Tonight’s a rare night alone and the house is quiet. Too quiet. Without my motormouth here, flapping her gums. I joke that I’d pay her to be quiet, even for only five minutes, and yet with her being out with her friends, I find myself missing her incessant chatter.
The kid keeps our house lively and fills the void and without it, I feel… almost empty. Shockingly, at sixteen, she still enjoys spending time with her old man, but I know my days are numbered. Soon enough, the allure of boys and parties and things of that nature will all far surpass dear old dad.
With a few hours to myself, I was tempted to hit up a bar—to seek out some companionship for the evening—but chasing tail is a younger man’s game, and it’s not like I’m going to bring a woman back here. Not when Desi will be home in a few short hours. I would never let her see me disrespect her mother that way—God rest her soul.
I’m four episodes in when my phone rings, blasting out some stupid pop song Desi picked out. I swipe to answer, and my daughter’s worried voice fills my ear. “Dad…”
“¿Qué pasa?” I ask. What’s up?
When she doesn’t answer right away, I’m instantly alert.
“Pollito, are you okay?”
“Yeah, but Seraphine—Mr. McAllister’s whatever—is here, and she…”
My heart slows when Desi says she’s okay but revs right back up at the mention of the dark-haired beauty. “What about her?”
“I don’t know. She seems… off. Like she’s high or something, and she’s with these three guys and they seemed shady. Up to no good. Like, Dad, they literally had to support her, because she couldn’t stand. I tried saying hi and checking on her, but she just sort of looked right through me, and when she did answer me, she sounded loca. I think… I think she needs help, Dad.”
I scrub a hand over my face, proud of Desi’s compassion—she gets it from her mama. Seraphine isn’t my responsibility, but I know Dave would check on my daughter in a heartbeat if the roles were reversed—at least that’s the motivation I’m going with.
“I’m on my way.” I stand and shove my feet into my boots and grab my keys from the counter. “And, Dez, keep an eye on her, but do not engage.”
“Okay.”
The drive to the fairgrounds is a quick one, but I know too fucking well that things can go south in a matter of seconds.
Thankfully the opening-day-rush is over, and I don’t have to wait in line to park or purchase a ticket. I call Desi back once I pass the gates. “¿Dónde estás?” I ask the second the call connects.
This urge I have to get to Seraphine is both foreign and familiar all at once. For most of the time I’ve known her, she’s just been Dave’s daughter.
Then about two years ago, when my GTO beat Dave’s at Barbeque and Bumpers—a semi-local car show—she decided to give me an earful about how her dad’s car was twenty times better than mine, claiming I won on a technicality.
It was then, while she chewed me up one side and down the other, that my fascination with the little spitfire started. But that’s a secret I’ll be taking to my grave. I’m almost old enough to be her father.
“I’m next to the spaceship. Dad, you gotta hurry. They’re almost to the front of the line for the funhouse.”
“On my way.”
“Okay,” she says on a shuddery exhale. “But, Dad, hurry.” The worry in her voice ratchets up my own. Any other teen, and I’d assume they were worried over missing out on time with friends, but not my Desi. While she’s got a wild hair about her, she’s got a heart of gold, and I know her concern is genuine and warranted.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, wishing like hell it would part for me like the Red Sea did for Moses.
“Desi!” I cup my hands around my mouth to amplify my voice. My daughter’s eyes fly to mine before darting to the left. I follow her line of sight, and sure enough, three people back from the entrance is Seraphine, surrounded by a trio of very recognizable dipshits.
As hard as it is, I manage to keep my composure as I approach, bypassing the line entirely. Dipshit numero uno—Jason—sees me first.
“Mateo, my man!” His hand shoots in the air, waving me over. “Como est-ass?” he shouts, butchering my native tongue like the disrespectful little fucker he is.
I nod, acknowledging him while assessing the situation. Seraphine can hardly stand up straight, her pupils are blown wide, and she’s chewing on her inner-cheek something fierce. She’s clearly rolling; meanwhile, dipshits one through three are all far more sober than she is.
“Hijo de puta,” I growl before turning my attention back to the sad excuse of a man standing before me. “Who’s your friend?” I figure I’ll play dumb—for now.