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I hold my breath.
He points to Lark. “That’s my little girl.”
“I understand,” I rush to say. But he shakes a finger at me and cuts me off.
“That’s my little girl,” he says again. “And I would do just about anything to protect my daughters.”
I gulp. “Would that include having to hide a dead body?” I ask him.
“Oh, no.” He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “If you hurt my daughter, no one will be able to find enough of you to bury.”
“I understand.”
“You know those dads they write songs about? The ones who sit on the porch cleaning guns and waiting for their daughters’ dates to arrive, and then they scare the everliving fuck”—he spells this out with his fingers, and I have never been exposed to a word like “ever-living”, but I get the idea of it—“out of the dates by making them think they’d shoot them?”
“I don’t listen to much music.” I point to my ear.
He grins. “Oh, so you don’t know about it. I’ll explain it for you. Some dads will sit on the porch with a big shotgun and they’ll warn a man off without saying a word, just by letting the man know Dad’s armed. But I’ll never do that.”
“Oh, that’s good.” I let out my breath.
“You know why I won’t do that?”
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.” I rock back on my heels.
“Well, since you asked so nicely, I don’t do that because I raised five brilliant daughters. They’re tough when they need to be, and soft as cotton when that’s what’s necessary. They smell good and they look pretty, but they kick ass. And Marta and I taught them how to treat people right. They’re kind, respectful, and they sometimes make my heart stop when they walk into the room, just because I’m so damn proud to be their dad.”
“That’s good.” The clench around my heart eases some.
“I never worry about their choices, because they typically make good ones. That’s the beauty of having brilliant kids. I would bet men that have sons worry about where they’re going to stick their—” His face scrunches up and he yells over his shoulder at Paul Reed. Paul grimaces and shows him the sign for “penis.” It’s the letter P pointed at his nose. And all I can think to myself is oh holy hell, he’s about to talk about my penis.
“Thank you,” Emilio says to Paul. Then he turns back to me. “I bet a parent that has a son has to worry about where that son’s going to stick his penis. But lucky for them, they only have to worry about that one penis.” He holds up a single finger.
I choke, coughing into my fist. He stops long enough to whack me on the back.
“So the way I see it is this: Dads with sons have to worry about that one single penis. Dads with daughters have to worry about all the penises.” He glares at me. “Do I have to worry about your penis?”
My penis will probably never get hard again. In fact, I think my balls have shriveled up inside me. “No sir, you don’t have to worry about my penis.”
He slaps me on the shoulder again. “Well, that’s good. I don’t even want to think about your penis, you see.”
“I’ll be sure you never have a reason to think about my penis.”
He smiles. “Good. Then we’re all done here.” He kisses Lark on the cheek, says goodbye to the Reeds, and he leaves.
“What did he say to you?” Lark asks.
“He pretty much made sure I’d never, ever get to have sex with you.”
A tiny V appears between her eyebrows. “What?”
“My dick is now too afraid to ever come out of hiding, I think.” I look down toward my waist. “And he and I had a really good relationship before all this.” I shake my head. “Now he hates me.”
“My dad hates you?”
“No.” I look south again. “My dick. He hates me. He’ll never forgive me for subjecting him to that.”
Her face suddenly looks warm. “Well, I’d offer to give him a kiss and make it better, but that would be really inappropriate.”
