Daddy's Destiny

by Lena Little

  Daddy’s Destiny

  Yes, Daddy: Book 10

  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

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Also by Lena Little

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  She’s a once in a lifetime. And no one like her has ever walked into my shop in the twenty years I’ve been in business, which is probably longer than she’s been alive.

  I’ve yet to see this girl in the flesh, to lean in and smell her hair, to run my calloused digits across her smooth skin. Nothing. But I already know she’s everything.

  Girls like her don’t walk in and try to buy handguns, especially with a fake ID, unless they’re in trouble.

  And something has come over me, that tells me I have to protect this little one.

  Protect her. Keep her safe. Be her…Daddy.

  That word, this feeling that I’ve never felt before, has a grip over me so hard I don’t even understand it. It’s like something that’s been buried inside me for a lifetime has finally woken up, been called from a lifetime of hibernation.

  For the first time in my life, I know my purpose, and I know exactly who that purpose revolves around. My Destiny. My Little girl.

  She came into my world, flipped it completely upside down, and I’ll never be the same without her as mine.

  I am her destiny and she is mine.

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  1

  Dylan

  “You there, Dylan?”

  My cell phone slides from my hand, making a thud as it hits the desk and then a cracking sound as it falls further to the floor. I don’t look down and I don’t care if I have to buy a new one or if I’ve gone silent on a call with my largest supplier. That stuff can all be replaced.

  A girl like her can’t. She’s a once in a lifetime. And no one like her has ever walked into my shop in the twenty years I’ve been in business, which is probably longer than she’s been alive.

  Leaning forward in my oversized leather seat in the back room I stare into the CCTV feed, my palms gripping the sides of my thick oak desk, the sound of the wood cracking from the death grip I’m applying.

  The toes on my right foot bounce uncontrollably as I watch this angel talk to the clerk in the showroom, jealous that he’s the one helping her and not me. I want to get up. I want to rush out there and see what she needs and give her all of that and more, but I can’t move.

  One, because I’m transfixed by her angelic features, her youthful exuberance, and a kind of fresh-faced innocence that you don’t see in my line of work.

  Two, my pants are so tented I couldn’t stand up if I tried.

  I scrape my palm against the stubble on my chin, my forearm twitching.

  This never happens to me.

  My heart hammers in my chest to the point I can feel my pulse in the side of my throat. My body is tingling all over and all I can think about are all the ways I want to spoil this princess, make her mine always, and in all ways.

  She pulls out an ID and what appears to be a permit, and I grab my desk drawer, yanking it open, sending the contents flying everywhere. I frantically stab my hand at the floor for the joystick to the camera controls, placing it on my desk and zooming in on her driver’s license.

  Out of state, and clearly a fake, just like the permit which is on the counter next to it, quickly being inspected by my employee. But what isn’t fake is the way I’m feeling right now. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before. I quit dating years ago as there was just never a spark, never something between me and a woman that made me feel complete. Something was always missing.

  I’ve yet to see this girl in the flesh, to lean in and smell her hair, to run my calloused digits across her smooth skin. Nothing. But I already know she’s everything.

  And just like that she’s gone, being dismissed by my employee at the drop of a hat.

  My hand squeezes into a fist, destroying the joystick, the sound of the plastic braking snapping me back into reality.

  I jump up out of my chair, hitting the throbbing need I have for her squarely against the underside of the desk. The pain is intense, but the thought of losing her forever is more painful, more intense than any kind of physical torture I could ever imagine.

  “Where is she?” I snarl, busing out of the backroom in a fit.

  “She was trying to buy a Glock with a fake ID and permit.”

  “I know,” I growl. “I didn’t ask that. I asked where she went. Tell me. Now.”

  “Out the front door boss, where everyone who comes in goes out.”

  I’m losing it, and fast.

  I dart to the front of the store, slamming my hand into the horizontal bar that pushes the door open. My eyes scan both directions and I catch a single car pulling away from the parking lot.

  Quicker than lightning I’m back in my office, grabbing my motorcycle helmet and back out the door, throwing my leg over my matte black Ducati, and hitting the ignition button. No time for the white Lambo I own parked next to it. I need to avoid being spotted, and I need to be nimble, which isn’t easy at six foot five and nearly two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle.

  I take off like a rocket shot out of a cannon, on the highway in seconds, and spot her car immediately. I’m on her like a heat-seeking missile before realizing my mistake, dropping back in traffic a bit, and letting her lead me to wherever she’s going.

  All I know is girls like her don’t walk in and try to buy handguns, especially with a fake ID, unless they’re in trouble.

  And something has come over, something…paternal, that tells me I have to protect this little one. She can’t be much over five feet tall, if at all, and the thought of a man, or anyone for that matter, making her feel unsafe or threatening her has me filled with rage.

  I grit my teeth at the thought alone and visions of strangling whoever it is who’s put her in this mental state, fill my head.

  A few minutes later we’re crossing the state line, showing me she’s not only beautiful but she’s smart…despite her error in judgment.

  In her state, you have to be twenty-one to buy a handgun, while in mine you only need to be eighteen, which tells me she’s likely not even old enough to buy a beer, yet she wants to buy a form of self-protection that could end someone’s life.

  Well I know one thing for certain, I’m going to end the life of whoever pushed her to her limit, the prick who made her feel so unsafe she came up with this plan. This isn’t a spur of the moment thing, this is premeditated. The thought of her actually carrying this out and going to jail as a consequence has my bike swerving as I nearly puke in my helmet.

  A girl like that in prison wouldn’t last long.

  Protect her. Keep her safe. Be her…Daddy.

  A feeling of weightlessness hits me so hard I nearly dump the bike right on the highway this time, but thanks to a lifetime of riding, I get it straightened out. That word, this feeling that I’ve never felt before, has a grip over me so hard I don’t even understand it. It’s like something that’s been buried inside me for a lifetime has fina
lly woken up, been called from a lifetime of hibernation.

  For the first time in my life, I know my purpose, and I know exactly who that purpose revolves around.

  It all makes sense…until she pulls off the highway a few minutes later, drives down a street, and parks in front of a house I know all too well.

  This can’t be happening.

  2

  Dylan

  My neck muscles go limp and my head dives forward for about the hundredth time, but I catch myself and jerk my head back.

  I literally can’t believe I’m still here, six hours later sitting on my Ducati parked at an angle just down the street so I avoid detection. Covertly parked next to some bushes to stalk a house, something I’ve ever done before. But I don’t have to remind myself that a girl like her, and specifically this girl, isn’t like anyone I’ve ever seen before.

  I need to know more about her, to understand what drove her to try and buy a gun. Then take care of all her problems for her. And when I’m done I’m going to sit her on my lap and kiss the top of her head and tell her that everything’s going to be okay, because it is. I’m going to make sure of it.

  Just as the thought goes through my mind a scream rips through the night air. Adrenaline shoots through me and I’m off my bike instantly, running to the big fence that keeps her palatial estate separated from the real world, but not me.

  Grabbing one of the pillars at the front gate I climb up and over the approximately ten foot wall, my parkour skills from my youth coming back to me despite my much larger size these days.

  As I sprint to the front of the house my blood runs cold. The sound of a gunshot.

  I thought I was already at top speed, but I find another gear…just before I hear another round unload from the chamber, a second shot fired.

  I grab the doorknob of the front door and unsurprisingly it’s unlocked. The wealthy always think they’re safe in their ivory towers, but the last few seconds have shown that to be anything but true.

  The second I step into the entryway I see him, the man I hate more than any other in the world. I don’t stop, running straight at him and then coming off my feet I unload, drilling him in the side as I take him down like a professional linebacker in the NFL.

  By design, his body takes the impact of our fall and as soon as we’re on the ground I get him wrapped up in a chokehold, flipping him over so I can survey the room.

  And the first thing I see is her, standing there holding a gun in her little hands that are shaking so hard the gun it flailing every which way.

  “Is this piece of shit trying to hurt you?” I growl, ready to choke the life out of him.

  The girl, the same one from my shop, just stands there in a daze. Her lack of an answer only causes me to squeeze my forearm around his neck even tighter.

  Her eyes are glossed over, she’s clearly in shock. I need to put an end to him and an end to whatever pain he’s caused her in the process. And finally get my revenge on this lowlife abuser of power, privilege, and position.

  “Don’t kill him,” she says nervously, her teeth chattering as if she’s locked in a freezer despite the house being warm. “Let him go,” she says unsteadily.

  “You sure, little one?”

  “Put the gun down!” a voice calls out and I turn to see practically an entire S.W.A.T. team storm the house.

  “Don’t hurt her!” I command, just as a gaggle of bodies in body armor descend on me, yanking me in every direction until finally, my grip around his neck frees, and I’m face down on the floor being cuffed.

  No longer a free man.

  I can survive whatever punishment they give me, but no way in hell could I survive the thought of anything happening to her.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she calls out.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I yell as I’m dragged out the front door, my heels sliding along the tiles. “He won’t hurt you ever again.”

  “Don’t leave me,” she cries out, tearing my insides to shreds. Her big blue eyes flash fear and show a need, one that I know only I can fill. A shot of possessiveness fills me as I take in the sight of this tiny angel I’m sharing space with…but not for long.

  And then a billy club hits me squarely across the side of my head and everything goes dark.

  3

  Dylan

  “You’re free to go. They’re not pressing charges.”

  My cell opens and I can’t get out of the police station fast enough. The first thing I do is grab my phone they’d taken from me and check the news.

  ‘Home Invasion Thwarted by Pawn Shop Owner.’

  Two wrongs clearly don’t make a right. That wasn’t a home invasion and I’m not a pawn shop owner. I offer personal security services and while I do have some used items available, well over ninety-five percent of my stock is new. The senator, whose house I was pulled from, is clearly trying to spin this in the media…and in more ways than one.

  As someone who knows a whole helluva lot about security, and the feelings people have when they don’t feel safe, I know that wasn’t a home invasion. All I’ve been thinking about is the fear in her eyes and the way she was pointing that Glock at the senator, or at least trying to. I’m surprised the recoil alone didn’t knock her straight back on her backside…and what an amazing backside it must be.

  I shake my head from side to side, needing to stay focused on what the hell’s going on, and not get lost in my desire for her. I continue reading and whoever wrote this load of garbage says someone tried to break into their home, the senator fired two shots at the intruder, and then apparently I came charging in to save the day but apparently got the wrong man, mistaking the senator for the robber.

  No way in hell that’s what went down. No. Fucking. Way.

  This is the fakest of fake news if I’ve ever seen it, but I don’t have time to stew over that. I need to see her again. That’s my first priority, and exactly why I need to get a taxi to the impound lot, get my bike back and get home so I can figure out a plan. Fast.

  4

  Dylan

  I grab the mail from the slot and head straight back into my office, throwing it on my desk as I get busy scanning the internet for any additional information about last night that I can dig up.

  No way in hell was there a burglar in their home, and equally as absurd is the idea that he shot at one, especially considering the gun wasn’t in Senator Freddy Franks’ hands, but instead what is being reported as his daughter. Since when did he have a daughter?

  Apparently for two years now, according to press releases tied to her adoption. The deeper I dig the less this all makes sense.

  Leaning back in my chair I throw my arms over my head and exhale hard. I need a break, and my eye wanders to the stack of mail next to my keyboard.

  The letters fanned out when I dropped them on my desk and I can see the array of the usual…bills, invoices, and promotions, but one letter, in particular, catches my eye. It’s missing a stamp, or a postmark, instead it’s a pink envelope with some glitter or sparkles or whatever they’re called on it, and my name is written in some fancy cursive script. It’s almost like what I’d imagine an invitation for a kid’s birthday party or something to look like.

  And when I tear it open I find out that it’s exactly that. Kind of.

  Dear Mr. Dylan Dean,

  You may not know me, but after last night I most certainly know you. I’m Destiny Franks and I live in Senator Freddy Franks’ house. What you did last night was amazing. I don’t know how to thank you, but just know that if you hadn’t come when you did things could have ended much worse than they did, for everyone. I have no clue why you were there, how you got over the fence and a million other questions. But there is most certainly one answer to them all, and that is you. You saved my life and I recall reading in a book once, on my Kindle, that when you save someone you’re responsible for that person. I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I have to ask. Are you now responsible for me? Am I…yours?

 
Tomorrow night there will be a party for my eighteenth birthday, which ironically happened the day you entered our home. It’s not being celebrated until tomorrow because that’s just how things worked out. I hope your schedule works out so that you can attend. You know where I currently live, and I hope you know it would mean the world to me if you could come, even for a little bit. I still haven’t properly thanked you in person, and it’s something I definitely need to do. Without you, I might not even be around to celebrate, so please know that despite what you might think based on what the ‘news’ is saying, you will be welcome.

  The party starts at two in the afternoon and I really hope you can find time to come. It wouldn’t be the same without you, but with you there it would mean everything to me. It’s my eighteenth birthday wish that you come.

  Yours,

  Destiny

  Oh, I can come all right little girl, I’m damn close right now after reading your letter.

  I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply. Instead of smelling like paper or cardboard, it smells like it’s been doused in perfume, her perfume. I’d recognize that scent anywhere despite never having smelled it before. It’s just as unique as she is. Just as elegant as her word choice, which is very clearly carefully done. She says that she lives in the senator’s house when you’d expect her to say ‘my home.’

  She doesn’t mention the burglar that the media is telling everyone about, yet she does mention saving her life…despite the fact she was the one holding the gun, which she was pointing at her adoptive father.