Collection: A Submission Series Story Collection

by Reiss, CD

  “She’s fine,” I said, trying to keep the command in my voice. “Pull your pants up, goddess.”

  Outside, Martha’s car pulled in, and the chime Monica and I had set for her texts went off.

  Ding-ding-dingaling.

  Out of habit, when we heard it, we dropped everything, even if it was a text saying she’d arrived.

  —I’m here—

  —We’re upstairs—

  “I’ll meet you at the studio, right?” Monica said, moment over, as I went to Gabby’s room.

  “Yes. Hang on to what we started. No cheating.”

  I found my daughter on her little toilet with her tutu radiating out from her hips and her white tights around her ankles. She held up a wad of toilet paper.

  “Wipey, Daddy.”

  Martha could do this task.

  “Oh, can I talk to her?” Monica asked.

  “Sure.” I handed the phone to the toddler and was ready to get Martha for butt-wiping duty as I heard Monica over the phone speaker.

  “You need a wipey?”

  “Daddy gun doot.” Gabby held her arm out to me and twisted her wrist as if she was screwing the toilet paper into the air.

  The back door opened and Martha came into the house, but with Monica listening, it was too late to delegate.

  My goddess was getting a few extra strokes for that.

  * * *

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  “It’s the biggest residential footprint in the United States,” Byron Crowne thundered over the afternoon gusts that whipped along the canyon. We were on top of the only crest in Bel-Air with 360 degree views. He wore a suit with deceptively rugged shoes to the raw property, where not a trace of the structure that had been on it for a hundred years was left. “And it’s on the most valuable piece of property in the state.”

  That may have been an exaggeration, but not an outlandish one. When it came to his ultra-luxury spec houses, Crowne was a salesman and a marketing genius; but he wasn’t a liar.

  “Ninety thousand square feet,” I said, looking at the view to the west. On a clear day, I’d be able to see the ocean, but not today.

  “Five pools,” he added with a shrug. Part of his charm was in stating the outlandish as if it was obvious. “Thirty-some-odd bathrooms. We’re getting permitting for a moat.”

  “A moat?”

  “Alligators not included.”

  “Are you looking for an investor or an owner?”

  Crowne came from the other richest family in Los Angeles. But where the Drazens had earned their first stake running rum during prohibition, the Crownes were in oil. Lots of oil. Byron Crowne had more than enough to build this thing.

  “Well,” he said, joining me in looking over the western horizon, “it’s an expensive project, so mitigating my own exposure is important.”

  “But.”

  He smiled with a nod of kinship. “But I see you. Family man. Settled. Maybe another kid eventually?”

  Maybe. We didn’t use birth control, but Monica was touring a lot, and even with the artificial heart beating in my chest, she didn’t want to talk about the possibility of another child who could end up fatherless the way she was.

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “You never know with the third wife.”

  Of course it was expected I’d have a third wife when I was sixty-some. She’d be Monica’s age now and I’d produce any number of children with her before I dropped dead. Except that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Have you met my first wife?”

  Crowne put up his hand in surrender, as if it wasn’t his place to question true love, but he did anyway. “You and I both come from big families, right? I have five brothers and a sister. You have… what? Seven sisters?”

  “You built this house for a family? With five pools? Come on. Houses like this are dick-extensions. Not that that’s not a selling point for the right guy.”

  “I know my customer.” He clapped me on the arm and we walked back to the cars. “My point is, we haven’t passed plan check, so we can modify. Take out the nightclub and make more of a ballroom. The open concept can have more small spaces for kids. Safety measures. That kind of thing. James Cameron’s wife has a preschool running out of a wing in her house. Just for kids in the neighborhood, so they don’t have to send theirs who-even-knows-where. Roll out of bed. Go to school. Done.”

  The drawings were laid out on the hood of his car with the corners held down by rocks. I examined them again. Extravagance aside, the house would be undeniably stunning.

  “Why don’t you live in it?” I asked, feeling the pull of the design.

  “Honestly.” He plucked a rock off a corner and flung it away. “I’m not a family guy, and I don’t need the dick extension.”

  “How much you asking? Just out of curiosity.”

  “Five hundred.”

  Crowne didn’t have to add the word million. It was assumed.

  He tossed a second rock, and the plans folded in the wind.

  “You’re joking. That would be more than any residential property in history.”

  “I play to win.” He swiped away the last two rocks and rolled up the drawings.

  “That’s what they say about you.”

  “You know what else they say?”

  “Rumors aside?” I joked—but also, there were plenty of rumors.

  “That my houses are for living. No matter how big or how much, they’re a home.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it.

  “Let me think about it,” I said.

  “Don’t take too long.” Crowne opened the door of the truck and threw in the plans. “Malcolm Donnell’s looking.”

  “The hedge fund guy?”

  “No wife, no family, so…” He shrugged and didn’t need to hold up a pinkie for me to get the implication. “I gotta go. If you want to hang around up here… get a feel for it, feel free. Just make sure the gate locks behind you on the way out.”

  “Thanks.”

  He waved and drove down the hill, past the big yellow machines, and out the clanking gate.

  The little orange flags marking the corners of the W-shaped footprint flapped upright, pointing east with urgency, as if there was an emergency over the Los Angeles basin, where I lived. Some silent threat or opportunity. An oncoming train easily mistaken for the light at the end of the tunnel. A window of opportunity closing or a silent offer that wouldn’t be made a second time.

  It would be impossible for any one family to fill a house that big, but a man might want to try.

  Chapter 2

  MONICA

  By the time Gabby cried about “dirt” on her tights and her father threw them out, I’d already lowered my knees. She passed the phone to Jonathan as he opened up a new pair.

  “Hold that thought,” he said. “We’ll pick this up later.”

  “I hope so.”

  We said good-bye and hung up. The dull ache between my legs would subside in a few minutes and come roaring back the second I saw the man who caused it.

  Jonathan was the perfect husband for me, and he was a perfect father to our daughter. I had no real complaints. But he’d been raised by wealthy parents with a staff to do the dirty work and older siblings to provide emotional support. Declan Drazen had never changed a diaper, and Eileen had never gotten up in the middle of the night to feed any one of her eight children. There were people for that. Children weren’t for unpleasantness, but for bringing to church, indoctrinating morals, presenting to society, and proving their parents were good and worthy people.

  I neither believed nor claimed Jonathan subscribed to the same view. But for the first years of Gabby’s life, his health and my career had kept us skating along without really paying attention to what we were doing or how it was getting done. He was just now waking up to what his little girl required of him, and though his love was never in question, I wondered if he resented the daily duties.

  It wasn’t one of us gett
ing up at night that bugged him. Nor were the bodily fluids or the inconvenience a problem. He was immunosuppressed, so he couldn’t take care of her when she was sick, but even if he had to, it wouldn’t be that either.

  He didn’t like giving control over to anyone, much less an adorable pipsqueak who had her own wants, needs, pleasures, and priorities—none of which she could articulate or he could intuit.

  And the first one of those was that she needed us—both of us—to be fully present whenever possible. That had been easy for the first couple of years of her life. If I went away, I’d take her with me. But now she was getting attached to school and a routine. I couldn’t get on Jonathan’s case about not wanting to be a part of every second of her life unless I was willing to make the same commitment.

  Which—when push came to shove—was on the top ten list of hard things I’d ever done. Not as hard as winning his love or watching him deteriorate before his heart transplant. But number three on the list of hard shit I’d faced was pushing through rejection and depression to become the musician I was. I’d earned every dollar, tour date, and coveted invitation. If my daughter entered a field that required sacrifice, I needed her to see me reap the rewards.

  I leaned back in my seat, watching smudges of color-drained graffiti streak past the tinted window as the traffic broke up. My father had loved me in small, powerful doses between long absences, while my mother had done the daily grunt work and didn’t seem to love me much at all. But they both did their best. Neither deserved to be unfavorably compared to the other.

  My accusations that Jonathan didn’t know how to parent were unfair.

  I didn’t know either.

  Chapter 3

  JONATHAN

  My daughter’s group was in the back of the dance studio doing who-even-knew-what while the parents were standing-room-only in a corner as every age group and skill level went through the dress rehearsal process.

  I was a patient man. I was comfortable with being uncomfortable and was rarely bored with boredom, but my fucking God, save me from the ballet mothers chattering and fathers guffawing. The only way to politely avoid their attempts to engage me in gossip was to lean on the wall, watching every single routine as if I gave a shit.

  Which I didn’t. My baby girl wasn’t rehearsing yet and my wife was MIA. Since Monica and I were now slated to stand here and watch the dress rehearsal, Martha had gone to the restaurant to help set up the unnecessary celebratory meal before the recital. Two and a half hours, during which I was going to get my dick inside Monica—so maybe I should have been more grateful for it.

  “That’ll be yours soon,” said the guy next to me, casually pointing at a girl in the seven-to-nine intermediate group who’d seemingly been cloned from his genes.

  I recognized him as an actor but couldn’t place his name. We’d spoken—or to be more accurate, we’d met. He and Monica had spoken frequently. His wife was Cara and the girl was Nicole, but my mind kept spitefully drawing a blank on his name.

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “You never know.”

  “When mine was the same age as yours,” he said, “I didn’t even know she existed. I missed out. You’re lucky.”

  I was probably the most fortunate man on earth when my wife was near, but every day that went by without her shaved away a layer of grace.

  As if summoned, a tall woman in black entered, dark hair cradling her long neck, brown eyes scanning until she found me and smiled, lighting the room on fire.

  The first time I saw her, I had been drenched in spilled gin, irritated, off-guard, and unprepared to see more than a pretty girl with her lips parted in an apology. I couldn’t see what was so clear now, and I’d almost lost her a dozen times until my eyes were opened.

  When she walked across our daughter’s dance studio, the space she occupied bent around her. Edges and angles curved in worship, and soundwaves were distant and muffled, bowing in submission as she came toward me.

  I took her by the back of the neck as soon as she was close enough to reach, pulling her into a kiss that straightened light and lifted sound until the world again obeyed the laws of physics.

  “Hey, there,” she whispered with a smile. “Did I miss her?”

  “No.” I brushed her hair clear of her neck so I’d have an excuse to touch her.

  “Good.” She turned to face the girls practicing.

  Nicole’s dad saw her. “Hey,” he said softly.

  “Hey, Brad.” They exchanged a cheek-kiss.

  Right. Brad Sinclair.

  “She’s so big.” Monica nudged him. “And so good!”

  “She’s totally into it.” Brad smiled with pride.

  Did I look like that when I talked about Gabby? I hoped so.

  Nicole’s group finished their routine and danced off the floor. A chorus of oohs erupted when the toddlers came out the other door in flapping pink tutus, each looking to our side of the room for their special person. Gabby saw her mother right away and broke the line to wave.

  I looked at my wife. Pride. Just like Brad. Then a little concern.

  “Those aren’t the right stockings,” she whispered as the piano started. “They’re too short.”

  “We had an episode.”

  “What kind of episode?”

  “I’ll spare you the details. That was the only other pair.”

  If Martha had managed the potty break, there wouldn’t have been an incident to avoid describing.

  Luckily, Monica lost interest in my explanation when the girls danced. Her eyes twinkled and her hands folded together in delight as our daughter lifted her hands over her head and turned with the group in the simplest and most charming steps. Toddler ballet was about patience, taking directions, and learning where your body ends and the world begins.

  For Gabby, it was also about high drama. She threw her head back and splayed her fingers expressively. When I scratched my cheek, the muscles under the skin were tight with a smile.

  Apparently I did have that prideful parent look.

  “She’s an actress,” Brad said.

  “Lord save us,” Monica muttered, denying the possibility while betraying a little gratification at the thought.

  I laid my hand on my wife’s lower back, leaning into her so I could catch the scent I hadn’t enjoyed for two weeks. She leaned back so when she looked at me, she could see my full face.

  “I missed you,” I said.

  “Watch your daughter.”

  We did, applauding when they bowed and bounced out in a line through the left door as the teenagers—with their serious faces and toned legs—came in through the right. They were last. The cutest were a prelude to the most competent.

  I wasn’t there for competence.

  Leaning close to her, I whispered so softly only she could hear, “Pick a number between one and eleven. We have time between rehearsal and recital for up to eleven.”

  Eyes still on the dancers, the energy of her body flowed toward me, and the smile she suppressed was mine alone. “Eleven what?”

  She was picking either strokes or orgasms, and I never told her until she was ready for either. When I offered ten, she’d gotten in the habit of splitting the difference by choosing five, so I went to an odd number.

  “Choose wisely,” I said.

  She tapped her chin, making the charm at the end of one of her bracelets swing. She’d need those to cover her bruises. “Six.”

  She went high, expecting orgasms.

  I enjoyed her optimism.

  She was getting six of both.

  Chapter 4

  MONICA

  After the dress rehearsal, Jonathan sent Lil home and drove us to the restaurant where Martha waited with a handful of other nannies. We’d rented a room in back for all the girls and parents to kill the three hours until the dancers had to be at the theater in Barnsdall Art Park.

  Gabby was in the back seat, pressing her finger against the window to count red cars. She counted everything up to thirty, skipping si
xteen regularly and a few others randomly.

  Jonathan’s right hand gripped my knee and pulled it toward him, spreading my legs apart as he drove on Sunset. My body woke up again, shooting signals along my spine.

  “Fiteen, sevteen, Mommy!”

  “Yes?”

  “That one’s red.”

  I followed her attention to a car that could have been red or brown, depending on how deep your attention ran at the moment. Mine ran as deep as a summer puddle.

  “Yes,” I said, wishing Jonathan’s hand could go higher and knowing my wish was a pipedream with our daughter in the car. I’d chosen six, but he’d offered eleven. That many orgasms would take time, even for him. If his destination was out of the neighborhood—like our house—we’d spend an hour in the car. That meant he had something more easily delivered in mind. Like a paddle or a cane. “Where are we going after we drop her?”

  He glanced at me with a smirk and put his eyes back on the road so he could make a turn. “Trying to figure out the time?”

  “Maybe.” I texted Martha to let her know we’d arrived.

  “So impatient.” He pulled behind the restaurant where a valet in a red jacket approached his side. “Just dropping my daughter.” Jonathan snapped open his seat belt and went around to open Gabby’s door.

  “Mommy coming?” she asked.

  I twisted in my seat to answer. Her eyes were big and soft, with a knot of worry between them.

  Mommy went away too much.

  Mommy knew that.

  “In a bit,” I said. “You have fun with your friends, okay?”

  The door opened and Jonathan unsnapped her straps.

  “I’m home now,” I said, putting my hand on her little knee, hoping it would untangle her worry that she’d look away for a minute and I’d be gone.

  “Pokey missed you,” she said, projecting her emotions onto her stuffed pig. “Where’s Pokey? I brought him.”