Page 24 of Savage Daddies
The facial tightness suggests Mr. Reeves is against the idea, but he opens his mouth and says, “OK,” anyway.
* * *
It should beillegal to wear pantsuits and heels on the back of a Harley.
The outfit bores me—Felix knows I hate beige, but he made me wear it so that it matched the oatmeal suit his tailor had dry-cleaned for him. We were supposed to be attending a lunch together at Caesar’s, but I didn’t make the lunch part.
I said I really needed to pee, to which Felix responded, “Go, quick, but don’t saypeein public ever again.”
I was having a bad day, and Felix telling me to wear an outfit that made me blend into the sand ramped up my already very pissed-off mood. As Felix’s wife, people crowd around me all day interviewing me about clothes I didn’t even pick out for myself, and it takes effort to lie out of my ass pretending to love something when I don’t. The thought of talking about clothes and makeup and Felix all day felt more emotionally draining than usual, so I fucked off into the desert after peeing.
On top of that, I really hate the cameras. You’re out in the sun all day standing around, and if it’s not eyes staring at you, it’s camera lenses.
“Look here, Zoe,”someone demands, their face covered by an unusually large camera.
“No,”argues a second.“Zoe, don’t look there. Come this way.”
No wonder I slept so soundly in a whore’s bed last night.
It’s probably because I was in the middle of the desert surrounded by three people who don’t even know who I am.
It’s refreshing. Like waking up on the first day of spring. Air here is dry, and it’s annoying because when you’re attending events, makeup artists constantly pat lotion onto your face to keep it glowy.
I clutch the lapels of Mr. Reeves’ leather jacket. It seems like a felony.
But so does riding on the back of his bike.
I’m pretty sure he used to own a Toyota back when he taught.
For some reason, when they agreed to drop me off back home, I pictured perching my ass in the back seat of a sports car, not balancing it on the back of a two-wheeled machine.
“Hold on tight,” instructs Mr. Reeves.
The engine fires up, seat exploding with vibrations that, with my legs parted, go straight to my clit. Fuck. This shouldn’t feel so good. But when you’re a sex-starved woman reliant on a vibrator, most sensations feel good between the legs if you’re desperate enough.
And desperate, I am.
But that solitaire diamond ring is the biggest cock-blocker.
And for good reason.
I wrap my hands tighter around Mr. Reeves’ impressive shoulders, and do as he instructs—hold on tight. Wind picks up and begins to whistle in my ears for a short period.
Then it turns into a scream.
I shut my eyes, trying to drown the sound out, but it matches the tone of Fiona’s cries.
She’s sixteen again, crying on the floor, head nestled between her own two skinny arms as she sobs next to a father who pretends not to hear her. He’s too busy tapping away on a laptop that lights up a stone-cold face. He doesn’t even twitch at the sound of her screams. Doesn’t even look up.
“Zoe? Are you OK?”
A gloved hand reaches back to pinch my thigh.
The screaming dwindles.
“Uh.” I choke out a reply. “Yes.”
But this doesn’t alleviate his concerned expression in the rearview mirror. Two gray eyebrows bunch together, continuing to stare.
