The trio’s smiling faces could be seen on many fronts and arenas in the media, but they always made sure that they would have at least one night a week to share dinner, each other’s company…and a closeness that most families will never experience.
Bonus Book 3: Daddy Alpha
I'll be honest: I'm not the world's wildest partier. I mean, I'm human: I like to have fun, but I'm not going to be the girl dancing topless on the pool table, or the one taking every single boy at the all-school picnic behind the bushes, one at a time. (My best friend Maddie actually did that once, haha—the pool table thing, I mean.) My idea of a perfect spring break would include walks on the beach, some boogie boarding, a pina colada by the pool, and maybe just a little bit of dancing if conditions were right. Not too much to ask, is it?
But instead, my mother had to trip on her platform heels while carrying an armload of shopping bags in the mall parking lot and break both of her ankles. There wasn't even a pothole or anything, nothing she could sue the mall for. She tripped over her own feet. She ended up with casts on both ankles and confined to bed for weeks. There went my spring break, right down the drain.
My Mom's great—don't get me wrong. We had a good time together watching the soaps and bingeing on Netflix. But fetching granola bars and her reading glasses and tumblers of white wine, not to mention doing all the laundry and cleaning the cat box, was not how I expected to spend the first spring break of my college career. Let's just say it got old. My only consolation was that Maddie stayed home, too. Her dad's a tyrant and made her work in the family bakery that week. After work she'd come over to my house, where we'd mope around the kitchen, eating Oreos and complaining about the terrible unfairness of our lives. At least until my mother called me again, and then I'd put on a cheerful face and pour her another glass of wine.
So you can imagine the howls of protest I produced when my step-father, Harris, told us he'd been invited to a long weekend in Miami on business. It was several weeks later--Memorial Day weekend—and my Mom was finally back on her feet.
"No fair!" I cried. "I want to go to Miami."
"Well, Mills," said Harris. "Get a job, work hard for fifteen years, curry favor, make connections, and impress your boss. Then he—or she—will start thinking you just might make a darn good Vice President of Financial Planning and invite you to company headquarters. See? Easy-peasy." He was standing at the open fridge, popping grapes into his mouth one by one.
"Why don't you bring her, Harris? She deserves a reward for taking such good care of me," said my mother.
My mom, I should mention, is hot. People often mistake her for someone in her twenties, and she has that California-girl, wavy blonde hair. It's no surprise she snagged a looker like Harris, who resembles the actor Jon Hamm. They had been married for five years and still acted like newlyweds, which was sweet, but also kind of weird.
"Yeah, I do deserve it," I huffed.
"Won't you be bored?" he asked. "I'm going to be at meetings all day. What'll do you with yourself?"
Just then I had such a brilliant idea that I could swear a lightbulb went off over my head. "Let's bring Maddie!" I said. "She missed spring break, too!"
"Hmmm," he said. "Do I want to travel to Florida all by my lonesome? Or do I want to bring two sassy but beautiful young women for company? Such a dilemma!" Harris winked at me.
I ran over to him and hugged him so tight he dropped his grapes. He smelled like his cologne, which was light and musky with just a bit of zing.
"Oh my God, I need a new swimsuit!" I said, panicking. "I need a hat! And my sandals from last summer are totally trashed..."
"We have until the day after tomorrow," said Harris, picking grapes up off the floor and rinsing them under the tap. "What would you say to an after-work shopping trip to Macy's? Bring your friend. My treat."
I hooted with pleasure and hugged Harris again, who again dropped his grapes. My mother just shook her head, smiling.
* * *
Maddie and I were in the dressing room at Macy's with about ten swimsuits each. We took turns trying them on and rating each other.
"No, Mills, no," said Mads, shaking her head. She had her long black hair in braids, and she'd recently cut her own bangs. Word to the wise: never cut your own bangs. "I'd give that a 3.2."
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, turning myself around and trying to see my booty in the mirror. "I like it." It was a neon pink bikini, and people always said pink was a good color on me."
"It's practically a thong," she said with distaste. "Look, I'm here to protect you from yourself. No thongs! Leave a little bit to the imagination."
"Oh, all right," I sighed, sadly unhooking the top. I usually listen to Mads when it comes to matters of fashion or guys. Growing up, she had three older sisters to show her the ropes, while I'm an only child.
"How about mine?" she asked, twirling around in a black one-piece dotted with cherries, complete with a little skirt.
"Geez, Mads," I said. "Can you possibly cover up more skin? You look like a Mennonite. I give it a 5, but only because the cherries are cute."
"Yeah, but it's kind of my style." True—it had a retro vibe, which is what Maddie was rocking lately. "Kind of Manic Pixie Dream Girl, don't you think?" She twirled again.
"Well," I said. "I could definitely see Zooey Deschanel in it if that's what you're going for."
"Of course, I am," she laughed. It was a joke between us that she was totally in love with Zooey Deschanel. Thus the home-made bangs. "So..." she said, in a slightly lower voice. "Do you think Alpha Daddy will like it?"
"What?" I yelped. "Harris? What are you talking about? He's, like, practically my dad."
"Step-dad is not a dad," said Maddie. "on, you have to admit he's pretty flipping hot."
"He's handsome, sure," I said. "But he's like forty-three..."
"So? Hot is hot. And, I bet that guy could make a girl do things…” Maddie’s eyes glazed over temporarily. She shook her head to clear her mind of the lewd fantasy she’d just experienced. “ Have you ever seen his ass?"
I gulped. "You mean, outside of pants? No." (This was a lie. I once walked into their bedroom while Harris was taking a nap, and there he was in all his glory, sprawled out on his belly, buck naked. I got a good look at his ass, let me tell you before I backed out of there as quickly as possible.)
"He may be part dad," said Maddie. "But he doesn't wear dad jeans. Have you noticed the way he packs those Levis? Sweet Baby Jesus." Maddie could be awfully profane for a former Catholic school girl. We'd both gone to Our Lady of the Assumption together since fourth grade, so you'd think the nuns' teachings would have sunk in by our final year. But no.
I decided to play along with the joke. "Not only have I seen his jeans," I said teasingly, "but I have washed and folded his underpants!"
Maddie's eyes practically fell out of her head. Imagine that: my BFF had a crush on my step-dad! "Okay," she said, "let me guess what he wears, briefs or boxers... oh, he's totally the boxers type."
"Nope," I said, laughing. "Boxer briefs!"
"Oh, no fair!" said Mads, but she had a dreamy look on her face.
* * *
I had kind of hoped we'd road trip down to Miami—for me; the traveling was half the fun: stopping in a new motel every night, buying Red Vines at rest stops, watching the landscape change. But Harris had a limited time frame plus scads of air miles—he was a NorthAmerican Airlines Titanium Level Super Flyer—so it would be a day of standing in lines. Add to that, the fact that we'd be getting more or less molested at the TSA checkpoint (no, I do not have a bomb in my bra, thank you very much). And being squashed into what Mads liked to call a "fart-tube" with dozens of other sweaty passengers for how many hours? Ugh, I hated to think about it.
To our delight, however, we discovered at check-in that Harris's boss had somehow upgraded our tickets to first class. The three of us high-fived and Maddie and I couldn't resist a brief, celebratory twerking. Harris laughed at our poor rh
ythm, but I also noticed he had quite a lusty look on his face. I shook my ass vigorously to keep his interest. Harris had also had us tagged to skip the TSA line, and then Harris's Titanium Status (I told him it sounded like he'd been awarded an artificial knee) allowed us to board the plane in the first batch of passengers. I enjoyed the unique pleasure of sitting in a huge, comfy seat while all the other travelers straggled on into the indignity of Coach Class. After a beautifully smooth take-off, I said to my traveling companions: "I do believe this trip is magically charmed."
"Magical, indeed," said Harris, sipping from a glass of single-malt Scotch. He closed his eyes in sheer bliss.
Maddie and I were given free headphones to listen to the movie—some dumb romantic comedy—and gift sacks that contained stretchy slipper socks, a Swiss chocolate bar, a bottle of hand cream for "extremely dry skin," and, strangely, a small LED flashlight. We flashed it in each other's eyes.
We giggled and chatted, napped very briefly, and before we knew it, we were landing at Miami International.
* * *
Miami, Florida: how can I describe it? The first thing I thought, once we stepped out of the basically non-descript airport, was that I had the wrong skin. For one thing, Miami was extremely hot. Just, crazy hot for May. Secondly, it was super humid. My pale, white New Jersey skin simply didn't know what to do. First it turned bright red in the heat, then it went pale and clammy, and then it just settled on sweaty. By the time we got to the hotel—the Miami Plaza Islandia—my poor epidermis had no idea what was going on.
However, once we stepped into the cool, air-conditioned glory that was the lobby of the Plaza Islandia, I began to feel like myself again. Did the people who invented air-conditioning ever win the Nobel Prize? I hope so because that would be one helluva well-earned prize.
The Plaza Islandia had a kind of Art Deco theme: a lot of pink and pale green, rounded corners, and neon tube lights. It made me feel as if I was in a container of ice cream—and there are much worse places to be. But the hotel was also incredibly swank. Most of the surfaces shone brightly of polished marble. There was a natural, gushing waterfall next to the elevator bank. At the desk they asked our robe sizes and if we'd like a fishbowl in our room.
"Sure," said Harris, and then: "Wait. Room? I reserved two rooms."
Some frantic clicking and typing by the receptionist. "Hm, I think there was only one room available at the time you made your reservation, Mr. Cody. We may have waitlisted you for an additional room, but there still isn't one available."
"Oh, crap," said Harris. "Now what?"
"Mr. Cody," said Maddie. "It's okay; I'll sleep on the floor. It doesn't matter. I'm cool with it!"
"Well, you won't have to sleep on the floor," said the receptionist. "Mr. Cody's room has two King-sized beds. It's just, you know, privacy..."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Maddie.
I grabbed Mads's arm and pulled her aside. "You know he snores, don't you? We won't catch a wink of sleep! I need a separate room."
Harris was scrolling through his phone to find nearby motels or hotels that might have two rooms available for three nights. He found one.
"Hey, girls, how about this? It's only about three miles away. 'Yuri's Fine Motor Lodge. Good Value. Recently painted. Reserve by night or by hour...'"
"Noooo, no, no," I said. "This place right here is just fine. It's great, in fact. Who cares if we have to share a room? Did they say we get a fishbowl? All right! When's the continental breakfast?"
* * *
Staying at the Plaza Islandia was certainly the right decision. The room we were staying in was actually more than a room: it was a suite. There was a room with two large king beds attached to a small sitting room and a luxurious bathroom with three custom-sized bathrobes. Also, there was a balcony. "Sweet Baby Jesus," I thought as I stood on it, channeling Mads. You could see all of Miami here: broad, dazzling streets, orange clay rooftops, the curve of beach, and the green-blue ocean. A band of brilliant, almost iridescent green water lapped against the pale beach-sand, but further out the water became a deeper and darker blue; almost navy. I had spent a lot of time at the Jersey Shore, which I loved with all my heart, but this? This was a whole other world.
Harris had to make some business calls, so Mads and I threw on our swimsuits, grabbed the extra-fluffy bath towels, and practically ran down to the pool.
It was a weekday, which probably explained why the pool area was almost deserted. One middle-aged woman was looking at her phone and an elderly man the color of a cigar who was soaking up rays. Mads and I snagged two big chaise longue’s by the shallow end and spread out our towels, eager to get started on our sorely-needed tans.
"Oh, crap," I said suddenly. "We forgot sunscreen! And sunglasses! Geez!"
"No we di-int!" said Maddie cheerfully. From her big, candy-striped Kate Spade beach bag, she pulled a tube of my favorite coconut-scented sunscreen and a pair of oversized sunglasses. She tossed them to me.
"You are some kind of genius," I said, marveling. It was true: Maddie acted like a fancy-free, impetuous kind of girl, but she was fantastic at thinking ahead. She was Always Prepared, like a freaking Boy Scout. "What, do you have a compass and a fire-starting kit in there as well?"
She chuckled. "Practically. I have a Swiss Army knife, a bottle opener, a sexy romance novel, two juice boxes, and...." She reached into the depths of her bag and pulled out a long strip of foil-wrapped condoms, which she allowed to unfold like Jacob's ladder.
"That's all?" I joked. "Are you sure that's going to be enough?"
With a smile, she reached in again and pulled out two boxes of the same. "Ribbed for her pleasure, of course."
"I like the way you think, Mads," I said. "Now, how about helping me with this sunscreen?"
Maddie came over to my chaise and sat behind me. "Hold your hair up," she said. "Man, I'm so jelly of your locks. It's so blonde."
"Thanks to my good friend, peroxide," I said. Maddie's fingers touched my back and carefully spread the creamy, cooling lotion around. It felt good, and I couldn't help but moan a little. Her fingers slipped beneath the straps of my bikini top and dipped down toward my ass.
"I don't think my ass-crack is in danger of sunburn," I joked.
"You never know what your ass is going to get up to on this trip," Maddie laughed.
Truer words were never spoken.
* * *
After almost an hour of roasting ourselves in the sun, I told Mads that I was going in for a swim. "I'll pass, for now," she said sleepily.
I sat on the edge of the pool and dipped my toe in, shivering in delight at the chilly water, then slipped into the water all at once. Ah, it felt amazing! I'm a fish, basically. I learned to swim when I was four years old and pretty much never stopped. I just love the feel of cold water sliding over every inch of my body, and whenever I have the opportunity to skinny dip, I take it. So, when the middle-aged woman packed up her stuff and went inside, and the only person left was the elderly sun bather, I decided to take off my bikini. The old man hadn't so much as opened his eyes since we'd been there, so I figured he probably wouldn't notice. I unhooked my top and wiggled out of the bottom, then swam to the side of the pool and plopped them onto the tile edge. Maddie was watching me, her mouth open in shock.
What was the big deal?! The old man was still asleep or possibly dead, so Maddie was the only one who could witness my little strip show—and she'd seen me naked plenty of times before. I decided to put on a performance for her: a backstroke routine with my tits in the air, followed by a move I invented with my legs scissoring the air, pussy on full view.
When I rose for air, I saw that Mads was almost panicking: she pointed frantically up toward the hotel. Oops. Oops oops oops.
Glancing upward, treading water, I saw that the pool area was extremely visible to every single room that faced toward the back of the hotel—so, about fifty rooms. Many of them had balconies, and about a dozen of these balconies had people on them. These people
were laughing, holding up their phones, and—now—waving at me.
I swam as fast as possible toward Maddie, yelling, "Get me a towel!"
She leaped off her chaise and whipped a bath towel towards me. Climbing out of the pool, I wrapped it around myself. A round of applause drifted down from the balconies.
"What were you thinking?" whispered Maddie.
"Thinking?" I gasped. "I wasn't!"
What's more, Harris was one of those people—but he didn't applaud. Our room didn't look out over the pool, but Harris had been walking down the hall to the snack machine when he heard gales of laughter coming from one of the opposite side rooms. A young man stumbled into the hall, chuckling, and said to Harris, "Dude, you're missing the show."
"Show?" asked Harris, suspiciously.
It was like he already knew.
When I sheepishly returned to the room to dress for dinner, Harris was waiting there with a severe expression on his face.
"Millicent. What would your mother think?"
"Well," I said, embarrassed, "I'm sure she skinny-dipped plenty in her time."
"In front of an entire hotel full of guests? I can't even guess what you were thinking."
I decided to keep my mouth shut and look regretful.
"I should spank you," said Harris, picking up a copy of the Miami Herald and rolling it into a tube.
"Spank me?" I gulped.
"That's right. Come here."
I was still dressed in nothing but a towel, holding my dripping bikini. "Harris. You don't need to--"
"Come. Here." He seemed genuinely angry.
"Harris..." I whined.
"Drop your towel," he commanded.
Pouting, I did what he said. I dropped everything onto the floor and stood there in my birthday suit.
"Now," said Harris. "Lie across my lap. Right now."
I shuffled embarrassedly across the room to the big leather armchair where Harris was sitting. Awkwardly, I arranged myself across my step-father's lap, hands gripping his pants leg, ass in the air. I heard the wind whistle as the Miami Herald cut through the air, heading for my poor, vulnerable butt. I squeezed my eyes shut and grit my teeth. The newspaper landed with a smack. It stung!
She Bites (A Paranormal Dark Erotica Series Book 1) Page 14