Page 5 of Forbid It

The words sink heavily in my gut.

I just hooked up with my boss’s daughter.

Fuck.

2

CASSIE

When I first bought my house by the beach, I fell in love with the huge windows that overlook the sea. I would spend all my time standing against the glass, watching the rhythmic crashing of the waves as I drank coffee or a glass of wine.

Or stare woodenly at my reflection whilst my mother complains in my ear.

“I don’t understand why you had to use your house for the party. If your father wants to host all of his business guests, he should do it at his own house. Or the country club. He spends enough money there. They should keep a permanent ballroom prepared for him.”

I sigh heavily as I turn away from the window. It’s been the same way since my parents divorced when I was a kid. They both love nothing more than venting to me about how the other one is selfish, or making bad choices, or wearing the wrong season’s boat shoes to the club. As a child, I learned pretty quickly that the best way to handle it is to just listen and keep my mouth shut, lest I get dragged into an even longer conversation that ends with me wanting to bash my head into a brick wall.

“I didn’t mind, Mom.” I tug at the keyring hanging from the locked door, the mini green surfboard a souvenir from my one and only surfing trip to Hawaii. “You know I love hosting.”

The catering staff did a good job, the furniture is back in its correct place, the glassware and catering trays have been returned to the warehouse, and the surfaces are polished to perfection. There’s no evidence that there ever was a party. Apart from the two cliffside chairs slightly in disarray.

After the guests had left and I was alone in my home again that night, I crept back down to the secret spot, searching for the underwear I had left behind. It was incredibly unpleasant heading back into a party with my father and all his friends with my wetness clinging to my thighs and my panties hiding in the yard. It was dark, so I had to use my phone torch, flipping the cushion that had been righted over in my attempt to find them. In the end, I gave up, expecting that they’d been carried off in the breeze and I just couldn’t see them in the early hours of the morning.

Although, when I went back to check in the light of day… still no underwear.

I almost hope the wind did blow them away and they’re somewhere in the Pacific ocean strangling a poor turtle, instead of with him.

Robbie.

The mystery man with the gorgeous British accent. I still can’t shake the memory of the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he laughed at my jokes, of his dirty words as he pressed kisses to my skin and made me forget I was at my father’s party.

I would say I don’t usually let strange men eat me out in public. And I don’t. Usually. But sometimes I just want to live a little. To do something that’s just for me and not have to worry about the consequences or how it will look to my reputation if it got out. What’s the point of life if you don’t chase the exciting moments when you can?

“When I’m back from St Tropez next month, you can throw me a party and we’ll be even.”

Shaking my head to clear my thoughts of Robbie, I bite back another sigh. Everything with my parents has to be even, fair, divided, sliced straight down the middle like I’m sure they wanted me to be as a teenager, each parent gets an arm and a leg. “Sure, Mom. What kind of party do you want?”

“Garden. I’ll invite everyone from the club. It can be in the daytime, instead of a den of iniquity like I’m sure your father wanted.”

“Mom, please. Do you think Dad would ask me to host a party for him if he wanted it to be rock’n’roll?”

My mother harrumphs on the other line. “I know the man better than you, Cassandra. Any excuse for loose morals and he’ll take it.”

I grimace at the words. They’ve been divorced for over half of my life, but this has always been the way it is. My father buys my affection, a new car, a record label, a beach house with private access to some of the best waves on the West Coast, and my mother guilts me for accepting them.

We had some family therapy back in the early days, but even the therapist gave up on us.

I bite my tongue. Thankfully, my phone buzzes again in my ear. “Sorry Mom, someone’s calling, I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll send you an initial guest list and my catering company.”

“Sounds great, okay, bye!”

I hang up and answer my best friend with a long groan.

“Let me guess,” Pip laughs. “Claudia Hamilton.”

I flop on my couch with a thump. From here, I can still see the sea through the windows. Usually it relaxes me, the gentle motion of the waves that I swear I can hear if I listen hard enough.