My Favorite Daddy (Dark Daddies 6)

“You’re not a therapist at all then,” I say. “Every therapist I’ve seen has been ruthlessly practical.”

That seems to surprise her. “You’ve gone to therapy?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve been in and out of it for years and years. It’s actually pretty nice.”

“I have to admit, I’m surprised.”

I smirk and sip my coffee. “Why? Can’t see a man like me talking about his feelings?”

“I can’t see a man like you admitting that he’s wrong, and I think that’s a fundamental aspect of therapy.”

I laugh at that. “You’re probably right. That’s probably why it never really works. But I like it anyway.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “Probably the same reasons your clients like talking to you. Sometimes it’s good to have someone to bitch and complain to that won’t turn around and use it against you.”

She frowns. “That’s a pretty pessimistic view of therapy.”

“Sure. But it’s not wrong.” I get up and look through the room again. I run my fingers through her records absently. “Have you ever been?” I ask, without looking over.

“No,” she admits. “I thought about it when my mom died, but… I just never did.”

I look over. “Your mom?”

“Cancer, when I was nineteen. Dad died two years earlier of a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard. You were pretty young.”

“I struggled, but actually, finding this job helped save me.”

“Really?”

“Sure. It gave me an outlet to throw myself into. Also, the money helped a lot.”

She laughs lightly but I can hear a bit of pain beneath it.

“I lost my parents in my thirties. That’s more normal, but still. Died in a plane crash.”

“Really?”

“My dad flew planes. I guess one night, something went wrong while my mother was out with him, and…” I trail off. “Anyway, they died. I had a complicated relationship with them.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

I pick out a record, Veedon Fleece by Van Morrison. One of his stranger records but considered the best. I put it on the turntable and drop the needle.

“Good choice,” she says.

I smile at her but don’t respond. I drift into the room and look through the things. Small signs of a life are all over the place: little statues, postcards, photographs. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she actually lived here.

I open a closet and there’s a long board folded up against the wall with a hole at one end. Instantly, I know what it is. I pull it out and unfold the table before looking at her.

“You take it seriously, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Might as well do it right.”

“Are you any good?”

“Let’s find out.” She stands up. “Take off your shirt.”

I smile and do exactly as she commands. I unbutton my shirt and slide it off. She walks over toward me, looking at the skin on my body, at the scars along my chest.

“Shit,” she whispers. “Where’d you get all these?”

“You know how I said my parents died in a plane crash?” I ask her softly. “Well, I never said I was unhappy about it.”

She narrows her eye. “What?”

“My father was a sick and vindictive man,” I say. “My mother turned a blind eye. I loved her, but I hated him.”

“He did all this?”

I grab her fingers and press them against a raised circle near my right shoulder. “Cigarette butt. I was six.” I press her fingers against a long gash on my side. “Knife, cut me because I knocked over a glass of water. I was nine.” I press her finger against another. “Cigarette again. I forget what I did for this one, but I remember being ten.”

“Jesus,” she says and presses her hand flat against my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like the scars now. Reminds me of where I come from.”

“I always thought…”

“That I was just some spoiled kid that made a lot of money when he was younger?” I grin and shake my head. “Most people do. But it’s not the truth.”

“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” I grab her hand, hold it tight. “I’m not sorry. That asshole made me what I am now. And anyway, I give back twice as much as he ever gave me. I take care of more kids than he ever hurt. So I think, in the end, it worked out.”

She looks away from me. “Get undressed,” she says finally.

I step away from her and finish undressing. She hands me a towel before I can take off my briefs. Her cheeks are slightly red, and clearly, she’s been watching.

“Are you always so embarrassed?” I ask her. “It’s not very professional.”

“Shut up,” she says.

I take off my boxer briefs. My cock’s slightly hard. I wrap up in the towel and climb up onto the table.

Her hands are on me in a moment as Van Morrison sings in the background.

It feels good. I’ve always liked massages. She’s not a professional, not the best I’ve ever felt, but she’s still pretty damn good.