Stepdaddy Savage (Savage People 1)

Well, that sure as hell isn’t going to happen if she goes away. She’s even going to miss my graduation. Why, Annabelle? Why?

Mom says she’s going to help out my nana, who’s not doing so well, in Pennsylvania. Sweet, right? The only problem with that is my mom hasn’t actually seen or even spoken to nana in years to know whether or not she’s okay. She doesn’t even know that I still visit her every six months or so ever since I got my driver’s license, and the fact that she’s probably healthier than all of us, especially my mom.

Nana Sylvie is not sick. My mom, Annabelle, on the other hand, has a lot of things she needs to be treated for.

Nope, she’s going on vacation with the pool boy, of course. And I’d bet my virginity that it will be on Graham’s dime. How the hell did I come from this woman? Right now, watching her flit around the house, packing her things and acting like a saint, I kind of want to cunt-punch her.

I’m sitting on my bed, listening to music when Mom busts through my door and starts rifling through my stuff. She opens my drawers without a warning, snatches one of my bathing suits that’s already a size too small for her and glues it to her chest, trying to see if it fits. She’s been filling out since Graham married her and made her go off the blow. Nowadays, she resorts to alcohol and weed, and everyone knows how pot gives people the munchies.

Of course, I can’t help but taunt her about it.

“Nana Sylvie doesn’t have a pool, Mom. Why do you need a bathing suit? More specifically, why do you need my bathing suit?”

She doesn’t freeze like I thought she would. She doesn’t even look guilty or attempt to come up with an excuse. She just rolls her eyes and says, “It looks better on me, anyway. You ain’t got the tits to fill it out.” She peppers this sentence with a smile and a wink, thinking I’d forgive her for bringing me down. Because I normally do. I always forgive her for talking to me like this.

She does a little shimmy with her shoulders that makes me want to gouge my eyes out, but I still eye her from my bed unimpressed.

“We were supposed to spend April with each other,” I ground out. “You said we’d do Vegas together. Maybe get some one-on-one mother and daughter quality time.”

“Oh, honey.” She turns around, slapping a hand over her heart and feigning a touched smile. “It’s just five weeks. I’ll be back and it’s not like you’re off for college or something. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“But Mom,” I respond—and I really have no idea why, at this point, I’m even trying anymore— “don’t you think it’s a little lame to leave me…with Graham?”

I don’t call her out on her bluff about Nana because a part of me doesn’t want to really face the truth. What’s the point, anyway? It’s just going to escalate an already explosive situation. But I have to know. Why she’s doing this. Why she’s always keeping me at arm’s length, as if I did something wrong.

“Baby, you’re a big girl. You don’t need me and neither does Graham. He’s married to his business anyway.”

“He is also married to you.” I cock an eyebrow and she shrugs in response.

“Just on paper.” Mom jerks another one of my drawers open and plucks out a few more skimpy pool outfits. “You and I both know that. I mean, I tried, sweetie, I really did. God knows I did my best with this guy. I wanted us to be a real family, ya’ know? Give you the whole experience I had when I was a kid, Dahlia. But Graham…he’s wired differently. I’m not even sure how to explain it, but this…” She motions with her index finger toward her body, emphasizing her tits and ass. “He never really found me all that interesting. Didn’t work for him, I guess. Shame, but that’s how it goes. Anyway”—she waves her hand dismissively, like she’s over the subject—“I’ll be back in a little more than a month and then, I promise, we will so get to sit together and enjoy each other’s company. I know I haven’t been the most present mom in the world, Dahl, but look how good you turned out. I must’ve done something right!”

No, I want to scream. I did something right. You just sat there and didn’t even ask me how my day was when I got back from school. If you were even home.

“Have fun,” I grit finally. On some level, I really do wish her the best. I pity my mother and her inability to be in touch with her feelings. So much so that she’s flushing her relationship with her own mother and her only daughter down the toilet to go spend time with a man who is half her age and will probably leave her the minute he finds something more lucrative to do. Or someone.

I spend the rest of my day aimlessly looking for college courses in New York City on the Internet. Trust me when I say there’s nothing I’d like more than to take out my PocketRocket and drill it into my clit until I scream Graham’s name so loud the walls will shake, but I can’t.

I can’t take a chance of him hearing me or catching me doing it again.

I’m so engrossed in reading about a college in Brooklyn that’s offering a pulp fiction course—I have no idea what it entails but I bet there’d be a ton of hipster hotties—that I don’t even notice that I’m not alone in the room anymore.

“This looks like the shittiest course a person could take,” Graham offers from behind me, and I jump so high I almost reach the ceiling. A yelp leaves my mouth and my heart is racing in my chest.

“Jesus Christ, Graham. That’s the second time in a week. Do you not have any doors in Ireland? Fucking knock, dude.”

Oh, great. I mentioned the masturbating incident. Real smooth, Dahl. But as I swivel my chair to inspect him, he looks as stoic and unfazed as ever. And hot. So, super-hot. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, revealing taunt forearms and manly veins, and he’s got his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy blue dress pants. His tie is undone but still hangs over his neck and his green eyes are twinkling. With what, I’m not sure, but they make me feel like I’m on fire.

No, they make me motherfucking burn.

“Even a monkey could pass this kind of course,” he continues his line of thought, tilting his chin toward my co

mputer screen and I fake a bright smile, letting my inner sarcastic bitch come out and say hi.

“Good news for me, then,” I mutter.

“You can do so much better.” His voice is low and gruff, but it doesn’t sound like a compliment. More like a statement. “You’ve got potential, kid.”

“Oh, are you wearing your stepdaddy hat tonight?” As opposed to the “guy who watched me masturbate” hat. I liked that hat better, but of course I don’t mention it.