A Father's Bliss (A Holinight Novella)
1. Renee
Here’s what I’ve discovered about liking men who aren’t my age. When I found someone younger, I somehow got an emotionally unavailable, exploring every vagina in the state, douche. And when I found someone older, he ended up being the hot dad of said douche, who also happens to be my own father’s sworn enemy.
Now, when I say enemy, I’m not talking battlefield-ready, we-ride-at-dawn type enemy; just a coworker who happens to also be a rival—a competitor, if you will. They’ve worked together for the last ten years, and in the four since I’ve joined the same company, I’ve spent every waking minute pretending that I didn’t have cartoonish hearts pulsing in my eyes for him.
See, my first day on the job is one I can remember as if it was the start of what’s supposed to be an Emmy award winning movie, but ends up being a complete flop. And to fully comprehend it all, I have to go back to the opening scene. The day it all began. Maybe then, I can be met with more understanding and fewer knives in my back.
At least, one can hope.
Four Years Ago
“Thank shit I finally have a coworker who isn’t a seventy year old wrinkled-scrotum man who takes his coffee black.” The voice comes from my left and curiously, I shift to see who it belongs to.
Turns out, it’s an over six-foot tall male, with blond locks that fall gracefully over his forehead, and is dressed as if dipped in a vat of Vogue’s finest. Tailored navy slacks, crisp white button up, and chocolate leather shoes that match his belt so perfectly, it’s as if they were made from the same hide.
He holds out a slender hand. “Name’s Troy Banks. Been working in the mailroom here for a year now. I enjoy long talks at the cooler, procrastinating on the office’s coffee runs, and gossiping about Betty’s pearls, which she claims are from a survivor of the Titanic.”
A laugh bubbles out of me as I move my briefcase over from my right hand to my left before shaking his. “Name’s Renee Porter, daughter to one of those wrinkly men you work with, though, he’s only fifty-three and I’d rather not know about his scrotum, and I too would love to gossip about Betty’s pearls.”
His grip is firm but friendly. “I think I’m going to like you, Renee. And in a completely platonic way, mind you, as you’re missing a few bits, such as a long phallic member that I very much enjoy.”
This time when I laugh, I snort, garnering a few glances from people at their desks not too far away. Everyone is hunched over, their eyes either glued to a screen or an open manuscript. Soft taps of clacking keyboards echo in the slightly stale air, and the constant hum of the many computers fills in the rest.
While some may look at this scene and be reminded of that one scene from Beetlejuice, I see a secondary home. I smell the subtle scent of aging books, hear the sweetest hums of people reading a line that resonates with them, and can already feel the euphoric bliss of falling into the pages of another world.
I hold up an apologetic hand to the few I disturbed, and shake my head at my new work friend. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
He shrugs. “Probably.”
Present Day Commentary: He did and still does, but it’s always so much fun.
“Well, I’d love to grab some of that community water after I get settle?—”
“There she is.” My father’s deep boom erupts into the air like an underwater cannon, and the amount of rolled eyes that follow are enough to create a tsunami. “My sweet little angel.”
My teddy bear of a father wraps his arms around me before I can even get a word out. His familiar cinnamon scent and softness envelops me whole, and for a second, I melt into it, the slight nerves I’ve ignored since this morning fizzling out.
Ever since I was old enough to read, I’ve always had a book in front of my face. Whether it’s from seeing my father do the same, or the fact that the universes between the pages were so much better than my real one, it was that way from age five to now. When I was a teen, my father broke off from the publishing company he worked for and joined other executives that opened a smaller, more inclusive indie publishing company. He’s a literary agent and it was my dream to one day work with him.
Fast forward to now, after graduating a little early with an English and Communications degree, my next steps changed, and it definitely wasn’t what I’d initially wanted. In fact, the position wasn’t even offered by the company until my father brought it to a board meeting. They said it was a risk and because there’d be a lot to prove if it happened, to say I was stressed would be an understatement. In the end, the CEO decided to meet and listen to my proposal, and after a bomb ass presentation, I was offered the job.
Present Day Commentary: I’m pretty sure afterward I even blacked out in the car for a hot second from excitement.
My position as a social media scout isn’t in the same league as my father, and I’m simply a cog in the machine, but it’s something I’m incredibly passionate about. Something I’m also hell of nervous about. And for a moment, his hug serves as a little comfort.
“Hey, old man.” I sink into his chest momentarily before prying myself away. “I thought we said we’d be a little more inconspicuous.”
Troy laughs next to me. “Mr. Porter inconspicuous? That’s like asking a rooster not to crow.”
“Hush, Troy.” My father waves him off before throwing his hands around me. “I want everyone to know this sweet angel is my daughter and to keep their eyes averted.”
My cheeks pinken from the slight embarrassment as I parrot Troy’s words. “From who? The wrinkled-scrotum seventy-year-olds?”
My father lets out a boisterous laugh, his belly shaking as he continues to walk us through the rows of desks. The entire office is shaped like a boxy U. Smaller offices make up an L along the front and right wall, a conference room is on the left, along with a decent sized library that holds all the books the company has published. Nestled in between both is a vending machine and cooler sitting inside what I assume to be a lounge, while on the floor, three long rows of desks sit to house the majority of the staff. There’s a singular copier at the font, and…a fax machine?
Present Day Commentary: The entire office was out of some sad seventies sitcom and now looks completely different after my father let me have my way. Productivity is up at least five percent from the bean bags alone.
He runs his free hand through his silver hair before pivoting and taking us to one of the glass offices adjacent from his. “Actually there’s just one.”
After opening the door and ushering me inside, he closes it and juts a thumb over his shoulder. I follow where he points, and opposite of me sits an office. At first, I notice how it’s the most modern space in the entire space, noting the floor to ceiling emerald bookshelves behind an oak desk, the tall black lamp, leather furniture, Mac desktop…but then I see him. The man sitting in the corner chair, one tailored pant leg propped by his ankle over his opposite knee, a book open in his lap, and a pencil tucked behind his ear.
From here, I can make out the slight stubble on his strong jaw, the jet black hair cut higher on top, and the deep dimple in his right cheek when he begins chewing on his bottom lip. He’s handsome. Like breathtaking, need a second to realize this is a regular guy and not Jensen Ackles filming a new movie type handsome. And of course, as if he can hear my thoughts, his eyes flicker from the book to me and my breath really does stop.
Dark eyes piece into my soul, pinning me in place before I have a second to escape. And he holds me there—which really can’t be more than a few seconds—his gaze scanning over my face, then down my frame before sliding back up in a way that gives my entire body the chills. But then he does something that damn near makes my knees give out.
He smiles.
It’s soft and subtle and changes his face in a way that screams all the ways he’s not really the gentleman he appears.
Holy shittttttt.
I clear my throat and painfully rip my eyes away from the stranger who goes back to his book like he didn’t just have me by my throat. “And who is that?”
My father’s responding grunt says it should be obvious. “Marcus Debois.”
Ah. The sworn enemy he’s been going on about for years. They are the two sole literary agents in the small company, and they have a going bid on who gets the most successful books published. While I’ve always assumed it was in good fun, the narrowed gaze of my father is enough to display how real it is. At least for him. The man over his shoulder looks like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
“Yeah, and he has a son almost your age who’s even worse.” He grimaces as though recalling a distasteful fact. “Stay away from him too.”
Present Day Commentary: This definitely should have been my first red flag about Harrison, but because my father’s own judge of character is very skewed, I didn’t pay attention. Hindsight and all.
My brows furrow. “Wait. How old is he?”
My father sucks in a deep breath. “The son or?—”
“Mr. Debois.” I allow my gaze to flash to him again. He can’t be over thirty.
“Uh, thirty-six, I think.”
“And his son?”
“Just turned eighteen.”
“Dad, he’s a fucking kid. No thanks.” I drop my suitcase on the empty desk and the echo it makes causes my surroundings to suddenly come into focus. I whirl around, my stomach doing cartwheels as I take in the intimate space. One long window in the corner, a weathered desk in the center, an even older looking office chair behind it.
This is my office. My office at a publishing house. I did it.
Holy fuck, I did it.
“This is mine?”
My father smiles and embraces me in another bear hug. “It is.”
My heart explodes, butterflies doing their song and dance throughout my stomach and escaping into my limbs as I squeeze my arms around my father. And while I know this day and these feelings will be ingrained as one of the best in all my core memories, so will the look Marcus Debois gives me when our eyes connect again.
Four Years Later (aka Now)
A few years passed until I met that son. He came to the office to have lunch with Mr. Debois to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, but offered for myself and Troy to come out that evening. Against my better judgement, I let Troy talk me into going because I was, and I quote, ‘working too hard, and fucking too little’ and needed to get out.
Was this true? Absolutely. But what I didn’t need to fuck was the barely legal-to-drink son of my hot coworker. A coworker who I’d harbored a crush on that only seemed to grow more substantial over the last four years.
Needless to say, I think I was only three shots of tequila in when Harrison’s hair took on that dark hue of his father’s, and his eyes less chocolate and more coal. Four shots when he grew the six inches needed to match Daddy Debois’ height, and a fifth before those dainty hands of his felt good against my skin.
It was my fault that I ended up sleeping with him and even more so when I jumped into a year long relationship after. No one seemed happy about it—me included honestly—and it ended horribly, with me learning he was nothing, and I mean nothing, like his father.
Maybe that relationship and the way we ended it is why my father’s face is currently an unhealthy shade of fuchsia as he paces Mr. Debois’ office, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure about what they’re discussing, which means I’m well aware of what’s going to happen if I’m right.
But even knowing so, having a full understanding of how it could go all wrong and explode right in my face, there’s no way I’m saying anything other than yes.