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Assholes like this give men a bad reputation. Not okay for anyone, but especially for her because I heard the worry in her voice when she called.
“Hey, man, I wasn’t—” the guy starts, but he stops when he sees the hard look on my face. All he’s going to do is dig himself a deeper fucking hole at this rate.
“Come on, Tiffany,” I tell her quietly, threading my arms around her tighter as she sags in my embrace.
I’m glad she called me. I don’t think she has ever done that before, for any reason. Her number is only in my phone because of Elle. And work.
But right now, I’m glad it was.
The asshole trying to take advantage of her altered state scurries away like the bottom feeder he is, disappearing into the crowd. Part of me wants to give him an ‘assisted walk’ out of the bar, but I’ve got to take care of Tiffany right now.
What would’ve happened if she hadn’t called me, if I hadn’t answered, if I hadn’t shown up?
I toss the first bill in my pocket toward the bartender, who pushes it back. “She’s square.”
“Then use it for the next girl that asshole looks at.”
The bartender nods and makes the bill disappear. “You her father? Glad she called you.”
The ‘no’ is on the tip of my tongue, but deciding that might cause more problems than it’s worth, I give a barely perceptible dip of my chin. I’m just glad I can be here to help. That’s all that matters, not explaining myself to a random bartender who I gather was the one who wanted to call her a cab, prompting the worried ramble about serial killers.
Tiffany’s almost light as a feather as I support her out the door, catching her when she starts to stumble. I remember doing this a few times in the past, when I was Tiffany’s age and was out with the guys, and had to help them into a cab or two.
Helping Tiffany’s a lot easier.
I get her out to my car, glad that I went with the ‘responsible’ full-sized Range Rover option the last time I traded in. It makes it easier to get her propped up and buckled in. That done, I go around to my side and get in before pausing.
Should I take her home?
Unexpectedly, I remember that she lives in Elle’s old apartment, so unless she’s had the locks changed, I already have a key. Maybe I can make it work.
That’s probably the ‘safer’ option for me.
I’m the CEO of Fox Industries. She’s an employee.
I’m a divorced, single man. She’s a single, attractive young woman.
The optics on this are crystal clear. But I’m worried about her health. She needs to be watched. At my age, it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with someone falling down drunk, but I remember not to leave them alone, at least.
Tiffany hiccups loudly as her eyes clear enough to say, “Daniel?”
But even the small movement of looking left must’ve sent her spinning because her eyes widen immediately, and a split second later, she’s got her head on the dash, puking. Some of it ends up in her lap, but a good bit of it splatters on the floorboard. I hold her hair back, keeping it out of the line of fire. Sure, it’s gross, but this is not the worst thing I’ve ever dealt with, nor is it the first time I’ve handled vomit.
Purging her stomach must help Tiffany some, and she sags back against the seat, her eyes slipping closed again. I carefully get a tissue out of the glove compartment and dab her lips.
That settles it—she’s coming home with me so I can take care of her.
It’s not that far to my house, which is probably a good thing as Tiffany looks pretty damn pale when I pull into the parking garage at my building. Luckily, my parking spot is only three spaces from the elevator, which has a ‘beeper chip’ system that allows me to go directly up to the fifth floor, where my condo awaits.
When I first moved in here, Elle jokingly called it my ‘Frasier home’.
“Only you would find a place like this, Dad. Not an apartment, not a suite, but a condo, complete with homeowner’s association to keep the riff-raff out.”
But as I fumble with the keys while simultaneously trying to keep Tiffany vertical, I appreciate that it’s a good place too. With three bedrooms, it’s more than a single man needs, but I’m glad to have both a spare bedroom and space for a home office right now. Also, the open floor plan means I’ve got tremendous views out the floor to ceiling windows that take up my entire rear wall, and the bathrooms are spacious.
Which, I suspect, is going to be helpful.
“Stay right there,” I tell Tiffany, switching her over to lean against the wall so I can get the key in the door.
