Page 44 of Inked Daddies

Dad.

The message is short and to the point, but somehow that makes it worse.

Come home. Now.

The haze shatters. The laughter, the heat, the overwhelming closeness of the guys—all of it vanishes in an instant, replaced by a cold wave of guilt and panic.

“Everything okay?” Sam’s voice is soft, and when I glance up, his eyes are full of concern. It’s strange to see. Only a moment ago, he seemed distant. I wanted to ask about that, but it didn’t feel like the right time in front of Hugo and Trick. They’d probably make a joke about it instead of letting Sam talk. I have the feeling they do that a lot.

I nod quickly, stuffing my phone back into my bag. “Yeah, everything is fine. I just…I have to go.” The words tumble out fast, too fast, but I can’t stop them. I’m already moving, grabbing my things, and heading for the door. I don’t give them a chance to stop me, to ask questions, or try to convince me to stay.

I want to stay. I want that more than anything.

Almost.

“Why are you running outta here like your house is on fire?” Trick asks.

If I tell them who the text was from?—

“Who texted you?” Hugo asks. I should have expected a grilling. If not from the others, from him. He’s not too big on boundaries.

If I tell them it’s Dad, what will they say?They’lltalk to him for me? Absolutely not. I can’t think straight right now, but I’m certain that would only make things worse.

“Eh, no one. I just heard it, saw the time, and realized I was late for family dinner. We do it every Sunday, and Dad will freak out if I’m not there.”

“We could talk to him,” Sam offers.

I shake my head and smile. “Um, no. This is a me and Dad thing, and I don’t want to mess with that right now. It’s our catch-up time from the week. Anyway, I gotta go.”

I charge out the door to get to my car. My head is spinning, my heart is pounding, and all I can think about is getting home before Dad starts calling.

The last thing I hear before I step outside is Trick’s voice, confused and just a little worried. “Marie? Hey, wait?—”

But I don’t wait. I can’t. Waiting will only make it worse.

The drive home is short, but it feels like it takes forever. Normally, I’d have everything handled by now. On Sundays, when I work at the library, I make sure dinner is ready before Dad gets home from church. It’s our routine, something we’ve been doing since I moved back. A roast chicken stuffed with lemon and garlic, mashed potatoes, and a seasonal vegetable unless he requests canned green beans again, which is about a fifty-fifty shot.

But tonight, I forgot. I forgot about dinner, about church, about mashed potatoes, about everything the moment I decided to go to The Lethal Legacy.

And now I’m going home to face the fallout. Panicking over that is almost enough to make me forget how sore I am, but I remember every time I hit a bump in the dirt roads. It’s a good sore, admittedly, but I still wince every time.

I’m not a virgin anymore. Huh.

I wasn’t really married to the idea of virginity in the first place, but still. It feels like the last step into adulthood. Maybe that’s silly of me—of course you can be a virgin and be an adult. My brain is just rambling nonsense now.

The soreness is a strange sensation. I’ve used toys on myself for years, so it’s not a hymen issue. I think it’s from how rough they were. It was like they couldn’t hold back.

Or maybe they were holding back and next time, I’ll be sorer.

The thought ofnext timegives me shivers, and I start to get wet again. I can’t help it. Just like I can’t help the smile on my face. That was amazing. I still can’t believe I got the three guys I have wanted forever. All in the same night.

I’m not a good girl anymore, and there’s no going back. This is who I am now. The girl who had a four-way.

The thought makes me laugh until I pull into my driveway and see Dad’s truck. I gulp at the sight and remember why I’m here. Sunday dinner. I’ll spatchcock the chicken to make it cook faster, whip up the mashed potatoes, and heat a can of green beans in the meantime. Easy peasy. Forty-five minutes, and dinner will be done.

But the second I walk through the door, I know I’m in trouble.

Dad is standing in the kitchen, still in his Sunday suit, his tie slightly loosened, his Bible resting on the counter beside him.His face is stern, his brow furrowed as his gaze lands on me. “Marie,” he says, his voice low and heavy, “what’s going on?”

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