The Last Boss' Daughter

Yeah, before your husband killed my dad—go figure.

I don’t say it, but I’m sorely tempted to.

“We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore,” I say, because it’s just easier.

“Well, maybe I don’t think that’s fair.”

I scoff, but I really don’t want to get into it with her. I don’t have the energy, and if I did, it wouldn’t be in front of shoppers at the mall.

“Let’s just get a dress and get this over with,” I tell her.

She’s unimpressed with my attitude but I’m unimpressed with the whole of life, so I win.

Eventually we make our way to the pretty dresses. I used to like dresses, but I never wear them anymore. Still, it’s not torture to slide the hangers down the racks, searching for that perfect dress.

In my mind, in my dumb, stupid, idiot mind, I picture wearing one for Liam. Without ever having seen that man decked out in a sharp suit or button down and slacks, I’d bet everything I own he would look like a dream. I picture a different life, one where we were free to be together, and Paul, I don’t know… perished in a soggy condom on the end of his father’s dick, and I’m loved and protected by the stoic stranger who pinned me up against my tree.

There’s no version of that life, I imagine. How would I have ever met Liam if not for all this?

I don’t even know what he does, exactly. He seems like a soldier, but I seriously doubt he’s any kind of Mafia if he’s working for Raj. Private security, maybe. Former military. He has the build and posture for it.

I want to know so much more about him. I want to know everything. Does he have sisters? Are his parents alive? Does he snore? What did he want to be when he grew up? Probably not whatever he is, but maybe. I just want to know.

And I never will.

That’s so depressing that all the dresses are suddenly ugly, their looks withered with my mood.

“What about this one?” my mom asks, lifting a Barbie pink dress with rhinestones.

I blink. “Mom, no.”

“It’s pretty!”

My eyes go wide and I just turn and walk away, because there’s nothing else to be done about that situation.

I find a rack of black dresses much more suited to my mood but my mother comes over and glares at me like I’ve massacred a litter of kittens until I finally give up and walk away from them.

After the Barbie dress, I don’t have a lot of faith in my mom picking a dress I’ll like, so a moment later when she says, “Oh, this is lovely,” I’m not expecting much.

But it is.

The dress she holds up is deep red satin with black straps. The bust is adorned with rhinestones, but it looks elegant, not like the Barbie dress. I have a hunch my boobs will look great in it, and I want Liam to see me in it, because maybe then the bastard would actually want to bang me.

I’m pretty sure I’d look bangable in that dress. I pluck it from my mom’s hand and look at it from all angles, the front and the back. “I’ll try this one on.”

She’s proud of herself, but I don’t hold that against the dress.

Standing in the dressing room mirror, I admire my reflection. I didn’t try this morning when it came to hair or make-up—ratty bun, what is this make-up you speak of?—but the dress twinkles in the light and I love it.

I emerge with the dress hanging over my arm. My mom waits on my verdict, and I offer a satisfied nod.

She claps—actually claps, just once, but she still did it—and lets out a little, “Ha!” but I ignore her. I’m so pleased with the dress I even smile a little, but with my back to my mom so she doesn’t see it.

Before we leave, she hauls me into the ‘intimates’ for a new bra and panty set to go with the dress. I don’t know why she bothers, since I have to attend the party with Paul, but given the cut of the dress I’m not positive that any of my bras will actually work, so I allow it. I end up having to try the dress on again over several black bras. The V is really deep and it takes quite a few tries before we find one that works.

I’m tempted to take a picture in the dressing room to send to the number Liam gave me, but I haven’t used it, and to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s even a cell phone number. The last thing I need is to send a sexy picture to a rotary phone or something, and I’d take his silence as yet another rejection.

I don’t want to think about that. Not his rejection or the fact that, in our actual lives, there’s no way of anything working between us. At all.