Chapter Seven
“Dad, you’re being an asshole again.”
Trent raised his eyes from the paperwork in front of him, honestly befuddled by her comment. “Huh?” He sipped coffee that had gone cold, then got up to pour some fresh out of the pot. “What the hell happened to all the coffee?” he asked as he rattled the empty stainless steel carafe.
“You drank it,” Taylor said.
He turned around to stare at her. She was dressed in jeans with more holes than fabric, and one of his old, threadbare U of M sweatshirts. Her rich, auburn hair—her mother’s legacy—was yanked back in a tight ponytail. She was nibbling on a piece of bacon. His gaze was drawn to her fingernails—pitch black. And her nose, which she was trying to cover with one hand.
“What the fuck,” he yelled across the large kitchen at her, “is in your goddamned face, young lady?”
“Oh this?” She touched the jewel that looked like a diamond, now nestled in the left side of her perfect nose. “It’s a piercing.” Her expression made the unspoken word “duh!” echo around in his head. “What?”
Trent gripped the handle of the empty coffee carafe even tighter as he glared at her. “How… You’re not eighteen… I mean…”
“Mom signed for me. Yesterday. When you were ‘too busy to talk to me’.” She hooked her fingers around the last phrase, simultaneously rolling her eyes. Reminding him of how she’d morph into a toddler whenever he’d tell her he was out, which he usually let imply that he was ‘with a woman’. But this was beyond the pale.
He turned back to the sink, filled the carafe again and counted to a hundred, then two hundred and fifty as he ground the coffee beans, poured them into the filter and turned on the machine. This was just Taylor trying to control him again and he knew it. Reacting—even if he wanted to—was useless.
“So, what are you doing today? he said, his voice low and tight which was the only indication of the precarious grip he had on his temper.
“Oh…” She waved a hand around. “I’m going to work out first, then I thought I’d take a nap.” She met his gaze, her green eyes jolting him hard, like they always did. They were, of course, the very eyes that, in the face of her mother, had grabbed him by the nuts first, then the brain. He shook his head to clear it. Taylor is not Sheila, he said in his head for the zillionth time. Taylor is Taylor. Don’t project.
“Right, so here’s what I say you’re going to do, since this is not meant to be a vacation, but a suspension.” He grabbed his cup of cold coffee and sipped it, to keep his anger at bay. “First, you’ll clean your room—including washing your sheets and all the laundry on the floor. Bring all the dishes piled up on the bedside table here, and put them in the dishwasher. Then you clean that bathroom of yours—floor to ceiling.”
“But, Dad,” she said, pouting just enough to infuriate him all over again. “Winnie can clean it, can’t she? I’ll let her in this time.”
“Winnie has been told to never set foot in your room. Your words if I recall correctly. And I agree. She shouldn’t ever go in there. Which means you clean it. And if you don’t, you lose a month of allowance.” The coffee maker dinged, indicating he could pour off a cup while the rest of the pot brewed. Once he had reinforced the caffeine, he turned back to her, his precious gem of a baby girl, who at this moment resembled something more like a pissed-off, red-headed harpy.
Which was something he was also very familiar with, considering.
He sat, and picked up the reports full of requirements for the city block renovation that he’d gotten the night before from city council. They were, in a word, ridiculous. But he was determined to make this work. He’d made up his mind about that section of town and he wanted to be one of the first to draw jobs and residents to it. And when he made up his mind about something he was rarely deterred, even by stuffy, short-sighted bureaucrats.
The heavy sigh coming from across the table reminded him that she was still here, at home, not at school, because she’d gotten caught smoking pot in the men’s room with some punk boy. He set the papers down and focused on her fully. “You know you’re damn lucky you didn’t get expelled, right? I mean, thank God you’re a four-oh student and all.”
“Yeah, so?” She dragged her fingertip through a puddle of pancake syrup and put it to her lips. Something that made him crazy, as she damn well knew. He forced a smile onto his face.
“So, I suggest you get to work. After you clean your room and bathroom, I’ll take a look, and then you can get on the laundry. After that, I’ve arranged for you to work as a busser downtown. You’re expected at…” He made a show of checking his watch. “Four-thirty. Wear comfortable shoes and black jeans without holes in them. They’ll issue you a company T-shirt.”
Taylor lurched forward, knocking over her empty orange juice glass. Trent caught it before it hit the hardwood, set it beside her plate and smiled wider.
“A busser? Downtown? You don’t mean at GrandBrew, do you? That place is a dump.”
“You mean, that’s a place where your friends might be having dinner with their families and see you, actually working? Yes, that’s the place.” He picked up the reports again and sipped his coffee. “I have work to do, Tay. And so do you.”
“How much?” she demanded, poking her black-lacquered fingernail over the top of the papers he was studying.
“How much what?” He sipped, willing her to ask so he could break a bit of reality news to her.
“For the work? You know? Minimum wage or what?”
“For starters, my love, bussers and wait staff don’t make minimum wage. At my restaurants they make a hell of a lot closer to it than most places but they also make great tips, if they give great service. Typically, the wait staff tips out to the bussers to flesh out their wages.” Taylor’s green eyes flickered. Trent smiled at her, even as he cursed himself—and Sheila—for coddling the kid this late into her life. “However, your tips will be set aside for me to put in your college fund. Along with your paycheck, such as it will be.”
“But…Da—ad!” She dragged out the short word for so long he winced. “You can afford to send me anywhere. Mom told me so.” She was in full pout mode now. Hunched down in her chair, arms crossed, lower lip stuck out so far he wanted to snatch it right off her face.
No, Hettinger. You own this shit. You made her into this. Now turn it around before it’s too late.
He put the papers down and took her hands. She relaxed, thinking he was going to cave again, no doubt. “Even though that may be the case, I’ve decided it’s time for a Taylor reality check. This last little stunt at school, which forced me to spend half a day with the principal and the superintendent convincing them to let you stay after a two-week suspension, was the last time I’m bailing you out. So, in order for you to get a grip on what real people do, as opposed to what we do, here in our little rich-person’s bubble, you are going to put your ass to work. Once you start school again, you’ll keep working, after school and on weekends. Got me?”
Her big green eyes filled with tears. Trent steeled himself, not breaking their stare. She yanked her hand out of his. “What about my piano lessons? You think Mom’s going to let me just stop doing those things? I’m pretty good, you know. And you already told me you’d get me a guitar so I could start learning that.”
“I do know, honey. And I’m proud at the effort you make on both of those things. However, I’ve decided that you should pick one of them and focus on it, so you can fit your work schedule around it.” He picked up his papers, wishing this scene finished but knowing it for something that would resonate far into his immediate future.
“You are such…such…an asshole!” His precious daughter’s shriek filled the open loft-space they inhabited. But Trent was determined to right this course. He was not going to unleash his child into the world as some kind of pampered elitist.
“Yes, well, be that as it may, you and I will also be spending two hours every Sunday afternoon making and serving meals at St. Francis.”
“Serving…meals? To whom?” She was standing now, glaring at him.
He rose slowly, towering over her, using the full power of his alpha personality. While part of him experienced a thrill of pride that she didn’t back down an inch, the bigger part of him realized that he’d failed her. He’d failed to teach her respect. “Taylor Elizabeth Hettinger, you will turn around from me right now and go to your room. I don’t want to hear your voice for a solid two hours but I fully expect to hear sounds of serious cleaning.”
She opened her mouth. He held up a hand. Her gaze flickered away from his, thank God.
“This shit stops now, Taylor. Have I made myself clear?”
She nodded, biting her lower lip. He sucked in a breath, mentally sitting on his hands to keep from hugging her.
Time for tough love, Hettinger, my man. It’s that, or create another Sheila.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes.”
He glared at her when she glanced up at him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go clean. Watch the clock. You get docked if you’re late for work.”
“But…”
He held up a hand. “Nope. Too late for all that. Go, now, before I lose it. I’m not kidding.”
She blinked fast, turned and headed for her room.
“If you slam the door, Taylor, that’s a second month of no allowance.”
Her door clicked shut. He exhaled and fell into the seat behind him, swiping a hand down his sweaty face. He was exhausted, and it was only nine a.m. He picked up his reports and lost himself in them, making to-do lists, assigning budgets and feeling like he had control over something in his life.
At noon, Taylor emerged, followed by a waft of bleach. She carried a towering basket of laundry past him and into the wash room off the kitchen. He heard the washer start, then looked up to say something supportive to her. But she breezed by him without a word. He got up and made a couple of sandwiches and poured them both a glass of almond milk.
He knocked on her door. “Tay? Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said, but it wasn’t confrontational. It was flat, devoid of affect.
He shrugged. “I’ll put your sandwich in the fridge, in case you change your mind. I have to head to Kalamazoo for the afternoon. I’m putting my transit card on the table. You can use it to get to work.”
“Whatever,” she declared.
“Exactly,” he said. He ate his sandwich, drank his milk, finalized his lists and grabbed a shower. As he emerged and wrapped the towel around his waist, he took a moment to study himself in the mirror. Running a hand across his bald pate, he noted fresh lines on the sides of his eyes. Thanks, Taylor.
The memory of Melody the night before popped into his brain, making him curse under his breath. He’d been so absorbed with work and teenager bullshit this morning he’d been able to forget her. But of course, he couldn’t do that forever.
He let his hand drop to his chest, then to his set of hard-won flat abs, and lower, where his dick was doing an impressive tent pole imitation under the towel.
No. Keep control. It’s all you have in the face of the terrifying, undeniable attraction you have to her. Jacking off while thinking about her is not the answer, dude. Not at all.
He sighed, brushed his teeth, waited until his erection softened then pulled on jeans and a crisply pressed white shirt.
Think about work. Think about Taylor. Think about your golf game. Anything but her.
He rolled up his sleeves and slipped on his heavy watch. He took a moment to study his wedding ring that he kept on a chain he’d given Sheila once—her supposed collar—hanging from the side of the dresser mirror. He touched it, as he always did, by way of a reminder of his biggest mistake. To remind him of Sheila. And of his initial, gut-deep reaction to her. Not that different from the feelings pinging around in his chest right now regarding the beautiful Latina Goddess, Melody Rodriquez.
Never again, remember?
He stomped out into the hall then into the large open living space. He’d forgone the suburban life in purpose, choosing a downtown Grand Rapids loft over the four-bedroom McMansion in the ’burbs. Today, he’d taken steps today to guide his daughter—the one human in the world he was one hundred percent responsible for besides himself—even further away from that path of entitlement. He’d done a lot in a few hours.
Don’t think about Melody—or her deep brown eyes, her thick, ebony hair, or her full lips, perfectly rounded ass, her legs…
“Stop,” he said out loud. “Stop it now.”
“Dad?”
He turned, heart in his throat, brain spinning with the sort of confusion that he despised. Taylor stood there in her holey jeans and Michigan sweatshirt—a school he’d worked his ass off to afford between scholarships, grants and part-time jobs—her eyes wide with concern. He blew out a breath and smiled to reassure her.
“Sorry. Just pre-thinking my way into a meeting.”
“The eggheads?”
“Yeah, honey, the eggheads.”
“Okay, so…” She touched the piercing in her nose. Trent bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. “I just talked to Mom.”
He crossed his arms, ready to deflect anything Sheila had said to enable Taylor to avoid his come-to-Jesus two-week plan for their daughter. “She said…um…that you were right.”
Trent frowned, suspicious. “Well, that’s a first. We’re all on the same page, then.”
“Yeah. She…uh, wants to talk to you.”
Trent sighed, seeing that familiar, eager hopefulness in Taylor’s eyes. She never would give up on her parents getting back together. He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll call her later, honey, all right?”
She nodded and slumped into him. He hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head and let her go, giving her a tiny push. “Get a shower. You have some essays to write, according to your principal. You can knock those out before you go to work.”
She nodded. Order, Trent thought. Imposing order was the only way to get through life. Filling the minutes and hours with tasks. He’d done it, and it had worked out pretty well. For most of his life, it had been all he had to cling to—imposing his own, strict order on the extreme chaos all around him.
“Catch you later, Daddio,” she called out.
Suspicious all over again, he shot her a quick salute then grabbed his briefcase. He had forty-eight hours to respond to the eggheads’ demands. The clock was ticking. He hit the interstate, his brain ticking away on the budgets and to-do lists, mentally assigning his staff to various tasks. When his phone buzzed with a text, he startled, realizing that he’d barely even been paying attention to the road, he’d been so deeply immersed in the project. He looked at the phone screen, noting with dismay that it was from her, from Melody.
Hey Guapo. There’s a good football game on tomorrow afternoon. Want to come over?
Grinning like an idiot, he spoke into the phone, waiting for the text to populate. “For the hundredth time, I know I’m handsome. And Michigan is off this week so I don’t know what football you could possibly mean.”
Real football. Not that sissy game with all the padding and helmets. It’s on at 1. I’ll make lunch.
Don’t do it, Trent. Don’t go to her place again. If you do, you’re doomed.
“Sure,” he said into the phone with a mental wince. “I’ll be there. As long as you keep calling me handsome.”
Her reply was a winky face and a thumbs-up. He stared at them as he waited at a traffic light until the beep of a horn behind him brought him out of his trance.