Shattered Daddy: A Billionaire Suspense Romance

by Charlize Starr

  My foot is slamming on the brakes. My hand is twisting the wheel to the side. Even then, as my vision goes black, I know. Even if I survive this, it’s already too late.

  I wake up back in my bed. My heart is pounding as big gobs of sweat roll down my face. I inhale slow, then exhale slower, just how Dr. Borys told me. And yet, I can’t help slamming my fist on the mattress in rage. The third nightmare this week? I thought they were getting less frequent. I thought I was curing myself, in my own twisted way.

  ***

  Work is a bust too. My only buddy Jeremiah is off sick and the commander is being a huge dick. I’m supposed to be coming in for a half-day of easy paperwork, but it sure doesn’t turn out that way. As soon as I walked through the door, the commander is striding up to me, asking me how things are going with Emma.

  “Good,” I say, trying to look innocent and normal. “She’s settled right in.”

  Next thing I know, the commander’s barking at me through his bushy mustache. “Lavatory duty, colonel.”

  I watch his burly form stride off with shock. “Sir, with all due respect, really?”

  He freezes, but doesn’t turn. “With all due respect, colonel, you don’t want to be on lav duty for the whole week, do you?”

  “On my way to the lavatory, Sir.”

  I stop at its already filthy door, regarding the dismal room with a sigh. What have I done to deserve this? Could the commander know about Emma? Could she have told him about last night already? Remembering his face, I shake my head. The commander was irritated, not infuriated; he was just taking out some other stress (probably caused by his crazy-bitch new wife) on me, the dick. Just my luck.

  I survey the wet floors and paper-strewn walls with another shake of my head. There’s no time to waste. I’d better get to work.

  ***

  Everything takes longer and is harder than I expected. Usually, this type of work is reserved for the entry level grunts – a whole team of the little unprepared kids, not full-blown colonels. They’re probably enjoying a fucking picnic on the sunny front lawn while I’m in here doing the work of five men because this is half-a-weeks’ worth of filth, spread out over 20 different stalls and 10 urinals. By the time I’m done, staggering out, I can see that the sun’s started to set.

  As I near the door to leave, however, I find myself face to face with the commander. He strides up to the lavatory door, glances in, then shakes his head.

  “Colonel, when I give you a task, the expectation is that you do that task properly, understood? There is no task that is beneath you, understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well it’s not ‘yes, Sir’, clearly, because this lavatory still isn’t clean.”

  “I apologize, sir. But, with all due respect, you gave me half a day to complete what it takes a team of five men a full day to complete.”

  The commander’s beady black eyes narrow. “Colonel, we’re in the SEALs. Not Chapters, not Target, and certainly not fucking McDonald’s. And you want to know what the main difference with us in the SEALs are?”

  I shake my head, and he growls, “We don’t make fucking excuses. We’re given a job and we do it until it’s done to satisfaction. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The colonel nods, his gaze still flicking over the lavatory over my shoulder.

  “So, you’ll be on lavatory duty for the rest of the week and you’ll have to come in the weekend for it too, understood?” As I gape at him in shock, he barks again. “Understood, colonel?”

  “Understood,” I say through gritted teeth, unable to even look at him. As I storm to my car, only one thought makes me feel the least bit better. That I’m going to make the colonel damn sorry he decided to pick on me. That I’m going to make the colonel the sorriest he’s ever been in his life.

  ***

  Back at the house, Emma’s eating some soup. Seeing me come in with Parker, she asks, “Want some?”

  As Parker bleats “Yes!” I tell her, “No thank you.” I stand there for a minute. “Did you mention anything about being here to your dad?”

  Her face falling, Emma shakes her head. “No, why?”

  “He just blew up at me today for no reason.”

  Emma nods, but doesn’t look surprised. “Sorry to hear that, but I’m not really surprised. He’s always had a bad temper. It was what drove my parents apart. His cheating was only the final blow to the marriage.”

  I nod myself, the angry coil around my throat loosening, though not entirely. I pat Parker’s head. “Ok, bud, you can have some soup if you want. I’ll just go get changed.”

  In my room, as I pull off my shirt, I stare at my reflection in the tilted mirror. Yeah, maybe Emma didn’t directly cause the commander acting like a dick, but she was going to make me feel a whole lot better about it. I mean, I had wanted to fuck her already, but now I was determined to. Let the commander try to ship me off after. Let him just try. I can quit. I’ll talk to someone higher up. They were all impressed with how I performed in Afghanistan a year ago.

  I put on my tight wife-beater, then some sloppy sweatpants. I saunter over to the mirror to smile at myself once more. Yes, the commander is going to be sorry as hell he ever messed with me.

  Back in the kitchen, Emma is airplaning chicken noodle soup into Parker’s mouth. After each swallow, he giggles with delight. I go over to the cupboard and get out some Ritz crackers. “These are pretty tasty too,” I say.

  When I hand one to Emma, she tosses it in her mouth, then grins. “Thanks.”

  The next time she slips her hand in to get some more, I slip mine in too. Our hands brush, our gazes meet. I smile disarmingly. Slow and steady, that was how I was going to go. Slow and steady, no rush. Gain her trust, catch her off guard, then go in for the kill.

  That night, Parker demands that Emma help read his bedtime story. So, we take turns, each of us reading a page before passing the book over. By the time we get to the last page, Parker’s eyes have shut. Emma, however, soldiers on until the last word – until the final ‘The End.’ Closing the book, we exchange a pleased glance.

  “Well, that was fun,” she says. I nod. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when he outgrows the whole bedtime story thing. I actually really enjoy reading to him.”

  Emma pats Parker’s little head gently, a tender look on her face. “He’s adorable; I can see why.”

  Just as she turns to look at me, I rise and yawn. “I should be getting to bed now.”

  Emma rises too, glancing to me with a look that’s slightly disappointed. “Oh, isn’t it kind of . . . early for that?”

  I nod, turning away. “Had a rough day at work. But thank you for the soup, the book-reading . . . Thanks for everything.”

  I turn back to see her smiling shyly.

  “Goodnight Luke.”

  I draw her into a light hug, then let her go, enjoying the uncomfortable expression on her face – the tortured relief that returns as I draw back. As I return to my room, I smile to myself. Let Emma be relieved for now, because all I’m doing is lowering her guard this week. This weekend, there will be no relief. No. Not one bit.

  ***

  The next day, I take Emma out for lunch at Camillio’s.

  “As thanks for helping out with Parker,” I tell her, touching her arm. Though, really, it’s all part of the plan to soften her up and then devour her. She, however, clearly has no idea, as her blushing smile expresses her thanks.

  As we sit there amidst the ritzy silver cutlery and porcelain china, it’s clear by Emma’s big saucer eyes that she’s pretty much never been to a restaurant as nice as this. Although, as I sneak glances at the tuxedo-wearing gentlemen and long dress-donning ladies, it occurs to me that I haven’t either. The waiters politely take their sweet time, leaving time for Emma and me to chat and enjoy our glasses of wine. After I’ve complimented her on her shiny lace-up sandals and Emma’s admitted her shoe obsession, she turns those big saucer eyes to me.

  “H
ave you ever gone back?”

  I stare at her blankly. “To . . . ”

  “Our old high school,” she says, “Just to see what it’s like? I don’t know.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I’ve got absolutely no desire to return there.”

  Her curious gaze searches mine. “Oh? But you were popular – basically owned the entire school. I would’ve thought that you, of all people, would have loved to go back, to be reminded of that time.”

  I shake my head and take another swig of my wine. “Being popular isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. All those guys I hung with, all those so-called ‘friends . . . ’ I can’t remember the last time I saw any of them. No. Friends, real friends – real experiences, real anything, really – all that’s much harder to come by.”

  Emma’s curious gaze is still on me. I don’t want to say more, but the words come out of me unbidden. “Like the guys in Afghanistan on that last mission a year ago. Those were real friends. Guys you stayed up late playing cards with and spilled your guts to. Guys you broke bread with and joked with. Guys who would’ve died for you and who you would’ve died for too. Some who I watched die myself.” My voice cracks and I take another drink of wine.

  Emma’s eyes are full. “I’m sorry. Luke, we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

  I keep my gaze on my wine glass. The dark red liquid looks like blood.

  “I know, but I want to. I should talk about it. That’s what the doctors kept saying and still say . . . I should talk about it. What happened was horrible, seeing my friends blow up right in front of me, but keeping it in . . . that’s horrible too. It just makes it fester, grow, get worse . . .”

  Now Emma’s hand is on my trembling one.

  “I don’t know how to describe it,” I say. “Them being there one day and not the next. It makes you realize how . . . temporary everything is – how fragile. How none of this may even be worth it in the end.”

  She squeezes my fingers. “Don’t say that. You’re saving lives there too, helping people.”

  I nod. “Yeah. You know, I keep telling myself that, but the more times you repeat it, the less it rings true, somehow.” I move my hand back, take the last swig of wine. “Anyway, it’s all over with now. I’m back here for the foreseeable future. I’ve served my time and lived to tell the tale. I’m lucky.”

  I don’t look at her because I’m not sure I really believe what I said. No. Not when at least once a week my dreams rip and scream with the faces of my dead old friends. Their voices whisper in my ear when I least expect it. Being sent back there to Afghanistan is even now hanging over my head.

  “Have you two decided what you’d like to order?” Our honey-blond waitress is back, big smile and all. So, we order: “The orange marmalade duck for both of us,” I say. She grins and expresses her approval: “Great choice!” Then, we’re left alone once again.

  We don’t say anything, but soon enough, Emma’s got my hand once again. “Thanks, Emma,” I say. “You make me feel better somehow.”

  And when her cheeks blush again in another endearing smile, a shiver runs down my spine. What I said had just been a lie. Manipulation, plain and simple. And yet, as soon as I’d said it, as soon as I saw Emma’s face light up . . . Now, I wasn’t sure it had been a lie at all.

  ***

  The next few days is planting more guard-lowering seeds to set me up to strike over the weekend. Down goes the Maxim calendar on the fridge, up goes a candid photo of Parker and me at the beach, sand shovels in hand. Emma and I go for a walk in the forest nearby, talking for hours about everything and nothing. A new shoe shelf appears at Emma’s door.

  I can see that it’s working. Emma practically beams every time she sees me, and Parker seems to want to hug her every few minutes. We even spend a night making funny drawings of people we know after I stumble upon Emma’s less-than-flattering (yet surprisingly accurate) picture of Margot, the commander’s psycho-bitch wife. By Wednesday, when one forgetful too-long stare makes Emma blush instead of snap at me, I know I’m golden. It’s only a matter of time. I have until Friday, but I could probably get her in bed today.

  Chapter Nine - Emma

  She wakes me up in the middle of the night, as usual. My phone rings, and I answer it. I haven’t learned yet.

  “Please, Emma,” her drunken voice croaks. “Please . . . I . . . I’m at Turner’s. Please.”

  I pause just long enough for her to worry. Then, finally, I say the answer we both knew I would. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The next thing is to call a taxi and get dressed. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror – at how dishevelled and exhausted I must look. Though this tiredness is less the cause of being woken up than it is the knowledge of what’s to come. It’s going to be a long night.

  ***

  Mom’s in her usual spot: the corner booth. Her head is wreathed with empty glasses and her last five is crumpled in her hand; she’s passed out cold. Her hair is fanned out in matted fingers of grey. The yellow, twisted-nailed fingers on her other hand are spread out, probably waiting for another glass. The bartender is hovering like a vulture. As I gingerly shake my mom to wake her, he caws, “She’s got a fifty-dollar tab.”

  With a sigh, I hand him three 20s. “Keep the change.”

  Then, thankfully, he’s gone, leaving me to deal with my mom. She wakes unwillingly, groaning and muttering a few times before she dares lift her head. People are staring at us like my mom’s some kind of alien. I don’t look at them. I’m used to this.

  “Emma . . . ” my mom mumbles as I help her to stand up. Even as we make our way to the door, she throws one last longing look at the bar, at the place that did this to her.

  Once we’re outside, things don’t improve much.

  Pawing at me demandingly, my mom questions me. “Where we going?”

  “Home,” I tell her, though we both know Dad took ‘home’ with him when he left.

  This next taxi takes its time, allowing me ample opportunity to battle with my mom, who, despite her complete lack of funds, is convinced that the best thing to do is get another drink. When he finally does arrive and I gingerly help my mom into the back, he stays with his head twisted in her direction for a minute, as if he’s reconsidering giving us a ride at all. “No barf in the taxi,” he finally mutters, giving me a dark look from under his bushy brows.

  I nod and then we’re off. When we pull up to the house, I pay him and then we get out.

  As my mom slumps onto me, half-asleep already, I take a long, sad look at the dump that used to be my nice family home.

  The white wood is all beat-up and sagging. The lawn is a tangle of weeds. Mom’s told me the neighbours want her out . . . and will have her out in a few months. I don’t know what we’ll do then, either of us.

  Inside is no better. After opening the door, I’m enveloped in a choking mustiness – a raw sort of stench that doesn’t smell right.

  Mom’s passed out now, so I half-carry, half-drag her to her bed. I push all the clothes on the mattress aside so she can flop down on the grey sheets. It’s 4 am by now. I still have 5 hours until the doctor’s office opens, but I can’t fall asleep. Not here, where the stench is almost a taste, a feeling.

  No. I go into the kitchen, blast some music from my phone, and get to work. This would be motivating if I didn’t know how pointless it all was. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve gone through this, my mom and I: the bar rescue, the home cleanup. We’re way past 20. Each time I return to my former happy family home, I find it as filthy and horrible as if I hadn’t ever cleaned it just a month ago.

  At any rate, I’m here, so I better do what I can.

  I start with the most important parts – empty the fridge of all the ancient, disgusting horrors of food. Next, I wash the dishes, which takes care of some of the fruit flies. The papers and flyers go in the garbage too. I go to the 24/7 corner store, pick up some food she’ll hopefully remember to eat: some vegetables, fruit, and me
at. By the time I get to cleaning up the clothes strewn all over the floor, it’s already 7 am.

  At 8 am, I wake her up. That is a task in and of itself. At first, she only ignores my prodding. Then, when I start resorting to pillows and even water, she cries out, shrieking obscenities and sobbing. Finally, once one of her eyes is unwillingly open, she tries bartering.

  “One beer and I’ll do it. I’ll go to the doctor. I’ll do anything.”

  I shake my head and go and get her some of the food I bought. I make a nice spinach and egg sandwich. When that doesn’t coax her out of bed, I resort to what always does the trick: “I’ll call Dad.”

  At this, she gasps and half-crawls, half-flails out of bed. It’s funny – almost endearing – how she still gives a damn what he thinks. Though, it’s not like he doesn’t know by now anyway.

  While Mom begrudgingly eats my sandwich, I call another taxi. This one arrives fast. Too fast. Mom has to eat the rest of the sandwich in the taxi. Sitting there beside her, taking in just how dishevelled she looks, I sigh. I never had a chance to change her clothes. I forgot entirely, and now it's too late. Oh, well. The most important part is coming up next anyway.

  Dr. Borys’ office is full, as usual. His goggle-eyed receptionist, however, at the sight of my mom, informs us that he’ll take us next. So, Mom collapses into a chair. I position magazines in both of our laps as if we’re normal patients, and we wait. The others in the waiting room try not to stare. When I hear the door opening, I figure that it’s our turn. Instead, however, I see just about the last person I expected to.

  Luke. He doesn’t see me right away – not until he’s at the front desk. Then, he gapes at me.