Page 2 of Pleasing Him

I nod with a remorseful expression on my face.

“I did,” I confirm in a soft tone. “Once you turn eighteen, you can file for Chapter 13, so that’s what I did in an effort to take control of my financial life. But it left me with nothing, Lionel! I swear, I tried to make things work, but I couldn’t. New York is a tough city, and I guess I kind of screwed up...”

The huge man snorts, his broad shoulders tense.

“You can say that again.” But before he can speak, I rush on.

“So can I stay, Lionel? I mean, I don’t have the money for a security deposit on an apartment, and you know how some of those big complexes are now. They require two months up front, plus a broker’s fee, plus a move-in fee, plus renter’s insurance, and there’s no way I can afford that.”

The huge man practically chokes, his jaw so tight I can see muscles bulge in his bronzed throat.

“You mean, stayhere?”

I look at him with innocent Bambi eyes.

“Well, yes! Where else would I stay? I swear, we probably won’t even see each other, seeing that this place is so huge,” I said, gesturing to his mansion. “It’s got four stories, if you include the basement and the upper level, and there’s even the roof with the pergola, where I can sleep if it gets really hot.”

Okay, offering to sleep outdoors is probably pushing it because Lionel’s hands balled into fists. His broad shoulders went stiff, and I could see a dark flush on his handsome features. His jaw grew tight, and I hold my breath because I swear he’s going to kick me out. After all, we have no blood tie to each other, and my mom passed a couple years back. Lionel doesn’t owe me anything, not anymore at least.

But instead, the alpha male gave a curt nod.

“Fine,” he snapped. “But don’t fuck things up. Oh, and you need to finish school. Your mother would turn over in her grave is she knew what her daughter was up to.”

“Thank you!” I squealed, rushing forward to throw my arms around his strong neck. Before he could stop me, I leaned in for a kiss on his lips, and that male mouth was almost my undoing with its heated sensuality. But then I pulled back, my face flushed and breasts heaving. “You won’t notice me, I promise, Daddy! I’ll stay out of your way and life will go on as before.”

Lionel merely shook his head, his expression dark, before storming out of the drawing room without a backwards glance. I should be perturbed by his not-so-warm welcome, but more than anything, I was relieved. I now have a place to stay, andthe bankruptcy is behind me. Sure, my stepfather seems a little upset by my appearance out of nowhere, but Lionel will adapt.

So I moved in. I hauled my two suitcases up to a suite on the second floor, and tried to stay out of my stepdad’s way. It’s not hard, seeing that he’s hardly ever home. As far as I know, he’s always looking after his real estate empire, whether that means visiting properties, talking with bankers, or staring at spreadsheets. We haven’t crossed paths much in the six months since I got back, and I’m grateful for that.

But I followed my stepfather’s directives, and enrolled at St. George High. It’s okay. It’s the local public school, and doesn’t cost money to attend, as long as you live in the neighborhood. Lionel’s mansion is within the catchment area, so in the mornings, I drive myself to high school and then come home in the afternoons to an empty house. It’s lonely, but things could be worse. At least I’ve gotten myself away from the chaos of Manhattan, even if I miss the city sometimes.

But even if I don’t pursue chaos, it seems that chaos pursues me. Sure, I felt a little bloated when I got up this morning, but I figured it could be the cheese fries and soda I had last night. Don’t get me wrong because Mrs. Musk cooked a delicious meal of guinea fowl and sautéed veggies, which I ate by myself in the elegantly appointed dining room. But a girl gets hungry late at night sometimes, so I decided to order some Domino’s as a midnight snack, and while the pizza went down easy, the fries did me dirty the next day.Especiallywhen I got to school. My stomach hurt intermittently in the morning, and seemed to worsen as the hours passed.

But I managed to control it with Tums, or so I thought. Yet later in the afternoon during art class, I felt something drip between my thighs. Suddenly, I knew that the food wasn’t the problem atall. Instead, Aunt Flo had paid me a visit and quickly, I stood up and surreptitiously tugged at the heavy canvas painter’s smock draped over my shoulders.

“I’ll be right back!” I called to no one in particular. Then, with a merry wave, I scurried off to the women’s restroom, only to discover that it was far too late. Sure, the school has free tampons and maxi-pads for girls to use, but that’s not going to do me any good, seeing that there’s a tell-tale red splotch on the back of my white skirt. It wasn’t just a tiny red splotch either. It was a big ole blob, like a cherry tomato splattered on pristine snow.

Oh shit. What am I supposed to do? I briefly consider skulking home, but I need to retrieve my bag and art supplies from the classroom first. Even worse, the painter’s smock doesn’t hide my behind and my embarrassing “accident.” I suppose I could take the smock off, and tie it around my waist, but that seems highly peculiar. Seeing me dressed like a raggedy hobo will give everything away.

That’s when an idea strikes. Again, I admit that I wasn’t thinking clearly, whether from desperation, confusion, or the generally bloated depression that comes with a woman’s period. But I decide to stride back into the art room like nothing’s wrong. Then, I grab my paintbrush as well as some paint, and smile winsomely.

“I’m going out to the shed,” I announce merrily, again to no one in particular. “Be right back!”

Of course, not a head turns because the art crowd takes itself very seriously. Mrs. Cohen and Leandra continue to pore over a still life in the back, while the rest of the class sketches with almost painful concentration. Perfect. I scamper out of theclassroom before making a left and quickly heading down a path to the back of the school where there’s a dilapidated shed. It’s next to the track, and they probably store all sorts of sports equipment inside. No matter. It’s a sad-looking thing, with gray peeling paint, rusted wood boards, and a sagging roof. I’ve heard more than one member of administration complain about the shed’s sorry state, and I’m here to solve their problem for them.

Smiling a bit, I take off my painter’s smock before throwing it on the ground. Then, wearing my normal clothes, I begin throwing paint joyously at the shed like I’m Jackson Pollack. It turns out the way you’d expect, with uneven splotches of color everywhere, including zig-zag black stripes, bright blobs of yellow, and smears of cerulean blue. Then, I up the ante and lift the entire can of red paint in my hands before hurling it with all of my strength onto the shed.Perfect. A huge splash of red splatters all over the door, and I use that opportunity to splash myself with some of the red paint too, before wiping my hands on my dress so that there are red streaky smears all over my clothes.Wah-la!Now, no one can tell that actually, the red splotch on my rear-end is a period stain, and not the result of my artistic endeavors.

Unfortunately, Coach Goni lumbers around the corner before catching sight of me. Our Director of Athletics is about four hundred pounds and shaped like a massive bowling ball. I don’t know how someone like him even walks, much less leads the school’s sports program, but maybe he was much more trim when he took the job twenty years ago. Regardless, I’m in big ca-ca now because when Coach Goni sees what I’m doing, he charges forth like a raging bull.

“What the fuck?!?!” he screams. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m just helping to re-paint,” I manage with a cheery smile while holding my brush up. “I’m an art student, and I decided to take my work in a different direction. Instead of working with the traditional easel and still life, I’ve decided to beautify our school—oooph!” I manage before Coach Goni barrels into me, knocking me to the ground.

“Stop!” the massive man screams, pinning me in place. “I don’t give a shit about your art project. Stop defacing the school’s property, you limp-wristed artistic douchebag!”

“Hey, who are you calling an artistic douchebag!” I howl in reply, struggling to get out from underneath his mass. “I’m not limp-wristed either! I’m just left-handed!”

“Coach, Coach!” another voice intercedes in a panicked tone. I feel, rather than see, an assistant coach run up to us. “Get off of her! Whatever she did, you can’t go around knocking people down!”

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