Page 49 of Hidden Desires

Gerald huffs crankily. “She won’t tell you any more than she tells us. You’re just the ‘cool uncle’ now.” He makes air quotes, like it’s a joke, but his eyes are sharp.

I lean back against the sink, arms crossed. Obviously, Gerald suspects something, but I’m not sure what he suspects exactly, so I play it cool. “Eliza’s a good kid. Never gave you a reason not to trust her.”

He grunts. “It’s not her I don’t trust. It’s the world. You know what’s out there? These apps, these… these men, looking for girls who don’t know any better. Hell, Nancy showed me a news story last week—a girl from St. Paul, good grades, sweet kid. Turns out she was seeing some married guy, letting him pay her for… you know.” He trails off, expression disgusted.

I keep my voice even, but every word costs me. “You think Eliza would do that?”

Gerald doesn’t answer right away. He stares out the window at the dark yard, then says, “I don’t know. But I can’t take that risk. I’ve been thinking of putting one of those tracking apps on her phone, just to be sure.”

I bristle, instinctively. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head slowly, still staring at the floor. “No, I don’t think it is. You don’t have a daughter, Jack, so you have no idea what it’s like to have a young girl under your care. You’d do anything—and I mean anything—to keep her safe.”

Oh shit. The fact is that I do spend my time with a delicious young woman— his daughter, in fact. But I hold his gaze, refusing to blink. “Eliza would hate you for it.”

He shakes his head. “Better she hates me now than hates herself later,” he says in a grim tone.

I exhale, slow. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Gerald squints at me, and I know it’s coming. “You know, Jack, sometimes I get the feeling you know more about what’s going on with Eliza than you let on. What do you know?”

I let that hang in the air, keeping my face neutral. “Nothing. She comes to me for advice sometimes, but it’s the usual stuff. Just her job, managing her boss’s expectations, and that kind of thing.”

He steps closer, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re sure? Because if there’s something you know—anything—that could help me protect my daughter, you better damn well tell me.”

I shake my head, keeping my expression neutral. “She’s not in any danger. She’s not hooking up with a married man. I’d bet my life on it. That was just a random article in the paper. It’s not your daughter.”

He stares at me, trying to read my poker face. I stare right back.

After a beat, Gerald sighs, shoulders sagging. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Shit.”

I soften, just a hair. “You’re a good dad. But sometimes you have to trust your kids.”

He nods, distracted. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back to the game before those jackals eat all the jerky. Thanks, bud, for listening. You have no idea of the conversations Nancy and I have had. We’re a mess.”

I clap a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m here for you, my friend.”

But as we exit the kitchen, the words are sour in my mouth because obviously, I’m lying. Maybe I’m not married, but I am the man sleeping with his young daughter. Would Gerald kill me if he found out? I don’t know about that, but it wouldn’t be fun, that’s for sure. As we sit back at the table, deal the next hand, and the noise ramps up again, I can feel his eyes on me, checking for cracks.

Shit. If there’s a war on, it just went hot.

Poker night ends the way it always does: empty beer bottles, crumpled napkins, the smoke of spent cigars and money in the air. My living room is a wreck of folding chairs, sticky glass rings, and a drift of salty crumbs across the carpet. Gerald and the others peeled out an hour ago, Brent vowing never to let me “shark” him again, Ken’s laugh echoing down the driveway.

I run the dishwasher and throw the windows open to the brittle March air. On the wall, a squadron of die-cast fighter jets—my one “decorative” concession—catches the moonlight. A model of the F-16, battered and missing a wingtip, stares down at me like a one-eyed prophet.

I’m halfway through stacking the chips when the doorbell rings, once, hard and fast.

Three knocks, one after the other, like gunfire.

My first thought is “Gerald, round two,” but when I check the peephole, all I see is a blonde blur and the shine of a phone screen. What? Why is Eliza here? Sure enough, when I open the door, my gorgeous girl hurls herself inside: hair wild, face streaked with mascara, parka unzipped over pajamas and slippers. She’s clutching a pink duffel bag with both hands, knuckles white.

“Oh, shit. Baby, what⁠—”

She barrels further into the house as I shut the door, worried. Did Gerald go home and confront her? Did he continue our conversation with his daughter? Oh shit, oh shit.

For a moment, the beautiful blonde just stands there, chest heaving with a distraught look on her delicate features. All I can do is stare.