Evolve Series (Complete Box Set)

by S. E. Hall

  If deceit is embedded in your nature, like I find you cheated on lots of tests and/or girls, not just once or twice when you were very young, then we have two options. Electric shock therapy to untangle the wire in your brain that thinks cheating is okay is our first, and my personal, choice.

  Or, you can forget my daughter’s name and get lost. I stand corrected; this one may be my preference.

  *Fighting. Again, gonna find everyone from your fucking pre-school teachers, your camp counselors, to your coaches… no rock (out from under which you crawled) unturned. This particular category can either ruin you or work in your favor. You see, there’s a fine line between being able to kick some ass when you’re hit first or defending a lady and being a hot-head. If I find that you’re the latter, a cocky punk with a short temper — I’m sending ya packin’.

  I reserve the right to add to this list at any time too.

  So secrets… I think you get my drift. If not, you’re too damn dumb to date my daughter anyway. If you are able to keep up so far and think your “rap sheet” will pass inspection, have your confessional list prepared when you arrive to our lil’ pow-wow.

  On a side note, you should also bring your best attempt at a real man’s handshake. While I proceed to shake just short of snapping every tiny, fragile bone that makes up the human hand — yours in this case- you are expected to bear down and take it without so much as a flinch. If you squeeze back, bonus point. But if you wince, whimper, dare to try to pull away or cry — which wouldn’t surprise me a damn bit — your visit is over. Take your sorry, limp-wristed ass home. You’ve been disqualified.

  Not to mention disgraced.

  You just let out a huge sigh of relief, didn’t you? You’re thinking, “it’s not that bad, I can handle this no problem.”

  Ah, that’s precious, Nancy.

  Well now, take a deep breath in and return immediately to the state of ‘scared shitless’ you were in — and will remain in — for the duration of your half-cocked plan to be any part of my daughter’s life. Because this is an ongoing investigation, boy. I’m not just wading through the cobwebs in your closet once. No, no, no… I already have all the apps installed on my phone to continually check your shit, including the county jail intake website, and a standing reservation with an officer, who shall remain nameless, to know, on the daily, if you so much as slow-roll through a stop sign.

  And I’m gonna shake your hand the same way every damn time I see you.

  Be afraid. Stay Afraid.

  Let’s clear up any misconceptions you might have about this right now. SHE. HAS. ONE.

  I know what you’re thinking. Stop. If I trusted your thinking, I wouldn’t need to write you a manual, now would I?

  The word “curfew” has gotten a raw deal — young people such as yourself have made their own adaptations to its definition. This isn’t the urban dictionary punk, so I looked it up in the old school dictionary for ya.

  Curfew: noun; Middle English word origin. A regulation requiring people to remain indoors between specified hours, typically at night.

  Granted, some of the examples offered do mention the word “parents” — which is fine by me, cause guess what — I’m still her parent, no matter how old she gets. But nowhere, not even in those lil’ unhelpful “let’s use it in a sentence” hints that you foolishly think contain your escape clause, does it specify a starting or ending age for curfew enforcement.

  Therefore, twenty-five or fifty-five… SHE. HAS. ONE.

  You ever heard the saying “nothing good happens after midnight?” Yeah, it’s not “nothing good happens to people under eighteen after midnight.” There’s a reason for that. Drunk drivers and degenerates don’t discriminate based on age. Neither do emergency rooms.

  God did not bless me with my beautiful, amazing child for her to close down the bars or tip the third-shift waitress at IHOP. He, and I, have a far bigger purpose for her life in mind. And if you care about her… so do you.

  Now at first, I was going to set the curfew at one a.m. But then, one of the coolest women I know popped in my head, and I’m not too proud to admit, her “Disney Defense,” which she can find a way to apply to any real-life situation, made sense to me.

  Cinderella had to be home at midnight, and even then, poor girl lost a shoe and had to wobble her way home on one foot, with only some mice, a couple horses and a pretty tired lookin’ dog to protect her.

  So even midnight is iffy, but I figure if it worked out for one princess, I’m willing to allow it for my princess.

  Midnight it is, boy. I’d explain to you where the little and big hand are pointing at that time, but since we both know you’re gonna check your phone — that’s a digital reading of “12:00 AM.”

  Not “ish.” There’s no fucking “ish” in this rule. Not 12:01, none of that “well, we left the place at twelve” bullshit you’re already planning to spew at me. What I’m saying to you is — my daughter is to be inside her apartment at midnight, with the door locked and your ass on the other side of it. You are to walk her to the door, make sure she gets inside safely, but you don’t step one toe over the threshold.

  Has this put a dent in your plans? Not sounding like as much fun to date a girl you must have home this early? You’re absolutely right! (Savor that, it’s not something I’m likely to ever say again.) I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you wanted to call this whole thing off right now.

  Oh, and one last thing. Being the kind and generous person I am, which we’ve clearly established multiple times already, I’m gonna let you have all the credit on this one. Meaning — this was your idea when my daughter asks, most likely in a whiney “you’re no fun” voice, why you’re taking her home so early.

  Deal with it, like a man… and keep my name out your mouth.

  You throw me under the bus and I’ll throw you six feet under.

  If you’ve made it this far and are still confident that you have a snowball’s chance in my form of Hell, then either you’re wrong (that’s where I’m putting my money) or you’re employable.

  So you best be employed.

  Being “employed” doesn’t mean you work a few hours here and there on the weekends for one of your “bros” and/or family members. Selling your old shit on Ebay, Craigslist or to your local pawn shop when you need cash — also not a job. And it damn sure doesn’t mean you grow pot in your closet and “distribute” it, and/or sell off your prescription medications that you “don’t think you need anymore.”

  In fact, if you do have any prescriptions, bring those with you to our meeting too. And yes, now that I’ve thought of it, I’ll be checking on the history of this too. No, HIPPA can’t save you; remember the scary, possibly mob-tied friend I mentioned? Yep, he’ll get me the info. (Please refer back in your handbook to the section titled “Secrets” and my right to add to that list at any time. I just did.)

  “Employed” needs to look something like this:

  A forty hour a week job that requires you to report to a well-established company that has a public building, with a sign and everything, from which you receive a steady paycheck, AND the establishment is recognized as existent by the Better Business Bureau.

  If you are a full-time student — and honestly, if I have to tell you that this doesn’t mean one online course, you’re fucking hopeless — I am willing to keep an open-mind to amending the above requirements, when you present to me your current class schedule. (Which I’ll have already obtained myself, so they better match!)

  But even if we get all this worked out, I’ll still expect to see proof that you have money in your wallet, by means that do NOT include:

  *Given to you by your parents. My daughter works and goes to school, you can too. Figure it out! (No silver-spoon, privileged tit boys that couldn’t fix my princess’s flat tire allowed.)

  *Anything illegal. Don’t think I was kidding before about your prescriptions or precious pot plants. Searching your closets was literal and figurative.

  *An
y activity where the words stripper, pimp or “I don’t know his real name” come up. I own a club, so I’m okay with you bartending, bouncing or being a DJ, but not at a strip club where pimps and dealers run their businesses from the back room. And if there’s a certain hallway where every door has a light above it, able to switch from “occupied red” to “open for use green,” get the fuck out of here. But if you do, in fact, work at a club that you think is good enough to pass inspection, go ahead and plan on giving me a tour. I’ll surprise you for that — a “pop in” — it’ll be fun. As if I’d let you “offer” to take me in the middle of the day when nothing’s happening and everyone’s been warned I’m coming. Nice try.

  Right about now you’re probably wondering what prescriptions I’m on, or should be on, since I’m coming off like an overprotective lunatic.

  Thing is- I AM an overprotective lunatic, and I don’t give a damn who knows it. I kick ass at every job I have, and my number one job is being P’s dad.

  I figured out a long time ago, I never have to count the dollars if I count every cent. Yes, I realize I just lost you. What I mean is, if I lay out every single thing, big or small, for you now, I don’t have to worry about being blindsided by some huge issue down the road.

  Dear God, still confused, fucktard? How’s this… if I watch every penny, I never wake up one day to find I don’t even have a dollar. Hear me now?

  Then hear this too — my daughter doesn’t do “dutch,” nor is she ever going to be asked to “spot you a twenty.” Never will she be sitting at home, waiting for you to get off “work” where you stared at other naked women on a pole all night. And she’ll never have to worry about what happens if your Daddy cuts you off, or God forbid, “tragedy strikes,” and your marijuana plants die.

  Because I’ve already safe-guarded her against any of those possibilities. I counted the cents.

  Still think you’re good enough? That you can handle it?

  Well then by all means, turn the page schmuck.

  Of course you'll be taking her out; to dinner, movies that she wants to see, and I'm sure, as much as I hate it, the occasional club or party… because I know she loves to dance. Tried everything, couldn’t change her mind on that worrisome habit. I’m willing to try and accept this though, because as we've established, your ass better not be broke, bumming your way through a cheap date of movies and take-out on her couch. “Netflix and Chill” is not an option! You won't even know what her couch looks like you sorry lil’ — never mind, we'll get to that.

  So back to Rule Four: Going out in public.

  Obviously, you've seen my daughter, or you wouldn't be sniffin’ around with your tail waggin'. Well guess what? Everyone else can see her too. Welcome to my world, I've been ready to kill every guy in every place we've gone to since she was thirteen years old.

  Never let your guard down. I don’t care if you’re at church, you need to start practicing your new way of thinking in every situation, even the “safe” ones… that way having your guard up and eyes wide open will become a habit. Everyone is a predator, just waiting for that moment you leave her alone, turn your head, or get drunk and sloppy.

  Do you have a little sister? I hope so; ‘cause I want you to think about each and every worry you'd have if she went, to say… a frat party. Now, use all those awful thoughts running through your mind as fuel to guide you anytime my daughter’s safety is in your hands. And while you’re at it — go drag your sister outta the frat party; what the fuck is wrong with you?

  As added reinforcement, I've purchased all seasons of Law and Order: SVU for you on DVD. It’s my wife’s favorite show, and watching it with her over the years has scarred me for life, yes, but in a productive way — it’s taught me all the possible scenarios I’m now schooling you on.

  *Crowds. When it comes to packed places in which there are any other men, could be one, could be one-hundred, ASSUME THE WORST.

  My daughter is a smart girl and Lord knows I've drilled it into her head her entire life that you can never be too careful, but it's not her behavior or decisions I worry about — it's everyone else's. That now, and foremost, includes yours.

  *Drinks. If you didn't make it yourself or watch it being made like a hawk, then deliver it straight to her hand, never taking your eyes off of it 'til the cup was empty — IT IS SPIKED. You know what? You go ahead and take a drink of it first anyway, regardless of all stipulations above. Wait ten minutes. If you're not dizzy or dead, you may proceed to hand it to her — eyes still don’t leave the glass! I’d insist we stick to a “you pop the top on sealed bottle or can” rule, but we both know girls always want the colorful, fruity shit that comes in a glass. Can’t make anything easy on me.

  *Bathroom Breaks. Neither of you are ever to take one alone again. If she needs to go, you escort her, swing the door wide open, have her pause before entering to confirm no one is lurking inside and then your ass does not move from right outside that door 'til she reemerges.

  I’m not just “winging” it on my crazy with this one; statistics prove that eight out of ten attackers will nab you right when you walk in or out of the door, so again — swing that fucker open like you’re trying to kill anything on the other side of it.

  Yeah, people will look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Fun fact — through the years, between all the kids in our “Crew,” their various ball games, and their extensive training on this matter, my friends and I have had to deal with many an angry parent because one of our kids knocked their kid out with a flying bathroom door.

  Better safe than sorry.

  Now if you’re the one who has to go — hold it.

  Yes, I'm dead fucking serious.

  You're not “leaving her with the group“ while you go take a leak, and she's damn sure not waiting outside the door in a dark hallway or going in a guy's stanky-ass bathroom with you, random dudes with their junk hanging out in front of her. So like I said — HOLD IT.

  *Separating. Suppose my girl says, “Oh, I see so and so over there, I'm gonna go say hi. I'll be right back.” I'm not even going to tell you the answer on this one. If your head isn’t already shaking in agreement with me while you read this, mentally listing all the reasons this is a terrible idea, you've learned NOTHING and we're DONE.

  You no longer have to concern yourself with learning how to hold your urine, flinging open doors like a lunatic or staying in “Secret Service” form at funerals because YOU FAIL!

  *Dancing. She wants to go out on the floor with her friends? I don't care if you look like you're having a seizure when you attempt to dance, you get your uncoordinated ass out there, right beside her and bounce your fucking shoulders a little or some shit. If you let her get caught up in the mosh pit of “oops” hands and “accidental” body parts bumping — I will kill you.

  By this point, you stand a very good chance of being called “clingy” or “suffocating.” But real men can easily turn that into “protectively attractive.” Not too attractive! I'm not training you on how to get some play, Asshat! I'm simply giving you a warning out of the kindness of my heart… because you're not allowed to blame any of this on me either.

  *Making your way home. Don't be a tight ass, use valet anytime it's available. Thus, eliminating the need for you to go get the car while my child waits, unguarded. And I'm not crazy about the idea of you traipsing across a dark parking lot, even together, either — so use valet.

  If there's no valet service at whatever hole in the wall you've decided it's wise to drag my daughter to, park close to the door, under a light and have your key positioned in your hand to strike and stab with it. (My girl already knows this trick, so maybe you should hand her the key; she’s highly trained in the art of stabby.)

  *When you get home. Let's start with the most vital part of this rule first — YOUR HORNY ASS IS NOT STAYING. Remember when I said you won't even know what her couch looks like? This is what I was talking about. You see her to the door, don’t forget to swing that motherfucker wid
e open if P doesn’t do it first, make sure she gets inside and a few lights turned on, wait, on the doorstep, for her to check for anyone inside or signs of a break-in. When she comes back and tells you it's all good, turn around, get in your car and go the fuck home. And when you get there, call and check on her.

  I know you're wondering… if I'm this paranoid, how is she even living outside my home in the first place? Who was watching her like a hawk up to now?

  The answer to your first question is… my Princess has a mother. A mother who insisted I “let up” a little, and coincidentally, is the same woman I enjoy having sex with and/or at least have her speaking to me.

  The second answer is… me, you shriveled up nutsack. Me.

  I had the alarm system installed on her place. I call my baby girl multiple times a day and know her routine by heart. I make a habit to know all her friends and everything about them; hell, I helped raise the best of them. So you see, we have a pattern in place that was just starting to give me some comfort… until you came along.

  You're new, unfamiliar and changing things up, so I have to start all over with my recon. You're one huge pain in my ass. That fucking fly that lands in my ice-cold drink right when I sit down and get comfortable.

  I couldn't hate you more if I tried, and we're only on Rule Four.

  Every single day I've been the father of a little girl, God has gotten a chuckle, watching me navigate my way through the ultimate test with which he blessed me. I've passed, with flying colors, with every breath I've taken, since the day she was born.

  Are you man enough to pass my tests?

  I seriously fucking doubt it.

  Don't fucking touch my daughter.