I get that for some people that “in trouble” feeling is a rush. For me, it feels like nausea. I get enough of that when I’ve done my ECT, thanks.

  “Then what is it? And can I have one of your shrimp while you oh-so-carefully formulate how to say this?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs and holds out his food. The shrimp is sticky, so when I snatch one, it comes away with clumps of rice stuck to it. It’s far from ladylike, but I stuff the whole thing in my mouth and chew. It’s really fucking good—the crispy fried coating gives way to the specific tenderness of the shrimp and the whole thing is covered with honey sauce and tiny bits of crunchy walnuts, and I don’t know, it’s like a symphony in my mouth. I’m totally getting this next time. Or just eating more of Lowry’s. Whatever.

  Indeed, he doesn’t seem to be composing his thoughts into sentences but watching me eat. It’s possible I made a noise.

  “You seem to be enjoying that immensely. Would you like to trade?”

  If I were a grown-up, I’d rebuff his offer. But I’m not, so I shove my half-eaten lo mein at him and he looks at me from under his ginger brows like I’ve pleased him somehow as he hands over the rest of his food. Yep, it’s so good.

  “Well, now that I’ve buttered you up with my dinner, what I was going to say is that I have more questions for you, but I feel as though I’ve poked you enough for one evening.”

  It’s clearly been a while since Lowry was a thirteen-year-old boy, because I make the obvious joke through a mouthful of shrimp and rice. “I think you’ve poked me not at all and that’s nowhere near sufficient.”

  “I meant mentally.”

  “Yeah, that’s different.” And now I’m wary. The shrimp is still incredible, though, so I’ll focus on that. “But is that a thing people do? Not ask questions because they feel like they’ve asked enough questions already? Or is this a you-thinking-I’m-fragile kind of thing?”

  “You’re fragile like a tank, little girl. I prefer to think of it as being respectful because it’s emotionally taxing to talk about difficult things.”

  “And this is going to be difficult?”

  He shrugs and spears his chopsticks into the box of lo mein. “Might be. Or maybe it’s fine. I don’t know. But I could imagine how it would be a sensitive topic.”

  “Will you go ahead? I’ll tell you to shush your face if I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “All right, then. Have you always thought of yourself as kinky?”

  Sure, let’s dive into the deep end of the pool. Although now that he knows about the daddy kink thing, the rest of this is more academic, not nearly as stomach-churning.

  “I guess so. For as long as I’ve known that was a thing, anyway. I knew I always felt like the love I saw in movies and on TV and stuff wasn’t quite right, that it was…missing something isn’t it exactly, but it was like everyone around me was satisfied by it but it didn’t taste right to me? And when I learned what kink was it was like, ‘Oh, yes, that!’ I know labels aren’t always great, but sometimes they’re helpful.”

  “The World Health Organization and the American Psychiatric Association agree with you. Although I’d argue they’re a bit overzealous.”

  He’s such a nerd.

  “Was that it? Or do you have more questions?”

  “I have so many questions. And I’d get a beer, but I’ve heard playing after drinking is frowned upon.”

  I shrug. “It’s like driving. You can have a single drink and then play, but yeah, being any kind of intoxicated is bad news. That whole consent thing kind of goes out the window, and if you’re doing impact play, you want to have your reflexes and hand-eye coordination at their best, you know? If you want one, there’s a mixed six-pack of Brew Dog in the fridge.”

  It starts out as a nod but turns into a cock of his head. “You got me Scottish beer?”

  “I did. You said your brothers liked this brewery and you wanted to try it but it was hard to find around here. If it can be had, I can have it. So, I have it for you.”

  That’s one of the other things I like about Lowry. He’s never tried to take advantage of my wealth. We take turns paying for dinner and otherwise don’t talk about money much. Which is wild amounts of privilege, I know, but when you have that privilege, it’s nice to feel wanted for other things.

  He goes and fetches a beer from the fridge and cracks the can, taking a first sip before dropping back into his chair.

  “Ah, I can see why Alex likes this one. It’s not subtle, just like him.”

  I’ve heard a little about Lowry’s brothers, know he’s the oldest, have seen a couple of pictures of the four of them lined up with their ginger hair. I’m perhaps biased, but I think Lowry is the best-looking. His brothers, however curious I am to meet them, aren’t the point.

  “Now that you’re fortified, did you have other questions?”

  “This daddy kink of yours…”

  I’d like to point out that I’m not the only one sitting here with my daddy kink. Lowry’s obviously got a daddy kink as well, just from the other side of things. But I’ll let it slide because as he’s said, he’s new to this. He might not identify that way yet and that’s fine.

  “Do you feel like it comes from somewhere or you’re hardwired that way?”

  “I’ve thought about this a lot, actual
ly, and I’ve come to the pretty firm conclusion that it doesn’t matter.”

  He opens his mouth, no doubt an apology on the tip of his tongue, but I don’t need an apology. It’s a reasonable question, if not a particularly useful one.

  “I mean, do I have daddy issues? Probably. But it’s not like I can tell how much of my kinks are from where. I’m pretty sure I would’ve been kinky no matter what. I feel like most people who are into kink would be, no matter how or where they grew up. For some people it’s nurture, sure. But I’d bet mostly it’s nature. I do think, though, that nurture can have something to do with how people’s kinks and fetishes manifest. I feel like there’s some shit people can’t touch because of how they were raised and there are also things they like because of it.”

  He’s listening as intently as he ever has to me, and I’ve got to wonder if he’s itching to make notes. If he is, he covers it with another sip of his beer, so I continue.

  “I mean, I suspect I’d probably enjoy a lot of the physical things that I do, like the impact play. And being a bottom. But as for the daddy stuff, kinda hard to say. Maybe things would’ve been different if I hadn’t desperately craved my father’s approval and attention, but I did.” Still do, which is kind of fucked up and not something we need to discuss at the moment, if ever, so I press on. “And maybe that has something to do with how I like to play or maybe not. I can tell you there are people who enjoy role-playing incest scenarios as if they were fucking their actual parent and that’s not what I like. If anything, I crave what I didn’t have, not what I did. I mean, can you imagine me calling my father daddy?”

  Chapter 21

  Lowry

  The shallow curve of her mouth and the way her eyes are large and luminous say no. And honestly, when I think back to Mr. Patrick…

  “No. No, I doubt that you did. Was he always ‘Father’ to you?”

  She nods and laughs a little. “Always. Can you picture it?”