by Lena Little
Daddy Next Door
Yes, Daddy: Book 1
Lena Little
© 2020 by Lena Little
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview
I’m on the run from danger, so why is it that Mr. Dangerous Next Door has me feeling like I should run into his arms for safety?
I’m so leery of why, or what’s attached to that. I’ve almost given up thinking men are genuine, although I do manage to keep a positive outlook on life.
Rule he says. Rules make things work better.
Something about that makes me uneasy, yet comforts me at the same time.
My life has always been in chaos and it never got me anywhere. I could actually use a little structure, some firm guidelines to help me dig myself out of the hole I currently find myself in.
And the man next door just might be the one to help me.
Mailing List
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1
Daniel
She. Is. Mine.
The new tenant in the unit next to mine.
And because we live in the two units occupying an interior corner of the building I have a front row seat right into her unit, her life.
Who needs Netflix when I know her schedule…know to have the popcorn ready and to sit back far enough from the blinds that she can’t see me.
Watching her. Every. Move.
Little did I know that every move I’d made in my own life had prepared me for this encounter with her.
Protector. Provider. Older man who suddenly realized what had been missing his entire life…
A younger woman to take care of, make her mine in all ways.
It’s what she needs whether she knows it or not.
Even though I haven’t heard her voice yet, and I don’t know her name, I know she’s got a helluva fight in her.
Give up the fight, baby girl. Let Daddy wash all those worries away.
Hell, she doesn’t look a day over twenty and she’s living in one of the poorest areas in the city, where we’re packed in like sardines.
I have stacks of cash, but I live here too, temporarily at least, for reasons of my own.
I know how to survive, and I can take away the flight or flight she must experience every single night walking home from her shift at the diner in the dark.
It makes my blood boil just thinking she works her fingers to the bone only to have a beyond sketchy walk awaiting her after she finishes her twelve to sixteen hour shifts at a diner frequented by guys whose conversations revolve more around illicit activities than Disney movies.
And Disney movies are her thing. I know. I see the shirts she wears each and every day, each day a colorful one with a different Disney character, although likely purchased at the bootleg shop in our neighborhood.
No way she can afford the real thing. Heck, I can’t even spot a single piece of furniture in her apartment.
Does she sleep on the floor? The same floor that not ten feet over in my own apartment I found two cockroaches last week?
She belongs here, with me, in my arms and in my bed, and not just for sexual reasons either.
I need her close, to keep her safe and fulfill this new, paternal need, that has made itself known since her arrival exactly one week ago today.
My eyes narrow as I keep my distance, staying back in the shadows as we navigate an unnamed alley, winding our way to our apartments.
I feel like we’re together already, although she has no idea I’m trailing her tonight, just like every night…here in case she needs me.
A couple of men stumble out of a bar and bump into me.
“Watch where you’re going, idiot!” they yell at me. I’d deal with them, but I’ve got more important things on my mind right now. The most important thing. Her.
“That’s right. You don’t want nonna this,” one slurs, his drunken voice echoing into the night.
Her footsteps pitter patter faster as she picks up speed, obviously hearing the men but like someone who’s familiar with this kind of lifestyle she wisely doesn’t look back over her shoulder, just keeping her head and eyes forward and minding her own business…just as I’ve been doing for six months, since I moved into this part of the city that’s long been forgotten about.
She’s got street smarts. I like that, but I hate that she’s lived a life that’s required her to build up this kind of knowledge, this kind of tough outer shell, even though I’m glad she finds a way to smile and be happy, to look at the bright side each and every day in that diner where she works.
I know because I’ve suddenly developed an addiction to having steak and eggs with a coffee black, three meals a day, knowing it will give me the opportunity to see my angel each day.
And that’s what she is, an angel. My angel. And I’m going to help her spread her wings and fly to heights she might not even know she was capable of soaring to.
I swear it’s like divine intervention, or some other nonsense Hallmark puts on cards and inspirational posters. All of it’s garbage, or at least it was until I finally understood what it all meant, and she is the key that unlocked those feelings within me for the first time in my thirty-seven years.
My age, three followed by seven, again…divine intervention. Three and seven are the most frequently chosen numbers as lucky numbers, and it can’t be a coincidence that this happened to me, that she happened to me, at this particular age.
God, I can’t believe I even make connections between things like that in my brain, but everything’s just so much clearer now except for the most important thing possible.
How to tell her she belongs to me without scaring her off, without leading her to call the cops the moment she looks into my eyes and sees the possessiveness behind them.
She stops and I freeze in place, widening my stance wondering why she’s suddenly not moving forward. Her pace is always brisk, but not now. There’s no reason for her to be acting this way.
My nostrils flare and I subconsciously take in more oxygen, my body ready to fight to the death for her if someone, anyone, is in her way. My stance widens and my eyes scan the area, until they finally lock onto the problem.
“The purse, bitch. Hand it over and nobody gets hurt.”
The voice is attached to a douchebag coming out of an adjoining alley, the light from the moon reflecting off the blade he’s holding in his hand. It’s not even a proper knife, more like a homemade shank, letting me know this guy is desperate and won’t stop at anything to get his hands on her purse…and maybe more.
I snarl, my knuckles cracking as I squeeze my hands into fists so hard they’re solid as concrete.
Rage shoots through me, every muscle in my body firing as I calculate the distance knowing I can get to her before he does, if I take off immediately.
No way in hell it’s even a decision.
I d
art in his direction, throwing my body at him like a caged animal, tackling him so hard I hear the knife blade bounce off the cold alleyway beneath us.
“Get off, —“
But before another word leaves his mouth, I’m filling it with my fists. Over and over and over again, for even thinking he could touch what’s mine. He’ll live to regret this day, if I decide to allow him to live at all.
Out of nowhere I feel my spine crack, my body buckling forward as I see a two by four hit the floor.
“Run, Darryl!” the man yells the moment my neck turns back and the narrowed slits of my now bloodthirsty eyes lock on his.
I turn, looking at this Darryl clown, realizing he’s more than down for the count.
I stand, gingerly, straighten my back and before the other prick knows what’s going on I summon all my strength and take off after him, grabbing him by the back of the collar after the shortest chase in human history.
I horse-collar tackle him to the ground, his knees buckling as his body folds in half due to the angle of the takedown.
The sound of bones snapping is quickly replaced with the sound of sires, and to my surprise I know the cops will be here soon.
But everyone knows what happens when the cops come into neighborhoods like this one. Shoot first, ask questions later, and I’m not going to get caught in the crossfires, let alone allow my woman to feel or witness any harm.
I look back to where she was standing, knowing I can’t go to jail anyway, because that would mean I’m not out here in society, able to protect her. Not to mention my past wouldn’t bode well for me in the court of public appeals. I’d be jailed for life as soon as my rap sheet hit the district attorney’s desk, let alone the local news on the Internet.
I blink three times, wondering if that blow to my back is affecting my vision.
She’s gone.
I turn my attention back to the two would-be robbers lying in a pile of their own broken bones, clearly not going anywhere anytime soon.
“If either of you even think of so much as looking at her, or any woman, let alone trying to rob them, I swear I will track you down and break the rest of your bones…one by one. And I won’t do it quickly.”
But quickly is exactly how I get to my feet, taking off in a dead sprint toward our apartments, needing to make sure she made it home safe.
She’s my responsibility, my angel, my princess, my everything…whether she knows it or not.
2
Diana
I slam the deadbolt shut and fumble for the knife underneath my DVD of Beauty and the Beast that sits on the small end table just next to my door.
Taking three steps back from the door I wait, trying to get my breathing to slow as my heart continues to slam against my ribcage.
My training says I need to leave space in case the door comes flying open. Last thing any would-be victim wants is their attacker knocking them unconscious before the victim even has a chance to fight off a perpetrator.
The thoughts in my head, my choice of words, make it sound like I’ve been reading law or self-defense books every waking minute I’m not at work.
And that’s pretty much true these days, although work occupies nearly all the hours in the day I’m able to keep my eyes open, not that I’m complaining one bit. It’s better than the alternative, better than what I used to know, how my life used to be.
The new normal is tough, but it’s worlds easier than the past.
A slight noise shoots through the air in the hallway outside my door, and I give the handle of my knife a death grip, but seconds later I hear the door next to mine quietly fall into its door jam, accompanied by the sound of a lock snapping into place and everything goes still.
I knew it! It was him.
Him being the man from next door.
The very tall, very attractive man with the complete lack of expression on his face at all times. The same man who’s been coming into my diner each and every day, three times a day, and ordering the same thing.
And always sitting in the section that’s not mine, yet seemingly always focused on my section.
I feel like I’ve stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. I was starting to think he was watching me and it was time to high tail it outta town again, ready to give my notice in the morning. A situation which was only expedited by what happened in the alley tonight…before he came to my rescue.
If this man was dangerous, or here for some nefarious reason, why would he have risked his own life to be my protector?
It makes no sense.
In a moment’s notice he’s gone from being the stalker next door to the savior in unit 3B.
The man with the kind of muscles that could easily snatch me up off the street, throw me over his shoulder and carry me back to his place to cut me up in pieces and stick me in the fridge.
But no. He used those same muscles, those same thick shoulders and upper body that taper into a V-shape to a very toned and powerful trunk, to throw punches at the men who were about to attack me. Men who had weapons my hero didn’t.
Why would he risk his life for a girl he’s never spoken to, let alone made eye contact with, in a neighborhood where it’s clear that you keep your head down and mind your own business, before you get ‘the business’ yourself?
There are men in life who are gentlemen, who hold the door open for you and tell you you look nice, leave thoughtful tips at the diner…things like that.
Then there are men who are gentlemen in a different way. Men who certainly aren’t the definition of a gentleman by the way they dress, the way they look or the roughness of their calloused hands, but are gentleman in a way that the other type couldn’t even hope to be.
The latter of the two being real men. Throwbacks to a different time, and maybe that’s what it is right there. He’s older, more mature, and never seems to care about impressing anyone.
His tips are the standard twenty percent, not more and not less. His clothes are clean, fit well, and well cared for. They don’t scream money nor are they plastered with brand names or logos.
Everything about him is indistinguishable from another man, except for his size and the actions he displayed not ten minutes ago.
When my personal safety took a turn for the worst, and I started devouring all the literature I could about protecting myself, I recall a deep dive into safe houses, as they’re called, and how many safe houses were located in Tangier, Morocco back in the day.
Tangier, a city just across the Straight of Gibraltar from Spain, is reachable in under an hour by commercial ferry.
My mind, likely grasping for straws as it’s still filled with dopamine from my flight or fight response, is wondering how the man from the ‘safe house’ next to mine, got to me in such a short time as well.
Is there more to him than meets the eye? Is he…working for someone?
Nothing in this seedy neighborhood would surprise me except for an actual good guy coming to my defenses.
Well, make that two things.
The fact that this good guy, who looks a whole lot more like a bad man, has caused the flames inside me that I thought were extinguished to spark into a near immediate inferno.
I’m on the run from danger, so why is it that Mr. Dangerous Next Door has me feeling like I should run into his arms for safety?
Like he’s the one who was put on this earth to protect me, guide me in this cruel world, and keep me safe?
And if that feeling isn’t the safest one for someone like me to have.
Or is it?
3
Daniel
I sink into the couch I found on Craigslist and bought with a burner phone and a fake name.
My chest feels like there’s a piston inside it firing at full throttle, and it’s not from the fight. It’s from her.
Fighting is second nature to me, protection and survival at the root of everything I do.
But as an orphan it was always my own protection and survival, not anyone else’s.
I lift myself from the couch and move into the spare bedroom I’ve been working on since she arrived. It sat empty this whole half a year, but this week something inside me told me I needed it fixed up so someone could play here.
Thoughts of mating with her, making a life of our own were on my mind, but I know this neighborhood isn’t the right place to do that. So why the interest in addressing the room in such a way?
As they say on the street or in the steel cage fighting matches, ‘game recognizes game.’
And as someone who never had a childhood I recognized the same in her. I want to shoot my fist into the sky, grab the childhood she never had, and bring it back down to earth for her. To hand deliver it on a silver platter, or in her case a Disney themed placemat.
If someone walked into my place right now they’d think I was crazy, but I don’t care, and nobody visits me anyway. Not ever, and it’s by my own choosing.
But that’s going to change soon. It’s time for a visitor all right, but the smartest way to go about that is for me to be her visitor, and not the other way around.
Meet her in a place she feels safe. She’s probably terrified at the moment and if I knocked on her door and offered her a place to spend the night so she’s not alone, it would only make things worse.
That can’t happen, but what will happen is tomorrow I’ll introduce myself like I should have when I first laid eyes on her, despite the risk to everything I’ve been doing the last six months.