Work is easy to avoid when I have Lucy to spend my time on. We went shopping together this morning. Though she didn’t know I was with her, it was still special, seeing all the brands she likes. She invites eyes to look at her with the skimpy shorts she’s always wearing, but I’m not complaining—not when she bends over to load up her car with groceries. The curve of her ass cheek is a work of art. I’m going to lick her there. There and everywhere. I follow behind her until she turns off to go toward Trevor’s house. His car is there, so I continue on, deciding to do lunch at home and come back later when Trevor isn’t around.

As soon as I enter the house, I notice Rowan’s bag discarded on the foyer floor. I hate untidiness. It’s lazy and unnecessary, and she knows it. I’ve been teaching her her entire life how to keep things neat and tidy.

“Sweetheart,” I call out as I pick up her bag and place it on the hook before walking up the stairs to her room.

“I got done early. I thought we could—” My words fade to nothing and my world stops as Eric’s obnoxious face looks back at me from Rowan’s bedroom. Her bedroom.

The darkness inside me leaks into my bloodstream, powering me, taking over. I’m going to paint this room with his insides.

“Whoa, killer. Wipe the murderous glare off your face. I was here to help Rowan. She called, absolutely in tears with fear,” he tells me, holding up his hands in surrender.

What the fuck? My rage retreats like a receding tide, and in its place fear and worry overcome me.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I demand, searching behind him for my daughter’s eyes.

Did Nixon scare her or try something? Would he hurt her?

“She thought it was an intruder,” he tells me with a shrug, his voice smug. “Turns out, it was a mouse. I almost got the bastard, but he got away.” He gestures to Rowan’s dollhouse, the one I gave her for her birthday, which is now in pieces.

“I tried to stomp on his ass, but it didn’t quite go as planned,” he adds, and I want to crush his skull using just my palms. It’s quite something feeling the crack of a skull under your grip. My eyes remain transfixed on what once resembled a dollhouse. “If you need help carrying that thing out of here, I’ll send over one of the boys. Rowan is a woman now. She doesn’t need to be playing with dollies.”

What the hell did this ant say to me, in my home, about my fucking daughter?

“Get the fuck out of my house, Pearson,” I bark. The anger filters back in, demanding a price for his disrespect and overstepping.

“Daddy!” Rowan cries out almost in reprimand.

“What?!” we both snap at the same time.

Eric erupts in laughter, like it’s the funniest shit he’s ever done. How can anyone like this douchebag? He’s, for lack of a better word, lame. He thinks he’s a teenager, like one of his boys, and it’s tragic.

“Sorry, I have kids too.” He shrugs and pushes past me, nudging my shoulder as he leaves. It’s not until he’s gone that I want to question this entire story.

A fucking mouse in my house? Not a chance. I’m the only thing lurking around this house in the shadows.

Why would she call him? Why does she look guilty? Did she have one of his boys in here and he caught them and is covering for the little bastard? The red lipstick stains on his shirt no doubt came from my Rowan, and it pisses me off that he tried to console her with his sleazy hands as if he were her parent. He isn’t, and I’ll be damned if I let him ever be in her room again.

“Daddy?” Rowan questions meekly. It’s then I realize I haven’t moved and I’m still staring at the ruined dollhouse.

“Clear this mess up,” I snap. “It will do for firewood.”

Her mouth pops open in shock, but I’ve had enough for one day. I slam my bedroom door shut and pull off my clothes. I need a shower and a power nap. Right away, I notice someone’s been in here and messed with my bed. I move over to the pillows and grab one, bringing it to my nose and inhaling.

Pussy.

Bile rises in my throat. I want to take a match to the room. Burn the whole fucking place down to nothing.

Rowan not only is sexually active with one of those little cunts next door, but disrespecting me in such a manner is beyond reasoning. Disappointment is a new feeling for me, but it crashes into me, leaving me discombobulated. I don’t like the changes happening, or the distant feeling I’m having toward Rowan.

How has it come to this?

I have to spend more time with her. She’s acting out because I haven’t been giving her time like I used to. I dig out my phone and go on the internet to order a new bed, then shower away the images of my little girl being defiled in my own bed by one of the Pearson shitstains with the taps on scalding.

Rowan isn’t at the table when I come down for breakfast. I hear voices from the window and make my way outside. Nixon’s eyes flash toward me before he leans in, cradling Rowan’s face and planting a deep kiss on her lips. I’d always assumed she was with Brock, so seeing her with Nixon surprises me. I move closer toward them, and refrain from plucking him by the balls and kicking the ever-living shit out of him. Rowan is eighteen, sure. A woman. Women kiss. And apparently, they do a lot fucking more in their daddy’s bed.

So, it’s Nixon she’s with. I decide to allow it. If anything, I’m glad it’s not Hayden out here with her. Although him fucking around with some girl the other night doesn’t show loyalty to Rowan, and the whole knife aspect is alarming. If I tell Rowan about the girl he was messing around with, it will crush her and all this shit will be over. I’ll console her, and things will go back to how they’ve always been.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I don’t notice he’s deepened the kiss and slips his hand down to her ass. Little asshole.

“What the fuck?” I snarl at him from behind her.

She immediately pulls away, and has the decency to blush and look guilty when she turns to see me standing there. “I-I just w-wanted to see him b-before school,” she trips over her words, looking confused.

Nixon wraps his arms around her from behind, almost baiting me. He’s more like his father than I thought. I sour at the realization. It’s a shame.

“We’re together,” he announces, like he’s telling me he’s having an affair with my wife. If I had one, God forbid.

“Go home, boy,” I snap. “I’m tired of the Pearson’s crawling around my house like fucking cockroaches,” I add, narrowing my eyes at him.

How many times must I warn these rodents before I can just do the world a favor and exterminate them?

Nixon doesn’t even blink, my word ineffective. This is what I liked about Nixon; his indifference is so familiar, it was almost comforting to me, but not when he holds my daughter in his grip. I know the possessive touch of a boy—a man. I have one too, and it doesn’t end well for the prey in my hold.

“See you soon, babe.” He smirks.

Babe. Oh God, she’s someone’s babe. My daughter. How did I allow this to happen?

Her face is strained, like she wants to grin at him but refrains.

She thinks this is amusing, her being groped on our doorstep by a dirty Pearson. She’s forgotten she’s one of many on a very long list of the Pearsons’ walks of shame.

“In the house,” I tell her, my tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re grounded for a year,” I add, and she scoffs.

“I love you, Daddy.” She sighs, and it’s such a small gesture. Three words, and I’m putty in her hands. I squeeze her to me, remembering the child I raised and not the floozy the boy next door is turning her into.

“I love you too, Rowan, but I’m serious about the Pearsons. I don’t want you near any one of those little assholes. Especially Eric,” I add on a whisper. He knows his son is corrupting her, and he no doubt thinks it’s hilarious. Prick.