Page 13 of Her Possessive Daddies

The numbers swim before my eyes, and my son's voice still echoes in my head. I need a drink.

"I need a drink. I'm going to shower, and then heading to The Velvet Room." I close my laptop, sliding it into its leather case. "Join me?"

Seth stretches, his suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. "Can't. Got to finalize these projections before the morning meeting." He taps his watch. "Some of us actually stick to deadlines."

"Says the man who showed up twenty minutes late with Starbucks."

"Hey, that was a power move. Besides," he shuffles through papers on the desk, "unlike some people, I didn't spend my afternoon playing ATM for their kid."

I shoot him a look. "Low blow."

"Truth hurts." He grins, softening the jab. "Go. Drink. Go brood or do whatever it is that you do out there. I'll hold down the fort."

"You sure?"

"Positive. These numbers and I need some alone time anyway." He waves me off. "We're getting serious, and I need my beauty sleep."

I lift my jacket from the back of my chair. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That list gets shorter every year." Seth's laugh follows me out the door.

After a quick shower and a shave, I head toward the garage. The Tesla's engine purrs to life, dashboard lights casting a soft blue glow across the leather interior. I adjust my rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the office building shrinking behind me. Downtown's neon signs blur past my windows, each one screaming for attention with their garish colors and pulsing rhythms.

"Turn left in 500 feet," my GPS chirps.

I ignore it, already knowing the route by heart. The side streets are quieter here, brick buildings standing sentinel in the growing darkness. My investment portfolio might be diverse, but this place - this is different. When Michael approached me about being a silent partner in an upscale speakeasy, the timing couldn't have been better.

The latest "it" club downtown just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I feel uncomfortable in that desperate environment, and I surpassed line dancing and body shots a long time ago.

A group of twenty-somethings stumbles past my car, their laughter echoing off the buildings. One of them drops their phone, nearly falling over trying to retrieve it. I shake my head, remembering Seth's words about my son.

The Velvet Room comes into view, its understated exterior exactly what I'd envisioned. No flashy signs. No line of drunk college kids. Just clean brick and discrete brass fixtures. I pull into my reserved spot behind the building, killing the engine.

The faint sound of jazz filters through the walls, and I smile. This is what drinking should be - refined, elegant. Not whatever passes for atmosphere in those other places with their EDM and overpriced vodka Red Bulls.

I check my phone screen - another text from my son, probably thanking me for the money. I slip it back into my pocket without reading it. That's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I need a properly made Old Fashioned and some peace and quiet.

And if I’m lucky, a one-night stand. That's all I want right now. No strings, no drama, just mutual pleasure and separate ways come morning. But that's exactly how I ended up with a son I didn't know about for twelve years.

Courtney. Her name floods back, unbidden. Dark hair, wicked smile, and a way of moving that made every man in the room stop and stare. One perfect night in Miami during a business conference. Then she vanished like smoke.

Twelve years later, her lawyer calls. Congratulations, it's a boy - and he's all yours now. She couldn't "handle his attitude anymore." Translation: the kid started talking back, and suddenly being a single mom wasn't as glamorous as she'd imagined.

The memory of that first meeting with my son twists in my gut. A skinny pre-teen with my eyes and her smile, all anger and confusion, like a little lost puppy dog that wasn’t well cared for. I let my head rest against the leather seat, trying to compose myself before heading in. Not the time to think about my wayward son.

My shoes crunch on gravel as I step out. The back entrance beckons - perks of being a silent partner. No need to deal with the front door scene. The key card slides home with a satisfying click.

I straighten my tie, squaring my shoulders. Time to remember who I am. Corey King. Successful businessman. Not just some dad getting bled dry by his entitled, bratty kid.

The door opens, releasing a wave of high-end whiskey and expensive perfume. Time to forget about family drama for a while.

7

ABBIE

The glass slips in my hand as I try to flip it, barely catching it before it crashes onto the bar top. My heart is pounding, and I can't tell if it's because I'm nervous or excited.

"Smooth recovery." Jennifer, another bartender, winks at me from where she's mixing an Old Fashioned. "You're getting better at the flair moves."

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