Her Dad's Friend(10)

He heads for the freeway. On our way we drive through one of oldest  neighborhoods in town. There are a lot of Victorian homes in this area,  their paint salt-bleached and flaking off from the harsh winds coming  off the Pacific. On a cliff overlooking the ocean like a stern nanny, is  a gothic Victorian home I've always been obsessed with my entire life.  As a girl I thought it looked like a giant dollhouse painted white with  pink gingerbread trim. The colors leave something to be desired, but  it's impossible not to see the beauty beyond that.

"That's my dream house," I tell him, pointing to it.

His gaze follows my pointed finger. He raises his brows. "Really? Looks like a place someone was probably murdered in."

I laugh. It really is in bad shape. It has been vacant more often than  not. I imagine the previous owners who'd bought it had done so with the  hopes of fixing it up to its former Gone with the Wind glory, but once  they realized the staggering amount of work that would need to go into  it, the for sale signs were back up in the yard again.

"It does have a bit of American Horror Story curb appeal," I admit. "But  I love it. It's different from all the other houses around it and that  view  …  I could stare out those windows and be content for the rest of my  life."

"Those old homes have good bones. Old things aren't always useless," he  says, winking at me. He reaches over to where my hands rests on the seat  and wraps his fingers with mine. I look at our intertwined hands,  again, the contrast of hard and soft. His tan hands against my pale  ones. It's so comfortable and effortless, it feels as if we're old pros  at this whole being together thing.

We chat easily as we drive down the freeway, and even when we're not  talking, I feel completely content next to him just staring out the  window and listening to the low growl of the diesel motor. We've been in  the truck for half an hour when he pulls off into a town that is so  small it has one exit. If you blink, you'll miss it. The entire town  consists of a motel, gas station, Denny's restaurant, and a furniture  store.

I doubt he took me out of town to eat at a run-down diner, and he has  plenty of fuel. So that leaves the motel and the furniture store. Since  my apartment gives us plenty of space to hook up without getting caught,  my only conclusion is that he's looking for furniture and my heart  lifts because it possibly means he's moving back to town.

He parks right outside the furniture store and we walk inside. It smells  like pine and varnish. Everything is hard, heavy woods, handmade. I'm  stunned at how beautifully crafted everything is. Ikea, eat your heart  out.

"What are we doing here?" I ask.

"Just looking."

He takes my hand and we wander through the store. We stop in each  department: kitchen, rugs, dining room, living room, and he asks my  opinion on different pieces that he likes. It's all beautiful to me, but  I tend to like the more weathered, beachy items better.         

     



 

Eventually we end up at the back of the store. We go through a door and  I'm not sure we're supposed to be back here, but when the man carving  wood at a saw table looks up, he smiles and says, "Paul! Hey man, I  haven't seen you in years." He takes off his protective glasses and  reaches out his hand for Paul to shake. He's a hippy-looking older guy  in his fifties, a Big Lebowski type with long dreadlocks, wearing  tie-dye. "Did you finally move back?"

Paul looks at me then back at his friend, ignoring the question. "How's it been going? The place looks great."

"Same old thing every day." His friend looks at me and smiles. "And who's this goddess on your arm?"

"This is Rachael, my  … " he hesitates a moment and I think he's about to  introduce me as his best friend's daughter, but he utterly stuns me and  says, "My girlfriend."

I blink away the shock on my face. Girlfriend. Really? Did I miss  something? Don't get me wrong, I love the sound of it, but it kind of  comes out of nowhere and I'm trying to figure out if he meant it, or if  it was just easier to introduce me that way rather than explain our  unique situation.

"Finally!" his friend says, shaking my hand. "I thought this guy was a  terminal bachelor. Nice to see he's calming down in his old age. So what  can I help you with?"

"Well, Rachael has terrible taste in furniture-what little of it she has."

I roll my eyes. What little furniture I have was all I could afford-and I  worked really hard at figuring out the instructions and putting it all  together with a tiny Allen wrench by myself, thank you very much. I may  have spent a total of two-hundred dollars on my furniture in my  apartment. These homemade beauties are definitely not in my price range.

I look up at Paul, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"I'm buying you furniture."

I know he can afford it, but why? Because we had sex? It feels like a strange gift.

"She seems to like the drift wood pieces best," Paul tells his friend.

"Good choice. I think I can help with that," the man says.

Paul is relentless. I keep telling him no, it's too much, but he's not  having any of it. He refuses to leave the store without buying me an  entire bedroom set including headboard, bedside tables and lamps, and a  dresser. He tries not to let me see the price tag, but I sneak a peek at  the receipt while he's helping to load it in the back of the delivery  truck and it's in the thousands.

I want to tell him he doesn't have to buy my affection, or whatever else  he's getting from me, but we are having such a good time and I love  being around him. I'm afraid that bringing up money will put a damper on  things.

I thank him profusely and we head back toward home. I thought we were  going back to my apartment but he's not done spoiling me yet. We have a  couple hours to kill before the delivery truck makes it to my apartment,  and he's dragging me around to clothing stores to fill up my new  dresser. He's so stubborn, and I'm kind of having a Pretty Woman moment  in the store trying on all these clothes while he waits outside of the  dressing room to give his opinion. Thankfully he manages not to make me  feel like a call girl. Instead, I just feel special. It comes as no  surprise that he likes the skimpy items best. Honestly, I do too.

While we're out he insists on buying me proper school supplies rather  than all the crumpled notebooks and chewed up pens and pencils he saw on  my kitchen counter the first time he was over. It really is too much. I  tell him so several times, but he pretends to be old and hard of  hearing. Eventually, I just go with it because it's easier than arguing  with him.

"I think that's everything unless you can think of anything else you need," he says when we're back on the road.

"Well  …  there is one more thing," I say.

He pulls over and gets out of the truck. "You drive. I'll go wherever you want."

I get behind the wheel and have to pull the seat all the way forward and  adjust his mirrors. Not having a vehicle has left me slightly  uncomfortable behind the wheel, especially driving such a big truck.  Once I get my bearings, learning where the turn signals and lights are,  we're on our way.

He's looking curiously around, trying to figure out where we're going.  "Oh, yeah, I should've known we were heading to Chuck E. Cheese," he  says when the big smiling mouse billboard comes into view.

I laugh. "Maybe I'm dropping you off at the Sizzler for the early bird  special. Do you get senior discounts yet, ‘cause you might be handy to  have around."         

     



 

"If you're not careful, I'll bend you over my knee."

I remember the brief spanking I'd received in the pool at my party and  in bed and I feel a jolt of excitement between my legs. "Don't make  promises unless you plan to keep them."

He chuckles and pats me on the leg, leaving his hand there. His thumb caresses my knee while I drive.

My destination is near my apartment, about two blocks away down a narrow  alley away from the public eye. When he realizes where I'm going, he  laughs and says, "Oh yeah, definitely better than Chuck E. Cheese."

I park in front of Hush, a small adult novelty store. We get out and  head inside. I'm carded to make sure I'm at least eighteen, which Paul  finds amusing.

The place is packed with rank, hairy men that look as though they bathe  in Crisco. I feel eyes following me through the story. Paul must notice  it too because he puts a protective arm around my waist and we walk like  that the entire time.

"So what are we looking for here?" he asks with a boyish smile touching his lips.

I pick up a large bottle of strawberry flavored lube. "Oh, I don't know.  Just browsing," I say in the same casual tone he'd used on me in the  furniture store.

I put the lube back on the shelf with the others. From the corner of my  eye I watch him pick it back up and carry it with him. "By all means,  take whatever you want," he says.