Page 90 of For Her Own Good

Probably for the best since it’s not as though if I did drape her over my lap that I’d be able to flip up her skirt and give her a spanking. Damn skirt. Or rather, not skirt, which is the trouble. It does appear to have plenty of room for me to snake a hand under, though, and push aside the gusset of her panties to have access to her pussy, which I’m guessing is already slick… Jesus Christ, must stay on the goddamn drive. Don’t want to run my car into one of these perfectly groomed trees.

Finally the house becomes visible, and…

I can feel Starla’s gaze land on me, waiting for my reaction. She must’ve gotten a whole variety of them since the time she brought friends home from grade school, and I don’t want to be one of the people she writes off because of how they react when they see this enormous place and realize exactly how rich she is. Not that they’d know, precisely, though I’ve got a pretty good idea.

“It’s a nice pile of bricks you’ve got here, princess. I’m going to park over here so I don’t sully the view.”

She snort-giggles, and something in me loosens. This is as much an audition for me as it seems it is for her.

The drive curls round into a circle with a sizable fountain in the middle, and I park to the side you wouldn’t be able to see coming down the drive. Not, at least, until it’s too late. It’s a rather impressive place: grey stone and cream trim round the many windows, some columns at the front door, and spindly iron fencing along the balcony on the second floor. Yes, it’s lovely, and I can imagine Starla being scolded as she ran about this place. Because while I can’t imagine her running now or when I first knew her, I have to remind myself she wasn’t always depressed. It wasn’t always threatening to take away her happiness or her life.

She takes a deep breath before opening the door and then lets herself out, the back of her skirt swishing after her. I’d like to follow, but I’d probably trip on my tongue with the way I’m drooling after her.

Instead, I get my bike off the rack on my trunk and fetch my helmet from the back seat and head to where Starla’s inspecting a bike that’s been parked in the drive near the house. I’m not a cycling expert, but it looks like a fine bike. Not a fancy racing bike, it doesn’t seem built for speed. If she decides she’d like to do anything more than tool around on this driveway with its gentle hills, she’ll need to get a real road bike, but this is the most darling cruiser I’ve ever seen.

Mint green with off-white tires and a wicker basket on the front, it’s about the most Starla-like bicycle I could imagine. And there are some bags next to it that she extracts a few helmets from and tries them on. In some ways Starla’s life is a constant struggle. I’m probably more aware of that than almost anyone save Starla and Lacey. But in some ways it’s downright magical. She makes a single phone call and a bike with all the trimmings pops up in front of the estate that she owns but probably hasn’t been to in months? It’s something all right.

Having found a helmet she likes—cherry red and cream with a hole in the back for her ponytail—she fastens the clip under her chin and looks at me expectantly.

“Okay, now what do I do?”

Chapter 30

Lowry

She’s got it.It’s taken a few hours, and a lot of effort, but Starla’s learned how to ride a bike. No longer will she have to confess, shame-faced, that she was excluded from this childhood rite of passage.

I’m a bit sweaty and red-faced myself, having chased after her with a hand on the back of the saddle to make her feel as though she wasn’t going to fall. I think it’s helped for her to feel little as we’ve been doing this. Easier to try and fail and try again because that’s what you do when you’re small. Of course, that’s what we all do when we’re big as well, but somehow the shame’s not so intense when one is young.

We’re taking a break on a back patio now where a round, older woman rolls out a cart of lemonade, iced tea, crackers and cheese, fruit, and cookies and then quickly excuses herself. It’s amazing the things that can get done in the span of two hours when one has essentially limitless funds.

Starla’s added some strawberry puree to her lemonade and it’s a shade of pink that matches her cheeks, flushed with delight.

“Can you believe it?”

“Can I believe what? That you learned how to ride a bike? I absolutely can.”

Her lips form a scrunched up rosebud as pleasure and embarrassment war on her features. I suspect she wants more praise but doesn’t want to ask for it. Hell, no one likes to ask for things, it’s hard, and after she’s already worked so hard today, I won’t make her.

“I believe it not only because I saw it with my own two eyes, but because you’re a very talented girl and you work really hard. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but I’m proud you were so persistent.”

She’s so lovely when she blushes. God knows she’s lovely all the time, but there’s something about the way her cheeks color and round like apples when that shy smile spreads across her face.

I don’t want to ruin it, but something’s been niggling at me and I can’t seem to let it go.

“I wanted to ask you, actually, how things are going with Patrick Enterprises. You haven’t mentioned it much, but it’s got to be taking up a lot of your time. Everything okay on that front?”

The sweet smile vanishes immediately, and yes, this is why I didn’t want to bring it up. It’s not even any of my business insofar as I don’t give a shit what she does with her father’s company. I do care about the effect dealing with it may be having on her, though.

“It’s kind of a shitshow, actually.”

My Arnold Palmer nearly comes jetting out my nose. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I asked her about it, but I wasn’t expecting that.

Starla picks up a cookie and doesn’t eat it but begins to break it into tiny pieces, dropping the crumbs on her plate.

“It’s hard, and not the good kind of hard. You know, the kind of good where you’re satisfied afterward?”

She’s looking at me expectantly, verging on desperate, but I’m not going to interrupt her. I want her to tell me all about the shitshow.

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