Unsatiated with Dad's Best Friend: Taboo Romance

by Ami Snow

  “Obviously.”

  Sandra rose from the chair and scurried out towards the door, hastening to answer the call, her forehead creasing as the words “Unknown Caller” blinked across her screen. She stumbled out into the crisp evening breeze, the sidewalk beneath her feet barely visible under the pallidly dim glow of the streetlamps.

  Sandra took a calming breath, shielding the receiver from the noisy gusts of wind with her palm, “Hello?”

  “Good evening, I was wondering if I could get a hold of Sandra Vaughn?” The man had a smooth, husky tone to his voice, speaking softly with a slight texan flair.

  Slightly taken aback by the stranger's manners, she gulped, her voice wavering, “Speaking.”

  “Great, you responded to my ad for the nanny position – I was wondering if you were still interested in the job?”

  “Oh, right – yes, definitely, when would –”

  “Wonderful. Come by tomorrow at three in the afternoon. The address is 287, West Valley Heights.”

  “Great, I'd love to –”

  Sandra's mouth fell open as the line went dead, buzzing in her ears.

  Chapter Two –

  The pointed heels of Sandra's argyle ankle-straps clicked softly against the crushed stone of the puzzle-patterned sidewalk. She paused in her unremitting stride, slouching forward, fanning herself with her hand. She squinted at the address, beautifully scripted across the spotless, champagne painted mailbox perched on the curbside.

  “187 West Valley Heights,” Sandra muttered to herself, gritting her teeth resentfully as she peered at the neat rows of extravagant, remarkably structured houses and impeccably manicured lawns. She twirled in a circle, sticking her hands to her hips, aggravated.

  “Not a single friggin' bus stop? Really?,” Sandra rambled to herself as she trudged forwards, shaking her head, “Rich people.”

  She flicked away the drop of sweat descending on her pulsing temples with her fingers, the pace of her steps once again slowing down as she stared, slack-jawed, approaching an exaggerated compound encompassed by a gleaming, french gothic steel gate. She lumbered towards the gate cautiously, her eyes closing in on the gold-plated sign bolted onto the drystone wall. She blinked, incredulous, buzzing the doorbell. The screen fizzled to life, a middle-aged man with a doorman's hat appearing on the picture, looking around slowly with expressionless eyes.

  “Please step into the line of the camera.”

  Sandra shuffled towards the small lens above the screen, clearing her throat, “Hi, my name is Sandra Vaughn, I'm –”

  The gates screeched open. Sandra traipsed through the open gates, her heart pumping wildly in anticipation as she hiked up the escalating flagstone walkway, paved with dark slabs of stone. She lost control of her jaw briefly, her mouth dropping open at the grandiose 15,000-square-foot estate. She nipped forwards, her pupils swelling as she goggled at the magnificent cluster of modern, linked houses with tall, pristine, glass windows, painted a creamy, coconut white, overlooking a glittery, 30-foot-long, infinity-edge swimming pool. Her twenty-dollar heels felt almost inferior as she crossed the neatly-trimmed lawn to the looming, baroquely designed front door. She rang the doorbell, lacing her fingers around each other nervously. The door swung open, a frigid blast of chilled air gushing out the brightly lit foyer.

  A glamorous woman in a silky, moccasin-white kaftan stared back at Sandra, her glossy, mandarin tinted lips scowling. Sandra blinked, slightly intimidated by the woman's hollywood features – she had round, almond-shaped, berry blue eyes, a straight, pointed nose that's obviously been tinkered with, her face caked with immaculately applied make-up. The woman tucked a lock of her bleached blonde, feathered hair behind her sparkling ears, folding her arms against her chest.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, yes – I'm sorry, my name's Sandra Vaughn, I'm here to interview for the nanny position. Is this the –”

  “Tate!” The woman shrieked up the grand, double-ended staircase, leering spitefully at Sandra behind her shoulder. She shoved the door open, sashaying off into a room.

  Sandra minced through the doorway, consciously wiring her mouth shut as her wide, spellbound gaze glided over the opulence of the majestic foyer, from the the iridescent crystal chandelier hanging above her to the impressive home theater system set up in the grecian-inspired living room. She crouched, feeling the cold, smooth texture of the marbled steps with the back of her hand, her eyes falling to the mesmerizing hexagonal patterns of the lavish carpet.

  “Hope it wasn't too difficult to find us.”

  Sandra bounded from the floor, flattening the rumpled fabric of the flare laced dress that grazed her kneecaps. She looked up, gawking at the coltish man with a neat, french-fork beard, suavely dressed in a platinum gray, three-piece suit, standing just two steps above her. His thick, hard-angled brows rested above a thin, twinkling set of eyes twinged with flecks of juniper green. She peeled her eyes away from his intense gaze.

  “No, it was fine,” squeaked Sandra, hemming softly.

  Tate Donahue pored over the faltering, bell-framed silhouette of the young woman before him. His lips curled as he studied her soft, delicate features, the hairs on his arms prickling – there was something about the subtle, timid way she carried herself, as if she hadn't an inkling of how beautiful she was. His lips parted slightly, studying her heavily lidded, jade black eyes, his eyes dancing on the dainty cupid's bow of her thin, pink lips. He watched as she gathered the plait of her fishtail braid to the side of her neck, lingering on the creamy, tender beige of her flawless skin.

  Tate sliced through the tension, introducing himself, “My name is Tate Donahue, we spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes,” replied Sandra meekly.

  “Right, if you could come with me this way, I'll show you to Coraline's room.”

  Sandra followed him up the staircase quietly, rubbernecking the vibrant floral centerpieces and original pieces of priceless artwork hung up on the salt-white walls. Tate led her down the corridor, stopping at a tall, african mahogany door with typical juvenile no-entry signage, knocking three times.

  “Dad? Come in.”

  Coraline Donahue had every little girl's dream bedroom – the walls, gorgeous four-poster-bed with sherbet chiffon drapery, and furniture were all splashed with princess pink. The little girl was hunched over a toy chest brimming with action figures and varied sizes of bouncing balls, dressed in a baggy shirt with a print of a cartoon cat, her straight, mid-parted, flowing brown hair masking her face. Sandra smiled as Coraline turned towards them, revealing a set of round, mousse green eyes, below thick, naturally long lashes. She reminded Sandra of the eerily beautiful bisque doll her grandmother had given to her as a child.

  “Who's she?” Coraline pouted, furrowing her faint eyebrows.

  Sandra forced a smile onto her face, “Hi, Coraline. My name's Sandra.”

  “Coraline, I'm gonna leave Sandra here for a few minutes to get acquainted, okay?”

  “I guess. See ya, Dad.”

  Tate nodded at Sandra, gesturing towards Coraline gently before exiting the room. Sandra approached Coraline thoughtfully, stroking her chin. Coraline retrieved a grey triceratops figurine from the toy chest, walking it across the floor with her hands.

  “Hey Coraline, can I sit next to you?”

  “If you want.”

  Sandra sat down with her legs tucked underneath her, stroking the furry pink rug beneath her, “Coraline's a pretty name.”

  “I guess so,” shrugged Coraline.

  Sandra pointed at the cat on her shirt, “That's KewlCat, isn't it?”

  Coraline's eyes widened, an animated smile spreading on her face, “You know who KewlCat is?”

  Sandra grinned, “My little brother, Mattie – he loves that show. It's his favorite Sunday morning cartoon.”

  “That's cool.”

  “You've got really nice hair–”

  “I hate it,” spat Coraline, scowling, “I want it short. And I hate
my room, it's so pink.”

  Sandra took a deep breath, her brows furrowing in concentration. She untwisted her fishtail braid, culling out the hidden bright streak of alpine green. Coraline's eyes brightened, her mouth stretching into a small “o” of amazement.

  “Do you like that?”

  Coraline nodded furiously, smiling toothily, “That's a cool color! It's slimy green, like boogers!” She giggled, her eyes disappearing into her glowing cheeks.

  “You look like a lagoon blue,” winked Sandra, retrieving a box of hair dye, tossing it to Coraline.

  “I don't think Renee would like it very much,” said Coraline, her smile faltering.

  “Renee?” Sandra frowned, “Is that your stepmother?”

  “No, that's –”

  “Is that blue hair dye?”

  Sandra rose from the floor hastily as Tate appeared behind them. She assured him hurriedly, “I'm sorry, it washes off, I –”

  “Go ahead, should be fun,” said Tate, cracking a smile, “Could I talk to you outside for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Coraline waved half-heartedly at the pair of adults as they headed out her bedroom door. Sandra's heart buzzed in her ears, nibbling on her lip nervously as Tate closed the door to Coraline's room.

  “I'd like to offer you the position,” said Tate bluntly.

  “What? I'm so flattered Mr. Donahue, but it's a bit far –”

  “We'll have a driver come pick you up everyday for work.”

  “Mr. Donahue, again, sorry, I'm actually looking for more hours –”

  Tate pulled out a scrap of paper and ballpoint pen and scribbled something on it quickly, shoving it in her hands, “How's that?”

  Sandra's eyes bulged, repeatedly rereading the number clutched in her trembling hands.

  “I'd love for you to consider, I can't remember the last time I've seen my little girl smile like that.”

  “Is this a yearly –”

  “That's a day's work. What do you say, Sandra?”

  Sandra was at a loss for words. She nodded.

  Chapter Three –

  Sandra combed out a lock of Coraline's dark, syrupy brown hair with her gloved hands, applying a coat of lagoon blue dye with a bristled brush. Coraline's smile was infectious, tugging on the plastic sheet draped around her neck.

  “You're gonna look so cool, everyone's gonna be jealous – the girls and the boys,” noted Sandra, popping a seedless grape into her mouth.

  “Coraline, what're you doing to your hair?”

  Coraline's smile faded, sighing, her eyes downcast, “Sandra's helping me color my hair blue, Renee.”

  The snobbish woman who had answered the door sauntered into the living room, scrunching up her nose, her floor-length, leopard print sundress trailing behind her. She turned her icy gaze towards Sandra, fluffing her hair behind her shoulder.

  “You're still here?”

  Sandra repressed the urge to giggle, unable to take the woman seriously. She could never understand grown women who insisted on speaking with a hormonal teenage girl's vocabulary and mannerisms. She flashed the woman a facetious smile, “I'm Sandra, nice to meet you. You must be Renee.”

  “Of course. So I see Tate's hired you,” smirked Renee, floating onto the couch.

  Coraline's shoulders tensed, inching away from her, “Leave us alone, Renee. I actually like this one.”

  Sandra pursed her lips, her thoughts churning at the strange comment. She watched as Renee's glowering expression shifted instantly to one of self-pity and defeat, bottom lip quivering for effect. Sandra craned her neck to her line of sight, subtly rolling her eyes as Tate walked into the room. Sandra's eyes lingered at Tate's toned, athletic build through his perfectly tailored, cobalt blue suit, before turning back to Coraline's half-done hair.

  “Hello, ladies. Looking good, tiger,” said Tate, pinching Coraline's nose as she pulled away, snickering.

  “Thanks Dad.”

  “Morning, Mr. Donahue.”

  “Morning, Sandra, how's everything so –”

  “Tate, baby.”

  Tate turned towards the source of the whining, blinking expectantly at Renee as she leaned back against the couch, the back of her hand against her forehead. He sat down next to her, slipping his arm around her waist, “What's going on, Renee? Do you want me to call Dr. Roland –”

  “No,” blubbered Renee, bursting into tears, “It's Daddy! It's the piling medical bills – the doctors say he's getting worse, more treatments – I don't know what to do!”

  “It's alright, Renee,” whispered Tate, glancing up to nod apologetically at Sandra, “I've always got it covered, you know that – and nothing's gonna change now.”

  Sandra leaned forwards, hissing in Coraline's ears, “I think we should leave the – ow!”

  Coraline elbowed her in the ribs, the smile returning to her face, “Shh! It's getting good!”

  “– I don't know how I'd ever repay you,” continued Renee, wailing into her hands.

  “That's never been a problem, honey. I'd really like to come see your dad with –”

  “No, no,” said Renee, brushing away her tears, “Daddy doesn't want anyone to see him at a state like this.”

  “Right, Coraline,” said Sandra, taking her by the arm, “Let's go to another room and let the adults finish up here.”

  “Fine.”

  Coraline tugged on Sandra's arm, pulling her up the winding flight of stairs. She grinned impishly, pulling Sandra into the master bedroom. Sandra gasped, sweat collecting in the palm of her hands as she tried to guide Coraline out the door. The little girl wriggled free from her grasp and pounced onto the crisp, lavender sheets.

  “Coraline! We shouldn't be in here – let's go! And please be careful, I don't want you dripping on those sheets – they probably cost more than my apartment.”

  “It's okay. Dad won't mind,” said Coraline, rolling on her stomach as she switched on the television.

  Sandra gave up, tottering around the room with her hands tucked under her armpits, careful not to touch anything. She shook her head violently as Coraline urged her to join her on Tate's bed, clucking under her breath. Coraline shrugged, returning to the screen. Sandra's lips curled to a smile, approaching the framed picture of a younger Tate with an army-issued buzz cut, baby Coraline cradled in his arms.

  “Ow!” yelped Sandra, her toe striking a wooden box underneath the bed. She bent down, reaching for the object peeking out from the shadows. It was a black leather collar with a dangling silver hoop. She pawed blindly underneath the bed, opening her mouth to inquire about the dog they must have owned. Her eyes widened, gulping as she recovered a twenty-inch, double-ended dildo, quickly shoving the items back under the bed. She yelped, Coraline's face materializing above her.

  “Find something cool?”

  “What? No, just some boring old weights. Come on, lemme finish up your hair.”

  After Sandra's shift, she excused the driver, sending him home for the day, and took a detour from her usual route home. She pulled her frock coat closer to her as she roved through the dark, wary neighborhood, staring straight ahead. She slowed down, pulling out the crumpled flyer from her bag, peering up at the chipped, faded sign, “Godfrey Curtis, P.I.” She chucked the paper on the ground and headed inside.

  Chapter Four –

  “Sleep tight, Coraline.”

  Sandra bumped fists with Coraline, reaching to switch off the pink glow of her night-lamp. She retracted her arm, leaping off the bed to reach for her purse instead, “I almost forgot.”

  “What is it?”

  Sandra unwrapped the bundle of tissue paper, producing a small pair of bright, prussian blue gladiator sandals, placing them next to Coraline.

  “For me?” Coraline bolted up on her bed, her mouth stretching into a wide, gleeful grin, “They're not ballet slippers! And they're not pink!”

  “Thought you'd like them. They'll match your hair.”

  “These are awesome
,” said Coraline softly, “Thank you Sandra. I really like you. I hope you stay forever.”

  “Thanks, Coraline. I like you too. Now put them away and get to bed, okay?”

  “Okay!”

  Sandra closed the door to Coraline's room quietly, striding towards Tate's study, clenching her faux-leather hobo bag close to her. The door was wide open, and Tate was huddled over on his chair, peering at his laptop through a pair of black, wayfarer reading glasses. His suit coat was cloaked over his leather chair, and was dressed only in a mink brown vest, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. She took a deep breath, knocking on the open door.

  Tate looked up, slowly removing his frames. She looked absolutely fragile and perfect, her hair wrapped up in a milkmaid-bun, revealing her full, heart-shaped face, a bold flick outlining her smoky black eyes. She was dressed in a modest, single-toned lapis dress that fell just below her knees, adhering to the lines of her shapely hips and stomach, her fleshy arms pale and flawless under her floaty butterfly sleeves. He wet his lips, looking up at her inquisitively.

  “Can I help you with something, Sandra?”

  Sandra settled her bag on the armrest of the chair across Tate's desk. She raised her arm, gently knocking it over. Tate rose from his chair and squatted next to her as she carefully gathered the discarded items on the floor. He froze, the creases on his forehead wrinkling as he picked up a leather strap with a red silicone ball, next to a tube of lipstick and her comb. Sandra continued to carefully slip the items into her bag, feigning innocent ignorance. He raked a hand through his dark, tapered hair.