Page 9 of Daddy Defender
No rules, no expectations.
Just vibes.
I was untouchable, riding life like a perfect wave, never wiping out.
It was the kind of life that I always dreamed of but never actually thought I’d get to live when I was stuck in school trying to act like I gave a crap about algebra or whatever the heck Mr. Leary was talking about in his double math class.
But on the water, living free, that was just perfection. I never needed to fake it. Not ever.
Then Vince showed up, all tanned skin and cocky grins, shredding waves like he owned the ocean. And even now, I can’t deny just how good he looked on the waves—I even heard that he could have gone pro but apparently the surf authorities had it out for him, which actually makes total sense now that I’ve seen way beyond the initial attraction.
I met Vince at a surf comp in Santa Cruz, his board slicing through a ten-footer like it was nothing. He bought me a beer after, said he liked my fire, my “don’t take crap” attitude.
And I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
Vince just seemed like my kind of guy—free-spirited, fearless, someone who’d roll with my nomadic life. If only I knew then what I knew now. Even thinking back to it makes me mad.
But, honestly, the warning signs were there, blinking like neon, if I’d just paid attention…
The way he’d dodge questions about his “business,” always vague about where his cash came from. The late-night calls he’d take outside, his voice low, sharp. How he’d get this hard edge in his eyes when I pushed back on his plans, like my freedom bugged him.
Once, he grabbed my wrist too tight when I said I was heading to a different beach without him. “You don’t just leave me, Bodie,” he’d said, laughing it off, but his grip lingered.
Argh. I should’ve bolted then. No questions, no second chances, I should have gone and not looked back.
Instead, I stayed, thinking I could handle him, that my Little side could coexist with his charm.
Big mistake. By the time I found that ledger in his condo—names, shipments, numbers that screamedcartel—he’d already used Shred for one of his deals, tainting my safe space.
Vince knew I was a Little, knew I needed my romper and Poot to feel safe, and he used it, mocking my “kid stuff” when I tried to leave, despite having always said that he was total cool with it. “You’re mine, Bodie,” he’d said. “Run, and I’ll find you.”
I see it now: he was never charming, just a snake in board shorts, coiling tighter every day, ready to bite down and infect me with his venom when I stepped out of line and tried to do my own thing.
“Wait… what the hell?” I gasp.
A horn blares, yanking me back to the road. Headlights blind me as a truck swerves, the driver yelling something I can’t hear.
Shit!
Shred’s veering toward the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires. My heart slams against my ribs as I wrench the wheel, pulling back onto the pavement.
“Get it together, Bodie,” I mutter, my breath shaky. The truck roars past, its taillights fading, leaving me alone with my pounding pulse.
Too close. Way too close.
I can’t afford to lose it, not now, not with Vince’s message—I know you’re in Sunny Ferns—burning in my brain.
I force myself to breathe, slow and deep, focusing on the road.
The overnight parking spot’s just ahead, a quiet stretch near the beach where I can crash for a few hours before hitting the road north.
Shred’s gas gauge is still screaming red, but I’ll deal with that at dawn. Right now, I need sleep, a moment to feel safe, even if it’s just me and Poot pretending everything’s okay.
I pull into the lot, the ocean’s murmur soothing as I kill the engine.
The spot’s empty, just a few dunes and a lone streetlamp casting a weak glow.
Perfect.
