Chapter 4 Beckett
BECKETT
Sixteen hours.
That’s all it took for my neat, clean life to go up in chaos.
The Sloane who knocked on my door was not the same girl who had braces and wore baggy hoodies.
I guess I was expecting the same girl, maybe with a more free personality.
No, this girl was wearing a tight black tank top that showed way too much midriff, and shorts that had no business hugging her the way they did.
Not that I was trying to look at her like that, but it was hard not to.
This morning, I found a black lunchbox with a note on it saying it was for me. When I opened it, I found what I assumed to be my lunch. Leftover meat with rice and a few extra toppings, plus a tortilla.
Her fajitas were actually pretty good; I’d be stupid not to take the lunch, so I took it with me to work.
She’s not a little girl anymore, that much is clear. I’ve never looked twice at her when she was growing up; she was just quiet little Sloane. Said four words at a time max, and always made herself as small as possible.
Well, I looked twice yesterday. I shouldn’t have; it’s wrong, she’s basically a kid. But for a brief moment, I let my eyes wander. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by my surprise at seeing her different after so long. It won’t happen again.
I’m broken from my thoughts when my phone rings, Briar’s name flashing across my screen.
“Yeah?” I ask, holding the phone up to my ear.
He begins talking, and I zone out for a moment, thinking about why he hasn’t asked about Sloane. It’s weird that he wouldn’t even bring her up, considering he asked me to help. His voice fills my head after a few moments, and I remember that we’re on the phone.
“Yeah, and Chanel thinks she needs a new car. Women,” Briar rambles on, and it reminds me of the car sitting in my driveway.
“About that, did you buy Sloane a new car?” I ask.
“No,” he replies, and I tilt my head curiously.
“That’s funny, cause she showed up to my house yesterday afternoon in a new Ford Bronco with American Forces and custom pin striping,” I say, leaning back in my seat. My arms cross over my chest as I hold the phone up to my ear.
It isn’t often I get to take Briar by surprise, but I’m not going to take this moment for granted. Call it a sibling rivalry, if you must.
“You don’t think Monica bought it for her, do you?” he asks. For a moment, I think he’s joking, then I realize he’s serious.
“Yeah, I highly doubt that,” I say, I can almost hear the wheels spinning in his head.
“Maybe she’s got a sugar daddy or something.
She’s grown up a lot the last few years; maybe she’s caught the attention of some rich bachelor, and all she has to do is put out for him,” he says casually, like we’re talking about some random acquaintance and not his daughter, whom he still hasn’t asked about.
“Maybe,” I say stiffly. The last thing I need is to be thinking about stuff like that.
We see crimes related to social media all the time. I don’t want to be thinking that in order for her to be making money and being Miss Independent, she is going out late at night to meet creepy old dudes who give her money for her services.
If that is the case, however, I might have to retract my initial no curfew rule. Because no way in hell am I going to be aiding that.
There’s a long pause of silence on his end before he talks again. “Well, I don’t know. I’m sure that’s what it is.”
His comment irritates me. This whole conversation has put me in a sour mood, because not only did he ask me to take care of his kid, he hasn’t even asked about her, and now he’s suggesting what…
that she’s some kind of whore? Like, she isn’t fully capable of getting a job and making money like the rest of us, which I’m pretty sure is exactly what she’s doing?
At least she has money, since I have no idea where the car would have come from otherwise.
It makes me pause for a moment, thinking about how defensive she got when I asked her about her job. Now I kind of feel bad for blowing it off like it was nothing.
“Good luck with her, I can’t imagine how high-maintenance she is if she has all this money suddenly.”
“I think I can handle her, thanks for your concern though,” I say, and I hear a laugh on the other side of the phone.
“Yeah, well, you’ve never lived with a teenage girl before. Besides, you’ve been a bachelor for the last four years,” he prods. I can hear the amusement in his tone.
I clench my jaw, tapping my fingers absentmindedly on my desk. I smirk to myself as I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“You did it. How hard could it be?”
He growls on into the phone. Like he’s some kind of fucking gorilla. It makes me smile, just a little.
“Fuck you. Bye,” he says, hanging up before I can say anything else.
I have to laugh to myself as I run a hand through my hair. I shake my head as I focus back onto the mountains of paperwork that I have to sift through before I can even think about going home.
It’s almost ten by the time I actually walk through the front door. It’s dark, and I’m exhausted.
I get inside, kick off my shoes, and hang my keys up. I look at Sloane’s keychain, making a mental note to have a house key made for her.
She sits on the couch, glasses perched on her nose, as she looks at her computer, the TV playing as background noise.
“I didn’t know that you wore glasses,” I say, pulling on my tie and undoing the top button of my dress shirt.
“They are blue light glasses.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, my brows furrowing in confusion as I make my way to the kitchen.
“They help protect my eyes from the light the screens put off.”
Of course. It makes sense considering she’s constantly online, posting about anything and everything.
“You’re not funny, by the way,” I say, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with some water from the tap.
I lean against the sink, watching her look up at me from the couch.
“I’m actually a comedian, but please, do tell, what’s not funny about me?” she sasses, a hint of a smirk on her lips.
I almost smile. “I looked up what Aurum Plus was,” I say, and she chokes on the sip of whatever is in her stupid metal water bottle.
“Oh God, not at work,” She says with a laugh.
“You wanna tell me why you thought it would be funny to tell me you were a pornstar?” I ask, taking another sip.
“How do you know I’m not?” She questions, getting up off the couch and coming into the kitchen, leaning her elbows forward onto the counter as she watches me carefully.
She looks confident, it’s weird. I’ve never known her to be confident. But it looks good on her. “Because I looked you up,” I say. Her smirk deepens.
“Aww, were you curious, Uncle B?” She asks, with a mock pout on her lips, the nickname feeling a lot heavier than it should. “I could’ve just given you a free show, all you had to do was ask,” she quips, looking at me across the island with big doe-like eyes.
“I was wondering if I’d have to retract my initial statement of no curfew,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to mask my surprise. I watch as her eyes start at my face and travel down my body, staying glued to my forearms for just a moment.
“Why? You don’t want any sexy men or women creeping into your house at all odd hours of the night?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s innocent, her eyes giving the perfect illusion of everything I’m starting to think she isn’t.
“You’re free to go wherever you want, and free to come home whenever you want as long as you’re alone when you do so,” I say. She blinks once, then twice, before she gets a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Jealous that I have a cool, fun job while all you get to do is sit at a desk and arrest bad guys?”
“No, I just don’t want to have to explain to your family why you’re coming home in a body bag,” I say seriously, and she stiffens. I deal with disgusting motherfuckers all day long. Those who like to prey on young, naive girls who are prettier than they should be.
“Like they’d even care if I was gone.” The words leave her lips almost absentmindedly.
For the first time since she got here, I see a crack, an insecurity that she’s always kept so well hidden from the world.
“I don’t actually do that; it was a joke. All I do is post stuff with all my clothes on, to be clear. Nothing bad. And I don’t plan on going and meeting any strangers for sex. That was Lottie’s thing, not mine,” she says after a few seconds of silence.
I don’t miss the small jab at her sister, but I choose not to comment on it. Charlotte has always been the wild card out of the three siblings. It’s really not that surprising to me that she would do something like that.
“Ok,” I say with a shrug. I wasn’t trying to get an explanation; I just wanted her to know the reality of what could happen if this is what she is doing.
She nods before turning around to grab her laptop and heading towards the stairs.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say when she steps up onto the bottom step. She offers me a nod in response.
“Your dinner is in the microwave. Night,” she whispers. With that, I hear her light footsteps as she heads up the stairs to her room.
I run a hand through my hair, messing up the gel. I open the microwave, and as she said, there’s a plate of food in there. I hit the one-minute button and get myself another glass of water while it heats up.
I open the fridge, and there’s a lot more food in there than I remember there being yesterday, or even this morning. I check the pantry, and there’s food in there, too.
I pick up one of the boxes and scrunch my nose. I don’t even know what half the words are, but it claims to be organic and all that shit.
Don’t get me wrong; I work out and live a fairly active and healthy lifestyle. But I'm fine with a steak and a potato, too.
Most of the time, I just eat out, or don’t eat at all because I’m so engrossed in whatever case I’m working on that I forget.
The microwave beeps. I toss the fruit bar back into its box, closing the pantry door before going back over to the microwave. When I pull it out, I’m met with an array of colors. She made some kind of stuffed red and orange peppers with ground meat, rice, and other veggies. It smells amazing.
I drink my water and set my plate on the counter before going back to the fridge to grab a beer.
I eat in silence like I do most nights, but I notice something in the corner over by the toaster.
A candle, wax still melted, as if it had just recently been put out.
And now that I think about it, there was a fairly fruity smell in the air.
It wasn’t bad. I’m just glad that she remembered to blow it out.
I don’t mind it, I like it a lot more than I should, and for whatever reason, there’s a small smile on my face as I put my dishes away and make my way to bed.