9. Harrison
9
HARRISON
I woke hoping Daisy was still asleep, so I could sneak out of the house without seeing her. And sure, I wanted to avoid some ridiculous harassment about my work schedule or my drinking or whatever bullshit a twenty-one-year-old freeloader who’s blackmailing me deems problematic , but mostly, I didn’t want to face her after the dream I had last night, a dream which began with her doing yoga on the deck and ended with her naked on all fours, swearing no one could see us because my balcony was made of bulletproof glass.
My balcony is not made of bulletproof glass and I doubt it would help much with transparency even if it was, but you can’t control what your subconscious comes up with. And you shouldn’t have to feel guilty about a dream you couldn’t have controlled in the first place…but you probably should feel guilty about what you did once you woke up from it.
I was so hard that it hurt when I reached into my boxers. Three hard tugs and I was spilling over my hand, with her name hissed from my lips.
It was an intense relief, under the circumstances, not to find her downstairs, bent in half on my deck. I was safe from another uncomfortable interaction, safe from the guilt of seeing her blinking up at me all blue-eyed and flushed and innocent, knowing how very un-innocent she’d looked in my head a few hours before, begging me to fuck her harder.
Even if I resented having to flee my own home to get away from her, I was grateful it was even an option. Gratitude that ended the moment I realized one of the goddamn surfboards was no longer leaning against the wall.
After I’d asked so very little of her, she’d gone across the street to surf anyway. And I am going to drag her ass out of that water in a goddamn suit and tie if I have to.
I’m marching down the driveway like an irate father when she appears—radiant, with long hair dripping over her shoulders, surfboard under one arm, yukking it up with the guy walking behind her. Her happiness pisses me off. His happiness pisses me off. The way they both stop short when they see me, as if I’m a cop here to bust up their underage party, pisses me off most.
I’ve never had the urge to spank someone before, but I sure have one now.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.
Daisy gives the guy a shrug and crosses the street toward me.
“Well done, my dude,” she says. “I was just trying to convince that guy that I’m not an escort, and you come out here looking like a sexy but jealous customer.”
Sexy?
Not the point, Harrison.
“What you’re seeing, Daisy, is irritation . We had a whole conversation the other day about the fact that I don’t want you surfing out there, one I know you understood, yet here we are.”
She walks ahead of me to the garage and leans her board against the wall.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t surf,” she argues, grabbing a towel from the stack kept by the outdoor shower and pressing it to her face. “You said it wasn’t advisable and I disagreed. I’ve surfed down there twice without incident, so maybe you were wrong.”
“Or maybe it’s an accident waiting to happen,” I snap. “Just because you surfed there twice doesn’t make it safe. You know we had a friend die in college in a surf accident, right? You know what happened to your dad? Shit goes wrong.”
She tugs at the zipper of her wetsuit. “You bought a house here for a reason. Because at some point, you thought you’d want to surf across the street. So why the hell can’t I surf there?”
There’s a whole lot of cleavage on display while she struggles to get her arms free of the wetsuit. I look away. “Because I grew up surfing, and I did it a lot longer than you did.”
“Harrison, I grew up surfing too. And just because you left for college and didn’t see me surfing as a teenager doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Or were you under the impression that I just ceased to exist once I was out of sight?”
The accusation hits a little close to home. “ I don’t think he even remembers he has a wife when he leaves for the day ,” Audrey once said in couples counseling. I argued with her about it. I promised to change. And a month later, I called a realtor and told her I wanted this house before it ever even occurred to me that I should mention it to my wife.
“You’ve lived in DC for the past four years,” I counter. “Even if you surfed in high school, you haven’t been doing much of it since. If you’re going to surf, and especially if you’re going to surf alone, go down by the wharf.”
Her eyes darken. “The wharf ? Are you shitting me? The waves there are a foot high. Do me a favor and stop commenting on what I’m capable of until you’ve witnessed it firsthand. I surf as well as you do.”
I’m entirely certain that’s not true, but I know from experience that arguing with Daisy is pointless. As a toddler she’d demand one particular food—a hot dog or Goldfish or candy—and refuse to eat anything until she’d received it. She once went thirty-six hours without so much as a bite until Bridget broke down and gave her a lollipop. Beneath that all-too-adult body, she’s still the exact same kid who’d go three days without food until she got what she wanted.
“Well, until I’ve witnessed it, you’re not going back out there—are we clear? You benefit from this blackmail situation a lot more than I do. I’ll blow the whole thing up if I think you’re taking your life in your hands.”
There’s an angry glimmer in her eyes, but her mouth is curving upward. “Fine. Come out tomorrow then.”
How shocking that the little freeloader has forgotten about this thing known as ‘work’. “ I actually have a job. We’ll go down to the wharf on Saturday and see how you do.”
“The wharf? For fuck’s sake, Harrison. That’s where you teach a five-year-old. We’ll go across the street Friday.”
She finally gets her other arm out of the wetsuit and pulls it down to her waist, revealing yet another bikini that is barely containing her assets and through which it is amply apparent she is cold—very, very cold. Jesus Christ, I’d give up all of my limbs to remove that bikini entirely and—
Stop, Harrison. For the love of God, stop.
“Saturday,” I repeat firmly.
“For someone who negotiates for a living,” she says, shimmying the wetsuit around her hips, “you’re spectacularly bad at it.”
“That’s because I’m not fucking negotiating with you. I can’t spend an hour surfing at the crack of dawn and then go put in a full day.”
“Fine, we can wait until Saturday, but if I surf well enough, you have to go for a run with me on Sunday morning.”
“And if I’m right, you leave, no questions asked. ”
She bends down to peel the wetsuit off her legs. The bikini bottoms are wedged in the crack of her ass.
“Jesus Christ, Daisy,” I say hoarsely, turning toward my car, “buy a one-piece. I just got a view of your cleavage and your ass that no one but your husband should ever get. Maybe not even him.”
“Maybe you should stop looking, then.”
“That’s why I need you out of my house,” I reply under my breath.