DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  I wonder, can a man like me really have a life like that? Can a man like me really do everything I’ve done and be everything I’ve been and still have his happily ever after?

  It’s a question I’m only considering because of Anna, Anna who has entered my life and changed it irrevocably. Anna who has the power to shift everything around her. Anna who has me questioning who I am now that all of this is over. River will go down and so will her cronies, Anna is safe, but I can’t stay in New York. There’s no question about that. I’ll have to leave. But will Anna leave with me? Maybe not if she’s just Anna, my girlfriend, my woman. But what if . . .

  Giving myself over to spontaneity, I pull into the first free parking space I see. I don’t get out of the car right away. I feel as though I am at a crossroads in my life. I see it, in my mind. But in my mind I am not the man I am now; I am the small boy I was before I learnt of the life. The small boy terrified of Dad’s fist and full of love for kind Uncle Richard, a man I never imagined could do harm to anybody, a man I never dreamt would be known as Black Knight for his brutality. Anna has turned me into that boy again, has pulled away the veils of coldness and anger that surrounded me and revealed the boy underneath. Because he’s still there, I know. He’s still there in everybody, I bet. Whoever you are, whatever turns your life has taken, somewhere, maybe hidden so deep you don’t even suspect he’s there, is the small child you once were, before life took you and warped you.

  ‘You’re too old to become a philosopher, boy,’ Uncle Richard laughs. ‘There’s nothing in this life worse than a late-blooming philosopher. You love the girl, that’s what you mean, eh? So if you love her, get your ass out of this car and do something about it! Sitting here and thinking won’t get you anywhere!’

  I smile to myself, and then step from the car, go to the trunk, and take out enough cash to buy Anna a ring any woman would be proud to receive. As I walk down the street, I find I am nervous. I have been on hundreds of jobs and killed countless men and always, whatever happened, I’ve been able to hold onto my sacred killer’s center. That is something I’ve never lost. But approaching this jewelry shop makes me more nervous than any of that ever did.

  What if she says no? I wonder.

  A cold spike moves through me at the thought. The jingle of the bell above my head as I enter the store cuts through me.

  She can’t say no, she just can’t. For better or for worse, I have placed all my hopes and dreams in Anna’s hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Anna

  When Samson leaves and the door is bolted, I sit on the couch in my pajamas and think about the future. For the longest time, my future was honed down to one thing: my veterinary work. And while that is still an aspect of my life, a huge aspect that will never be pushed aside, I find that other things are filtering into my mind. I see myself with Samson, not young like we are now, but old, impossibly old (I’m sure nobody ever thinks they’ll grow that old), sitting on a park bench with his hand on my knee. The image changes between the appearance of a smiling dog and a smiling child, our child or grandchild, until it settles on the child leading the dog right up to us with an equally goofy grin on her face. My breath gets quicker as these images cycle through my mind. I wonder if it’s possible to fall in love, truly and deeply in love, over such a short period of time. But I don’t have to wonder for long, Samson and I are evidence of this.

  I go to my bag in the bedroom and take out the dress and the jewelry he bought me. Holding the dress up, I admire it. His money no longer seems as important as it did only a few days ago. After some thought, I discover the reason. It’s the arena, everything that happened in there, and the gunshot especially. I still have the ringing in my ears from the shot and I know it will be there for days. When that shot went off, I wasn’t thinking about Samson’s money, his impressive mounds of wealth. No, I was thinking about the dogs and Samson, just Samson. I know now that even if he was poor, we would find a way to make it work. If that’s not true love, true dedication, what is? But that doesn’t mean I don’t love the dress. I strip naked and pull it on, savoring the feel of the fabric against my skin. It’s easily the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever worn.

  I dance through the apartment in the dress, spinning around so the hem spins around my thighs, and then I start giggling to myself. God, have I gone mad? I wonder. But that doesn’t seem to matter when you’re in the throes of love. Love has gripped me, lifted me up, and now I’m soaring and nothing else matters. Love blots out everything else, love is everything else.

  I think of the night I found Eric stuffed in my car, the confused medley of fear and relief, and then the appearance of this strange man at my front door. He seemed cold, almost jerk-like, and yet I gave myself to him, didn’t I? He was too sexy. That was my reasoning at the time. But now I wonder if I didn’t see something behind his eyes, some potential for what we could become.

  “Having fun?”

  I stop spinning at his voice, my gaze resting on him. My head waves from side to side and the spinning has caused the ringing in my ear to get worse, but I don’t care. I’m just glad to see him. He stands there in a suit jacket and trousers, shoes, shirt tucked in and highlighting his muscular form. It’s like the first time I spotted him at the NBA game, a rich onlooker, a stylish stranger a woman like me would never meet.

  “I guess you could say that.” I smile.

  He walks into the apartment holding three briefcases, drops them on the couch, and then comes to me. He reaches his hands out and takes mine, looking into my eyes with his bright sky-blues. He massages his thumb over the back of my hand, rubbing it softly, and slowly a smile spreads across his face. It’s the smile of a mischievous little boy, the smile of a boy who’s been holding something secret and is now bursting with the desire to set the secret free. I feel free and happier than I can ever remember feeling at any other point in my life. When I’m with Samson, it’s like Mom didn’t die, Dad didn’t turn mean and cold, like everything bad that’s ever happened to me is swatted aside in favor of his warmth, his smiling face.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He bites his lip and uncertainty comes into his eyes, a flicker of it. “I . . .” He lets go of one of my hands and touches his jacket pocket. “I have something I want to say to you before I . . . Can I just say it?”

  “Of course.” I reach up and touch his chin, his day’s growth tickling my hand. “Of course you can, you silly man.”

  He takes a deep breath, and then launches into a speech. “For the longest time, Anna, I’ve been focused on finding my center. My killer’s center, I call it. It’s my calm place, my place where I can think clearly and do my job efficiently. It’s a cold place, devoid of any emotion, the sort of place a man goes when he wants to kill heartache and distraction, the sort of place a man holds close to him when all he wants is to turn into a well-functioning machine. But now, I find that my killer’s center isn’t enough. I don’t want coldness. I don’t want to just be a machine. I want something more. And you’ve given me that, Anna. You’ve given me that and so much more. How can I be cold around you? How can I feel nothing around you? You’re amazing, the best woman I’ve ever met or will meet. You’re my woman and I want to . . .” He stops, swallows.

  I stroke his face. “Go on,” I urge, realizing that there are tears in my eyes, sliding warmly down my cheeks. “Go on, Samson.”

  He sinks to his knees, reaches into his pocket, and takes out a ring box.

  My hands come to my mouth, a gasp escaping my lips. He tilts his head sideways at me, and it’s hard to tell if his stark azure eyes are glistening with tears or just glistening with life. “Anna Hill, will you marry me?”

  With a trembling hand, I reach down and take the ring. The diamond is huge and complex. I look at it for a long time, so long that when I look back down at Samson I can see that he is starting to get nervous, maybe thinking that I’m going to say no.

  “Of course I’ll marry you!” I squeal.


  I hand him the ring and hold my left hand. He slides it on. It fits snugly on my finger, the metal cool against my skin. And then he leaps to his feet and wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.

  “But you know we have to leave New York, don’t you?” he says after a moment.

  “I guessed that,” I admit. “So I’ll marry you, Samson Black, but I have on condition. You have to use some of that money of yours to help me finish my studies and build me an animal sanctuary wherever we end up. I don’t care where we are, if I can follow my dreams, if I can be with you.”

  “Done,” he says, without having to give it any thought. “Done and done and done.”

  I let out another squeal, and then he kisses my neck and his hands roam down my body, to my ass and to my pussy and soon I am lost in the heat of the moment, my fiancé groaning and me moaning, crying out with our passion.

  Epilogue

  Anna

  Three years later

  I lie in bed, dreaming about the past.

  After some blowing around the States, we ended up in Maine. There wasn’t any specific reason for this other than that was where we happened to be when we wanted to settle down and turn from fiancés into husband and wife. We were there in late autumn, in a small town that has only in recent years appeared on a map, and I turned to Samson and said, “Let’s make this our home.” He agreed instantly. I knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking, as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter. And that’s the truth. As long as he and I are together, we could live anywhere on the planet. When you’re married, in love, your home isn’t where you happen to be, it’s the person you’re with. Samson is my home. Our love is my home.

  I dream about the studies, finishing up last year and getting my degree. I was, finally, after so much struggling, a qualified vet. I completed my on-site training at a small clinic just outside of town, and then I broached the subject once again of opening my own center. Samson launched into action. He wasn’t bored, but now that his business was ended, he needed a project. He got the planning permission and contracted the builders and sorted all the paper work. He was still Samson, but a different Samson, a Samson with a different set of goals and ideals. He didn’t have to kill anymore. He proved himself capable of so much more than that. The process was long, but not as long as I expected, and the day the plaque went up out the front of our building was one of the happiest days of my life, except for the wedding.

  The Black Veterinary Clinic, it reads, and every time I look at it, warmth blooms in my belly.

  I’ve made it, I think. And then I amend it: No, we’ve made it.

  We have an apartment in the clinic itself. I am surrounded by the yapping of animals. My employees live in town or close by and drive in every morning. It’s a secluded existence, a blissful existence. It’s the sort of existence I couldn’t have guessed at when all this started. A man shows up on my door with a pizza and a bottle of wine, we make love, we give ourselves over to passion, and then—

  I wake up, my head groggy. Instinctively, I reach for Samson, meaning to hold his hand tightly until the feeling passes. But he’s not there.

  Well, can’t put it off forever, can I?

  It’s been two weeks now and I need to do something about it. It’s okay, though. I’ve already bought the kit.

  I climb from bed and walk into the en-suite bathroom. From the center, the sounds of a dog yapping sing out into the spring night. As I walk through the dim bedroom, a shaft of moonlight spears into the apartment and glints off the edge of the frame, the frame which holds my long-worked-for diploma. I give it a smile as I pass, and then go into the bathroom, reach into the cabinet, and take out the kit.

  I sit on the toilet and clear my mind. I’ve tried to do the test before, but stage fright got the better of me. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever sat on a toilet and not been able to go. But now the stage fright passes. I’m not scared about the outcome. We are secure, safe, and in truth it’s more the fear that I’m not which has made me put it off for so long.

  I set the test on the sink and stand up, pacing back and forth. I have to wait two excruciating minutes for the results of the test, for either the smiling face or the sad face to appear. I close my eyes and pray for the smiling face, pray that life can really be that kind, that perfect. Then my mind moves to River and her cronies, all of whom received sentences of life without the possibility of bail. We had just gotten married when we heard the news, two days after our wedding day. When we heard it—Jack called Samson—we just smiled at each other briefly. That was all. We didn’t clap or cheer or lose ourselves in the euphoria of it. We just smiled. After all River had done, all the pain she caused, I couldn’t find it in my heart to hate her. The other men—I hated them easily. It turned out all of them had killed women, two of them had killed children, and three of them were linked to horrible sexual assaults. But River was different. River was twisted and tortured.

  And Elle, sweet Elle . . . she recovered and sometimes I see her dancing on TV when Samson watches the games. She’s getting older, but she’s still beautiful and full of life. But like many friends, we’ve drifted apart. She looks happy enough, but cheerleaders always do.

  I shake my head, shaking the thoughts away. It doesn’t matter now. None of that matters. They’re whispers from a life long past, a life in which fear and running and danger predominated. Now we are safe, and we do not live in fear.

  I open my eyes and glance down at the test.

  I have to tell Samson, I think.

  ###

  I walk through the center to the sound of the yelping dog. His name is Patch. We found him at the side of the road, all four of his paws twisted and damaged. I cared for him as I care for all the other animals, without restraint, throwing my love at him. He’s on the mend. Soon, I know, he’ll become one of those dogs that return to me even now in my dreams, one of those turnstile dogs, loping over fields of bright green grass.

  I walk down the dark hallways, the sounds of animals all around me, toward Patch’s yelping. As I walk, I think of Dad. He came down here a few months ago with a token that said six months sober. He told me that he’d seen the light and he’d quit his job. He was going to take an early retirement and give himself to volunteer work. I talked to him last week and he told me he was spending his days at a soup kitchen for the homeless. He cried and hugged me, and despite myself, despite everything, I cried and hugged him back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, over and over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  At first, I feared that it was only a façade, a front so that he could get close to me. But he’s almost a year sober now and that doesn’t seem to be changing. He’s more of the man he was before Mom’s death, the man who could smile and laugh, the man who didn’t feel the need to judge me. He knows who Samson is, what Samson used to do, and that I’m married to him, but not once has he made any snide, cruel comments about it. I see now that it was the whisky that turned him mean and dark and hateful. It was the whisky that got deep inside of him and brought out the anger and the pain. Whisky and Mom’s death. But he’s moving on, he’s getting better, and one day soon I’ll invite him down here to stay for a few days. We’re not quite there yet, but we talk on the phone and we’re getting closer.

  I turn the corner which leads down to the kennels where the dogs are kept. Sarah, the college girl who works the night shift, watching over the animals and calling me up if anything goes wrong, smiles to me over the rim of a magazine, sitting behind her desk in the reception area. She’s a bright, black-haired girl, with dark beautiful eyes.

  “Hey, Mrs. Black,” she grins. She nods down at the magazine in her hand, open to the celebrity pages. “You’ve caught me.”

  I wink at her. “You’re fired, Sarah, sorry to say.”

  Her cheeks glow playfully. “I’ll pack my things up straightaway.”

  We laugh and I’m about to ask where Samson is, when she shakes her head
. “You know where he is,” she says. “You don’t have to ask me. I know dog is Man’s best friend and everything, but your husband is something else. I’ve never seen a man so in love with a dog.”

  That’s true, I think. I nod my thanks and leave her, heading toward the kennels.

  “See you later, Mrs. Black,” Sarah says as I leave, before turning back to her magazine.

  Mrs. Black. When I was married to Eric, I never enjoyed being called by his last name. It was like a brand, thrust unfairly at me without my permission. It was a mark of shame. You are Eric’s now and he can treat you however he likes and you can’t complain because you agreed to it. You put yourself in this prison. When I’m called Mrs. Black, it couldn’t be more different. A mark of shame; a mark of honor. A swelling of pride grips my chest every time somebody addresses me with it. It’s the only reason I haven’t told Sarah to call me Anna yet. I enjoy it too much.