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I glance around the room in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at here, Dad. I’m not being a tight-ass. I’m just trying to work.”
“Son, I just caught you watching that girl through the window like it was your own personal glory hole.” He smirks like the devil. “You didn’t even do that kind of shit in high school. And we had that hottie-tottie who liked to sunbathe every damn day during the summer living right next door to us…” He pauses and snaps his fingers a few times. “What was her name? Leanna? Lori? Laura Long?”
“Lyla Larosa,” I supply, despite my better judgment.
“Aha!” he exclaims and points a finger toward me. “So, you do remember her.”
“Dad, she sunbathed naked, and we later found out she was illegally filming pornos in her house. Of course I remember her.”
And I definitely did look. I was sixteen, for fuck’s sake, and her breasts were like their own entity.
“Wait…she was filming dirty movies?” he asks, and I want to laugh.
We lived in the upper-middle-class suburbs of New York, where the biggest drama stemmed from PTA moms and kids playing basketball in the cul-de-sac. Trust me, everyone in our neighborhood knew about Lyla Larosa. Everyone but Sal Miller, apparently. Which, given his personality, is shocking.
“Yeah, Dad. The cops raided her house. I honestly don’t know how you don’t remember that. It was a whole thing.” I groan, close my eyes, and lean my head back. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to this.”
I turn back to my email and grab my headset, slipping it over the crown of my head. I almost get the earpieces settled when he opens his mouth again.
“You think Lyla Larosa was her stage name or her real name?”
I pull the headset back a little and turn to look at him. “I have no idea. Why?”
“No reason.” He shrugs, but then he releases his hand from the wall and moves to my end of the table. “Hey, why don’t you pull up the Google and type her name in the search bar?”
“Dad.”
He shoves my shoulder and pulls a chair over next to me. “This is a mystery we need to solve, son.”
“No,” I retort on an exasperated laugh, taking my headset fully off and laying it on the table again. He’s obviously not planning to let me work in peace anytime soon. “This is a company-issued computer. Do you know the kind of HR nightmare I’d be inviting by searching for porn on it?”
“You’re on the Facebook, right?” he asks, leaning toward the screen of my laptop like his simply asking the question out loud will make the social media site pop up on the screen.
“Dad, I’m not searching for Lyla Larosa on Facebook.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got the message. I’m not talking about Lyla,” he corrects. “I’m talking about Carly Page.”
Of course, even with all the diversions, the sly bastard still found a way to circle back to her. It’s like an alternate universe of the corporate world with Sal Miller today, only it takes place in the seventh circle of hell.
“And I’m not searching her on Facebook either.” If I were going to look up Carly Page on Facebook, I wouldn’t do it on company property with my dad sitting right next to me. “Hey, isn’t it time to ice your balls or something?”
A hearty laugh escapes his lungs, but the movement makes him groan, and he reaches his hand down to hold his groin through the material of his joggers. “Ah, hell. Don’t make me laugh, kid.”
“I’m not trying to make you laugh. I’m trying to make you go away so I can do my job,” I say, and knowing this fight is fruitless from my current position, I get to my feet.
Hands to his armpits, I help him up and out of the dining room chair, turn him around, and while being careful and firm at the same time, I lead him to the living room couch. Once he’s sitting down comfortably, I head into the kitchen and grab a bag of ice along with a few ibuprofen.
“Here,” I say and hand him the pills with a glass of water.
He glares. “I don’t need this shit.”
“Yes, you do. Laughing just made you grab yourself. Take it.”
He huffs a few times but eventually listens.
Once I’m certain the pills are down the hatch, I hand him a fresh bag of ice and the television remote.
“Relax, watch a little TV, and I’ll be in the dining room trying to get some work done.”
Sal smirks up at me. “You know, you really go out of your way to distract me from shit that you don’t want to talk about. Reminds me a lot of your mother.” He moves the ice to his groin and lets out a hiss of discomfort. “May she rest in peace.”
