Adrian (Filthy Rich Alphas)

Then Carmen came into my life. Why did he have to introduce us?

He could have any woman in this world, and I wouldn’t get in his way.

But not her.

To Dad, Carmen was simply big breasts and a curvy form, just lush brown skin with captivating eyes. Although he had given her an engagement ring, she was just a new toy—the sexy black woman he'd been scared to try.

“I've always wanted to fuck the rainbow,” Dad had said to me during a dinner where he’d just returned from proposing to her. “Besides, Carmen is fun, and a talented writer. Her life is a remarkable story.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“She had nothing. Crackhead mother and father. Raised by her grandmother, a maid for two different families. There was no way she had an easy life. How do you think she became who she is now?” he asked.

“Carmen escaped through books.”

“What?” Dad paused from eating. “How do you know that?”

“I read her bio, of course. I do my due diligence with any big client that we have. In her bio, she states that she read a lot.”

I could understand that. Books helped me escape too. Without Stephen King, I would never have been able to remain mentally stable after Mom’s suicide.

“That’s right.” Dad nodded. “Anyway, Carmen isn’t just a client. She’s now your new stepmom.”

“Oh, joy.” I forced a smile. “Wife number five. I’m hopeful.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Just a little.”

“This marriage will last,” Dad said. “Trust me. As long as Carmen keeps her shape, does what she's told, and makes life interesting, this one should last.”

Although called handsome in his day, he had wrinkles and pink splotches decorating his pale skin. Carmen loved the aging playboy anyway. Thought he had a sensitive side.

You’ll see the truth soon, Carmen.

“She liked the new poems.” Dad stuffed his mouth with a big slice of steak. “Thanks for giving me some more.”

I frowned. “Did you tell her that you wrote the poetry?”

“Of course. I’ve let it go on for this long. Why not?” He wiped his chin with a napkin. “Why? Are you okay with writing a few more?”

“No problem. What did she say about this latest poem?”

“She devoured those words. You know how Carmen is. She’s such a sucker for some lines that rhyme.” He grabbed his beer, chugged it, and then released a loud burp.

I was glad we were in the main dining room instead of the family eating area. I sat on the far left of a table that could fit at least twenty people while he remained on the right. I was well acquainted with the smells that came out of Dad’s mouth. His burps rivaled tear gas.

“Go ahead and write another poem for me. I’m going to take her somewhere nice this weekend. You should see the things she does to me after she reads those poems.” He clapped his hands and laughed. “Oh, if my dick could write. It would be nasty and filled with stories, my friend.”

I set my fork down and pushed my plate away.

She’s doing those things to you because of me. Don’t forget that. Or do you even care?

Dad couldn't get Carmen with his money or expensive trips, lavish dinners or high-end gifts. She didn't give Dad her number until he showed her a poem. My poem. That was how he hooked Carmen. My poetry. My words. My thoughts from my darkest moments had connected to something inside of her, so much that she overlooked the grotesque monstrosity that was my dad.

He’d found the old journal in my room and thought it would be fun to give her my poem. Dating was always a game with him. A hunt. She’d said no so much he got desperate and tried other tactics. My poetry won her over.

“Did she mention anything in particular about this latest poem?” I asked.

“Carmen told me I was a lyrical genius and that my poetry reminded her of Catartis. I think that’s what she said.” He returned to his steak, slicing it up like he was a serial killer and the meat his victim. “I just thought the name she said sounded like your pen name.”

“Yeah. It does. My pen name’s Catharsis, by the way, not Catartis.”

“Yes, that’s what she said. My poetry reminded her of Catharsis.” Dad slung more meat into his greasy little mouth and chuckled. “Catharsis.”

“You mean my poetry did.”

He winked at me. “That too. So I guess she’s a fan of your work. Lucky for me, you don’t like anyone knowing you’re a poet.”

“Catharsis is a secret I’m happy to keep. People monitor my movements enough in the world. I don’t need people learning about me through my thoughts.”

“You just keep on writing good poems to get her body going. I’m enjoying dating a business-minded writer. Carmen isn’t like those authors that have a book or something and never write again; she’s an artist with business sense. It’s why I spent all last year buying up her rights. It was a lovely investment for Ford Enterprises, and needless to say, she made sure I gave her a damn good deal too.”