Daddy's Bought Virgin: A Fake Marriage Romance (Innocence Book 2) Page 4

  I can’t get her out of my mind. Her image is practically burned into my retinas. I needed to know that she was hot, true, but I already knew that. I was just looking at her out of a deep lust.

  My cock twitches just thinking about her.

  She’s so sexy, with that innocence and those curves—it’s going to be very hard to resist my urges and not fuck her, when she finally does agree to this fake marriage. But I’m going to have to resist. It’s either that or lose the court case.

  Meanwhile, my balls feel like they’re made of lead, they’re so full. I’m used to a certain frequency in my sexual activity. I need to fuck at least five times a week, but for the last week or so, I haven’t fucked anyone. The court case has interfered with everything, even my personal life. It simply kills my mood, but my desire lingers in the background, and it’s about to rear its fierce head.

  “Hi Mr. Masters,” says Nancy, greeting me as I enter the house.

  I grunt a hello. “How’s Laura doing?” I say. “Did you figure out the thing with the tutors?”

  To be completely honest, I remember that there was some sort of academic problem the other day, but for the life of me I can’t exactly remember what it was. But that doesn’t make me a bad father, does it? After all, I’m still paying for the tutors.

  It’s not like my own father was in my life much. He wasn’t the “hands on” sort of dad, but he worked double shifts to give me the education I needed. He did his part, and then I did mine. My dad worked as a bricklayer here in Philly, and I knew I didn’t want that for myself, so I simply did what I had to do to become the richest man in Philadelphia.

  I never had any doubts I could do it. So I just fucking did it. And it worked.

  “I think it’s going fine,” says Nancy. She seems nervous, like she’s about to ask me for a favor. “But, um, Laura would really like to spend some time with you. I think she misses you.”

  “Misses me?” I say. “How could she miss me? We live in the same house, don’t we?”

  “Yes, but, well…” Nancy seems incredibly nervous, doing a poor job of hiding her fidgeting hands. “She doesn’t get to see you very much.”

  I nod. I suppose that’s true. She’s often in bed by the time I get home, and anyway, the rest of the time, she should be studying, shouldn’t she? And I have things to do, deals to make, and people to contact.

  “Is she still awake?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  I walk past Nancy, leaving her looking stunned and nervous. I head upstairs, up the carpeted steps to the second floor, where Laura’s bedroom is.

  I knock on the door.

  “Laura,” I say. “Are you awake?”

  “Daddy?”

  “It’s me.”

  I open the door and walk in.

  The lights are off, but Laura’s illuminated by a tablet computer that she has propped up against a large teddy bear on her bed.

  She’s sitting cross legged in front of the tablet, clearly wide awake.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” I say.

  I stand somewhat awkwardly by her bed, looking down on her. If there’s one place I’m not my normal confident self, it’s with my daughter. My own parents didn’t talk to me much—I was just supposed to do my homework, go to work, and do my chores. It was almost more a business relationship, and at the time I didn’t realize there was anything unusual about it. I didn’t realize that normal parents showed and expressed their love for their children. It wasn’t until I started seeing my friends’ parents that I realized something was different about my own.

  But I don’t resent it. It gave me a good head for business, and I learned to become confident in myself, and I learned to take what I need, without apologizing for it.

  But the fact remains that I don’t feel comfortable with my own daughter, and it eats me up inside. It’s a secret horrible feeling of doubt that I keep buried away. No one knows, and I’ll never tell anyone.

  After all, I provide Laura with everything she needs. She’s got the best of everything, and she always will.

  My ex-wife, Alicia, was better, when she was sober, at talking to Laura. And that fact only makes me feel worse.

  “I don’t know,” says Laura.

  “Your bed time is at nine, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I sigh, and sit down carefully on the very edge of her bed. I’m aware that my posture is stiff, my back straight.

  “Are you playing a game on your tablet?”

  “I’m reading.”

  “That’s good. What are you reading?”

  “A scary book.”

  “A scary book? Is that for school?”

  She shakes her head. She always seems nervous around me, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t spend enough time with her. But hell, I have to work to provide for her, don’t I? But deep down, I know this is just an excuse.

  But I do try.

  “What makes the books scary?”

  “Ghosts.”

  “Ghosts,” I say, shaking my head and laughing. “Those can be pretty scary.”

  “Did you ever see a ghost?”

  “Not quite,” I say. “They’re not real, you know. They’re just something that exists in books and movies, to scare little girls.”

  “Oh,” she says, sounding disappointed.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not a good story,” I say. “Let me take a look at that.”

  I take the tablet from her and read through the page that she has open.

  “It does look pretty scary,” I say. “So the ghosts end up chasing the main character?”

  “Yeah, but she has a friend who’s a ghost too. And the other ghost helps her.”

  I nod.

  “So Nancy says you’re having some trouble in school.”

  I hope it was school. Why can’t I remember what it is? I can quote average stock prices from three years ago, but I can’t remember simple facts about my own daughter.

  Laura just shrugs her shoulders. It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “Well,” I say. “Just try your best. That’s the most important thing. I’m sure it’ll work out in the end.”

  I say goodnight to Laura, and tell her she can keep reading her book, that I won’t mind, and she won’t get in trouble.

  “How is she, Mr. Masters?” says Nancy, appearing in the hallway.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “She’s reading those awful books again, isn’t she? She should be asleep.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Let her read them. Who knows, maybe she’ll grow up to be a writer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be in my study,” I say.

  Nancy nods and disappears again. She’s good at doing that.

  In my study, I sit down in a leather armchair and put my feet up. I grab a laptop from the side table and check my email.

  There’s an email from Jordan. There’s no text, just a picture of him with his arms around two topless women, evidently from the strip club.

  I shake my head.

  “Still at the strip club?” I mutter.

  Is he living there or something? He looks completely trashed in the picture, with his eyes blood shot.

  Sometimes, I do wonder if I’m on the right track, hanging out with guys like Jordan, spending my time fucking every woman I can.

  Work hard, play hard—that’s always been my motto.

  It’s better not to think about it, I decide.

  I take another look at the picture, and my thoughts turn to Olivia, who I offered the fake marriage proposal to. I know she’ll accept it, but I also know that it’ll go against every fiber of her being.

  Even though I don’t know her well, I think I have a pretty good read on her—wholesome, somewhat studious, and possibly unaware of how hot she is, how she draws the stares of every man in the room.

  She’s nothing like these women that Jordan’s got his arms around, and she’s not
hing like the women I normally sleep with. I certainly don’t go after strippers, unless it’s a particularly strange night. No, my contacts list is full of models, socialites, and actresses.

  They’re all hot, but they’re all interested in one thing—and that’s money. They’re all superficial, with a sort of washed out personality that seems to define them all as a group.

  My cock is hard just thinking about her.

  Damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve fucked anyone.

  The next email is from my ex-wife’s lawyer, re-explaining what I already know and making it quite clear that they expect to win.

  We’ll see about that.

  Once I have Olivia officially at my side, there’s no way the judge can rule against me. I’ll have it all, a proper wife who will turn my reputation round, and the wealth to give Laura whatever she needs. Alicia simply can’t compete with that, even if she has gotten off the drugs.

  Olivia

  “He did what?” says Sasha, who’s just gotten home from studying in the library.

  She drops her big bags of books in the entrance way and rushes over to me where I’m on the couch.

  I couldn’t resist telling her first thing when she got home.

  “He offered me a million dollars to marry him,” I say. “For a fake marriage.”

  “A fake marriage?”

  “You know, not a real marriage. No sex or anything. Just a marriage on paper. Apparently he needs to change his image to a respectable businessman, and I’m just the woman to make it happen.”

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know,” I say. “… and a million dollars.”

  “Wait,” says Sasha. “You’re not actually considering this, are you?”

  “What? Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

  “I saw the way your eyes lit up when you said ‘a million dollars.’”

  “It’s just that it’s a lot of money. It would solve all my financial problems.”

  “Yeah, but you just can’t.”

  “I know, I know. Don’t worry. That’s the last thing I’m going to do.”

  “How did he do it? Right there in the office?”

  I tell her the whole story, sparing no details, except of course for how hot I found him, how I couldn’t take my eyes off him during the whole meeting. And of course I don’t tell her how he makes me feel, and how I fantasized about him this morning.

  “What a prick,” says Sasha, putting her arm around me. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

  I shrug. “I guess I should be flattered,” I say. “I mean, in a weird way it is kind of… flattering.”

  “Don’t start thinking like that,” says Sasha. “Or else you’re one step closer to actually accepting his offer.”

  “Are you crazy? You know me, I’d never do that, not in a million years. I haven’t even had…”

  “I know,” says Sasha, patting me on the shoulder in a weird sort of way. “But we’ll find you someone decent. Don’t worry.”

  Sasha’s phone beeps at her, and she giggles as she reads a text message.

  “Who is it?”

  “This guy from school. I just met him today at the library.” She blushes.

  “What is it?”

  “He asked me out.”

  “Nice,” I say, trying to find the enthusiasm that I need to muster, but I worry my voice sounds too flat.

  “Are you OK if I head out? I could stay if you want…”

  “No,” I say. “I’m fine. The whole thing is over. You go out and have fun.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great!” she says, practically jumping off of the couch with excitement. She runs into her room to get changed, and then into the bathroom.

  “See you later,” she calls out, practically rushing out the door, so fast that I don’t even really have time to say goodbye.

  I’m left with my own thoughts stewing around.

  The anger from my encounter has dissipated somewhat. I’m left somewhat puzzled, embarrassed, and even flattered. I mean, he did pick me, saying that I would be a believable wife. I’ve never thought I was attractive, and certainly not attractive enough for David Masters.

  The money is, honestly, tempting.

  But there’s no way I would ever do that. It’d be as bad as if I sold myself on the street. Only for a lot more money says a little voice inside my head.

  My thoughts end up whirling around a little crazily for a little while, before landing back, inevitably, on David Masters. In particular, I start thinking about his body, and how it makes me feel.

  Why the hell am I still a virgin?

  Sure, I’ve lamented this fact before, countless times.

  But for some strange reason, what happened today makes me really lament it.

  If I was just normal, I could perhaps go have a fling with David Masters. It’s not like I would marry him, of course. But maybe I could enjoy him, by having casual sex the way so many adults to. There’s no doubt in my mind, for instant, that Sasha’ going to have sex tonight, and she’s going to tell me all about it tomorrow.

  She’s out there having the time of her life right now, and I’m stuck here moping around.

  The door buzzes.

  Who the hell rings the doorbell these days? Or, more accurately, the buzzer. It’s not like I’ve ever spoken to the neighbors here, and as far as I know neither Sasha or I are expecting any packaged. The delivery guys tend to just leave them in the entranceway anyway, without ringing the buzzer.

  I press the intercom button before remembering that the apartment is old and the intercom probably hasn’t worked in decades.

  Sighing, I unlock the deadbolt and head into the hallway where the unpleasant fluorescent lights and dirty carpet greet me.

  “There’s my girl!”

  It’s my dad, standing in the lobby.

  “How did you get in?” After all, you need a key or a code to get inside the front door.

  “Is that how you greet your father after so long?”

  “Hi Dad,” I say, not bothering to hide my enthusiasm much at all.

  My dad is somewhat short, about 5’5”, balding on top, with a big paunch for a stomach. He’s always had a belly, but it’s gotten bigger in recent years. Today, it looks like he’s swallowed a couple bowling balls. He’s got one tattered fake leather duffel bag on the floor beside him.

  “Come here!” he says, opening up his arms.

  I walk towards him slowly and unenthusiastically.

  He embraces me, hugging me tightly. I do my best to put my arms around his back, patting him the way guys who when they hug each other.

  “What are you doing here?” I say.

  “Dong here? Come on, can’t I visit you unannounced? Plus, I’m moving here, remember?”

  “I thought that wasn’t for a couple weeks or something.”

  “My plans changed a little, but that’s the way it goes right?”

  That’s the way it always goes with him. Something is always changing, and he never does what he tells me he’ll do.

  Just look at my dad’s smiling face makes me angry. The anger’s boiling in my stomach, making me seethe internally. But on the outside, I wear this bland face that hides my true feelings.

  I want to scream at him, telling him that he’s practically ruined my life, or at leas my financial one, by stealing so much money from me.

  But, in reality, I’ve already done that. I got mad at him on the phone, and he just laughed it off like it was no big deal. If there’s one thing he’s good at doing, it’s laughing things off.

  I can’t tell him how I really feel. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t be annoyed with him, even visibly annoyed. In fact, I’m not sure, but I think I’m coming across as cold, although you’d never guess it from the way he’s acting, like he’s completely thrilled to see me, no matter how I act towards him.


  “Where are you staying?” I say.

  “Hey, why don’t we get some dinner?”

  “I’ve already eaten. But you’re avoiding the question.”

  “I’m doing no such thing. Hey, did you say you take the trolley to work? I can’t believe that thing still operates. They were using trolleys the last time I was here in the ‘70s.”

  That’s typical of him—denying that he’s even denying anything. According to my dad, he’s never avoided a question or never done anything to harm me. He’ll never admit that he screwed me over by stealing my identity.

  I had to change all my online banking passwords. I have to change all my credit and debit cards. I canceled everything and even changed my phone number because the creditors were waking me up at night.

  “So,” says my dad. “Aren’t you going to show me where I’m going to sleep?”

  “Wait,” I say. “You think you’re staying here?”

  “You’re going to turn your own father away?”

  I don’t say anything. The anger is seething up inside me, but I just can’t let it out.

  “Oh,” says my dad. “There’s one little thing I should mention… I had to borrow your debit card number to pay for the bus ticket here.”

  “You stole more money for me?”

  “Stole? No, of course not. I’d never steal money from anyone, let alone my own daughter. It was just that they were asking me for a card number, and I didn’t happen to have one available, so I…”

  “I know you know how banking works,” I say. “For someone who gambles all his money away, you’d think you’d have a better understanding of finances…”

  “Come on,” says my dad. “Why don’t we talk about this over dinner before we get carried away here.”

  “Out,” I say, simply, pointing to the door to the street.

  The door opens, and someone comes in. It’s a man in his early thirties, and he seems to sense that something is going on between me and my dad, so he avoids looking at us by looking down at the ground and walking past us without saying anything.

  “Are you serious?” says my dad, chuckling to himself.

  That’s how he gets through life being such a sketch ball, just laughing everything off, refusing to take anything seriously whatsoever.