DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  Her voice stays solid. She’s handling this well, I think.

  “Oh, oh, that certainly isn’t nice, is it?” Miss King murmurs. “Serious?”

  “We hope not, but . . .” Anna lets her words drift into silence, and Miss King fills in the blanks for herself.

  “You need to take some leave, then?”

  Anna nods. “Only a few days. I hope that’s okay.”

  Miss King chews her lip. “And you’ll work all the harder when you return, I’m sure?”

  “Of course,” Anna says. “I’ll make up for it.”

  “Okay, then,” Miss King says. “Take what time you need, Anna.”

  “Do you think I could check on Red Paw before I go?”

  Miss King allows herself a small smile. “Yes, yes, of course you can. I know you’re very fond of him.”

  Anna and I leave, and when Anna’s back is turned, once again Miss King gives me that look. Even now, after years of it, I find it difficult to fully understand. Here’s a respectable woman, a lady, ten years my senior, and she stares at me like she wants to strip naked and get to rutting right here, right now. I ignore the look and follow Anna into the hallway.

  “Did you see the way she was looking at you?” Anna whispers.

  “Yes,” I reply, as we walk down the hallway, turn left, and walk down another hallway toward a double-doored room.

  “Strange,” Anna mutters. “She was so open about it.”

  “Are you jealous?” I say it jokingly, but Anna doesn’t laugh; she considers it for a few moments.

  “Maybe,” she says quietly. “That’s odd, isn’t it? Me being jealous?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never been in a serious relationship before.”

  “Is that what this is?” Anna asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Anna grins, ear-to-ear. “You’re not used to stuff like this, are you, Samson?”

  “Not at all.”

  Anna pushes open the door and the smell of animal washes over us, fur and droppings and underneath it all a chemical scent of disinfectant. Cages line the walls, filled with rodents, rats and white mice and squirrels and at the end, a rabbit. The room is white, bright white, like a hospital ward, and everything is wiped so clean I can see my reflection in the surface of the table, even in the tiled floor. We walk to the rabbit in the corner, and Anna looks down at it as a mother looks down at her child.

  Then she unlatches the cage, reaches in, and takes the rabbit out. The animal climbs eagerly into her cupped palms. Anna lifts it gently out of the cage and lifts it to her face, talking in quick baby-speak to it.

  “You love animals,” I state. I didn’t expect to have any reaction to seeing her with the rabbit. I’m not a sentimental man. But watching her, I can’t help but feel something. A warmth in my chest. She pours her love into the rabbit without pause, without shame.

  “I do,” she says, stroking the rabbit’s ears.

  I look at its paws. “Why—”

  “Why is he called Red Paw?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When we found him, he was bleeding from his paw. He’d stepped in some glass, and his paw was covered in it. It looked like somebody had painted its paw red. Rabbits don’t have pads on their paws, like cats and dogs, so they have to use their claws to grip. One of its claws was splintered, and it was limping.”

  “And it’s getting better?”

  “Yes. Would you like to hold him?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “We don’t have much time, and I want you to enjoy it.”

  Anna tickles it under the chin.

  “I remember when I was twelve,” Anna says. She stops abruptly. “Don’t worry. You don’t want to hear it.”

  “I do,” I say, and I’m surprised by the force of my words. “I want to know.”

  “I remember when I was twelve—or thirteen. A young teenager, at any rate. You know I had a bit of a wild phase growing up. One Saturday I came home around midday. I’d stayed out all night at a house party. When I got in, Dad was drunk, sitting in his armchair with an empty bottle of whisky in his lap. He was singing to himself, and I tried to sneak past him. But he called me in.” Her voice trembles, but she goes on. “He called me in and used all the regular insults on me. Slut, whore, bitch. I’d been out all night and that meant only one thing: I’d been doing dark dirty things which I deserved to be punished for. In truth, I’d hardly drunk a thing, not that night, and no boy had touched me. But Dad didn’t know that.”

  And this is the man who hired me, I think. This is the man who paid me. This is the man who wanted Eric dead. I think about whether that would make Anna happier or sadder, but I honestly don’t know.

  “I ran away from him, back outside. I was walking up and down our street for around an hour when I saw a rabbit at the side of the road. Half its body was squashed. It was only just breathing. I made to run back to the house, to call someone – I didn’t have a cellphone back then, Dad wouldn’t let me have one. But then the rabbit wheezed, and died. I sat with it for a while, looking down at it. And then I burst into tears.”

  She laughs, a soft laugh. “I don’t know why I told you that,” she says.

  I place my hand on her shoulder, give it a squeeze. You are the gentlest, most loving woman I’ve ever been in the presence of, I think. But I don’t say it.

  I’m used to treating women—willing women—like toys, eager toys, rutting, panting, falling apart and then coming together for more. But this . . .

  “I’ll hold it,” I say. “If the offer’s still open.”

  Wordlessly, Anna hands me Red Paw.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anna

  After I’ve returned Red Paw to his cage, we go outside and to the car. Samson was gentler with Paw than I would’ve given him credit for, handling him with a tenderness that, a day ago, I would’ve assumed was beyond a killer. But if Samson is opening my eyes to anything, it’s that people aren’t one-sided. A man can be a killer while also being a kind man. A man can be brutal, bloody, and yet still show an immense amount of love. I’d known this on one level, because Dad loves me, though he is a mean man. But with Samson it is clearer, he held the rabbit with the same hands he used to kill Eric only last night.

  “From my safe house, we’ll be able to see anybody approaching,” Samson says, as the car drives through New York, the skyscrapers becoming smaller behind us. I look out the window and see that we’re on the bridge gliding past Newton Creek. I guess it’ll take us about an hour or so to get to Point Lookout. “You’ll be safe. We’ll figure this thing out.”

  Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. It’s a thought I don’t really want to have, and yet it buoys up in my mind, impossible to ignore. “Should I call Dad?” I ask. “He might worry if I’m not at home, especially after last night.”

  I hate that the thought of Dad worrying makes me uncomfortable. I imagine his lips trembling beneath his mustache; I imagine him bursting into tears. The fact that he would not do this does little to thrust this image from my mind. I hear his wrenching sobs, hear him roar, where is my daughter? Or perhaps it’s a more selfish impulse. I don’t want him to shout at me when I return. I don’t want him to call me names, make me feel small. Over ten years have passed since I found that dead rabbit at the side of the road, and yet when I think of Dad, I become that scared girl again, living in fear of Dad’s barbed tongue.

  Samson must see some of the fear in me. He places his hand on my knee and squeezes it reassuringly. His grip is strong, keeping me grounded, stopping me from floating up and into my memories.

  “I’ll sort that,” he says. “I’ll get in touch with him through one of my contacts and let him know you’re safe.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay, good.”

  It’s a relief. If I called him, he’d only shout at me over the phone. Twenty-five years old, and scared of your dad! Shameful, but true. But I’m relieved for another reason, too. If I called him, I’d shout at him just as
much as he’d shout at me, and I don’t have the energy for that. A shouting match with Dad always drains me, makes me feel small and deflated. Circumstances are straining enough as it is without adding that to the mix.

  “Make sure you do,” I say. “He’ll freak otherwise.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I leave it there. I trust Samson, trust his promises, trust him with my life.

  ###

  The driver pulls up outside of a detached log cabin raised on stilts and sitting atop a high, oval rock formation. Stairs lead in zigzags up the side of the rock and to the cabin, around thirty yards above the parking spaces. The cabin is directly beside the ocean; you could stand on its roof and hurl a rock into the Atlantic. The air is colder here without the buffer of New York’s buildings; wind blasts us. The ocean sprays its waves and the air dances with drops of water. I wait for the driver to climb from the car, but he doesn’t.

  “He’s shy,” Samson says, when he sees me looking. Then he opens the door, reaches in, and offers me his hands.

  I hand him my bag and together we climb out of the car.

  “This is yours?” I ask, the awe plain in my voice.

  “This is mine,” he says.

  We walk up the stairs and I’m constantly craning my neck, looking up at the cabin, until we’re in the middle of the stairs and the rock formation blocks my view. I feel as though I am in a James Bond movie, on my way to one of his hideouts. My legs are aching by the time we get to the top, and I know it’s from the sex yesterday. Sex that was harder and more passionate than any I’ve had before. The cabin looks bigger from up here, no longer framed beside the large mound of rock, but standing on its own. Wind whips at us, my hair flying around my face. I find myself wondering how strong the wind would have to get for the cabin to simply fly away, but its foundations seem strong. Apart from a low creaking, it sits silent, still.

  We enter the cabin, walking through large oaken double doors, and into a wide open hallway. I’d expected mounted heads and paintings and couches and beds and all the rest of it. I’d expected a living space. What I’m met with instead is a barren hallway leading to barren rooms. No pictures hang on the walls and cobwebs coat the corners. The place is dark, dim. Samson turns to me, a sly smile on his lips.

  “This isn’t it,” he says. “Follow me.”

  He leads me through the living room, the fireplace empty, not even the charred remains of wood or coal in there, just empty as though waiting for somebody to move in. I’m staggered by Samson’s wealth. A man who can afford to buy a place like this—a place which must’ve costed at least a half a million dollars—and leave it resting, not renting it out, must be very rich indeed. I wonder if he’s a millionaire. He certainly dresses the part, and he moves around the cabin without glancing at its wonder, its high roof and spacious walkways, as if it’s completely natural for a man who’s not yet thirty years old to own a place like this.

  Down hallways, around corners, he leads me until we enter a small bedroom. This room is almost empty, apart from a bookshelf which rests against one wall. The shelf is empty, but Samson walks straight up to it all the same. He rests his hand on it, and then takes it away and turns to me.

  “You trust me, Anna,” he says.

  It’s not a question. He knows I trust him. He knows what’s happening between us, this strange, inexplicable affection, intensified by Eric’s death, his protectiveness, our closeness, the heat between our bodies.

  “I do,” I reply.

  “Good. Because I need you to agree to this. I guess you could say we’re going to play a game.”

  “A game? What sort of game?”

  “You could call it you’re-going-to-be-my-hostage-for-a-few-days.” He laughs. “Or maybe that sounds too scary. I just need you to understand that I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I know that,” I say. “But why are you telling me?”

  “Because I’m going to take you underground now, and I don’t want you to be scared.”

  “Underground?”

  He turns back to the bookshelf, grips it, and then shifts it to the side. His immense body moves it easily. A small tunnel opens up behind the bookshelf, a tunnel carved from rock. Samson leans forward and flips a switch, and lightbulbs which hang from wires in the ceiling of the tunnel bloom into life, bright and yellow.

  “This is the real safe house,” he says. “A base within the rock formation.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  I try to think about this logically. Do I know Samson? No, I met him yesterday. If a man you’ve only known for a day invites you into an underground bunker, should you say yes? Definitely not; you should run as fast as you can. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate plot to get me to come here, with him. Maybe he’ll keep me here forever now. Now I’ve been duped.

  But then I look into his eyes, and I’m sure he’s not tricking me. I’m sure he would do anything to protect me. Logic falls away and is replaced by instinct, and it’s my instinct that Samson would never do me any harm, would never let anybody else hurt me. I can’t fight the instinct. I think of Red Paw, never shying away from me, hopping straight into my hands without the slightest hesitation. I’m not so different to that rabbit, I think, not when it comes down to trusting Samson. I’ll go to him with the same confidence Red Paw came to me.

  “Be your hostage for a few days?” I say. “Strange, but that doesn’t sound so bad.”

  He smiles and steps into the tunnel. I don’t think. I just follow.

  ###

  Samson turns the bank-vault-style handle, and the large bunker door swings open, squeaking on its hinges. I flinch at the sound, despite myself, despite knowing that Samson would never allow anything to hurt me. It’s a reflexive response. My heart begins to thump. Down in the deep dark, a vault door creaking, lit under bright clinical lights . . . It sounds like the start of a crime novel.

  But when I step into the underground bunker, I’m taken aback. It’s one huge room, divided into sections by wall partitions. The bulk of it is taken by a large living area: a couch, a TV, an exercise bike, weight lifting equipment. Beyond that is the kitchen, fully fitted with a refrigerator, and an oven. And in the opposite corner is the shower and toilet, the shower cubicle clouded glass, the toilet surrounded by a curtain. Everything is lavish, the couches plush, the floor covered with rugs upon rugs of soft fur. I walk into the room, my eyes drawn to the pictures hanging from the walls. Abstract art, all squares and circles or sprays of paint, overlapping.

  “Wow,” I say.

  I turn to Samson and he tilts his head at me.

  “Impressed?” he asks.

  “Impressed?” I laugh, turn in a full circle, taking all of it in. “More than impressed. This is incredible.” Chandeliers hang from the ceiling and electric sconce lights are imbedded within the wall, chucking up orange light, fire-like. I face Samson again, and now he’s grinning openly. “I’m more than impressed,” I say. He beams.

  “Good,” he says. “I know I said you’re my ‘hostage’, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to treat you right.”

  “Treat me right . . .” My voice grows husky, and as if from nowhere I’m gripped with lust, lust which will not be ignored, lust which moves through my body like something alive, burning, demanding.

  He drops my bag and walks right up to me, our bodies almost pressed together.

  “You need to get out of those clothes,” I say. “They’re dirty.”

  Without saying a word, he strips. First his jacket and shirt and then his shoes and socks and pants and underwear, until he stands there like a sculpture, muscles tensed, cock rock-hard and resting against my belly.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he sighs.

  He doesn’t wait for me to undress myself. He reaches down and yanks at my top. He tears at my clothes; soon they’re in a bundle on the floor. Both of us are hot. I can feel the heat rising from his skin. Drops of sweat slide down his muscles, between his pectorals, and to his tight abs. />
  “I have to leave after,” he whispers. “I need to see someone. But you’ll be safe here.”

  “Don’t think about that now,” I say. I reach down and grab his cock, hard in my hand. “Just think about us.”

  He leans down and buries his face in my neck, kissing, biting, and for a time both of us forget about everything.

  Chapter Twelve

  Samson

  I get out of bed while Anna sleeps, go to the dresser and get some new clothes—a hoodie and some jeans, some clean boots—and leave her there to her dreams. She isn’t in any danger of being stuck here. I’ve arranged for Jack to come by and let her out if I’m gone for longer than I should be. Failing that, I’ve left a piece of paper on the bedside table on which I’ve written three numbers and passcodes: numbers of my associates and passcodes to prove it’s really me who gave her the number. As another backup, I’ve written another note, this one containing instructions on how to shift the bulkhead from inside; there’s a lever secreted behind a false sheet of rock within the wall. Whatever happens, she’s not stranded here, not alone.