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Would Baylee like those? Some of them have faces like the sugar skull hoodie she spent much of her weekend in.
This is madness.
She nervously slides into the seat I pull out for her, fumbles with her napkin, gives a belatedthank youto me that I'm not sure if she meant for the seat or the napkin I retrieve for her. Or the hand I slide up her leg as I do it. This is far preferable to if she was actually perfect, I realize, and for a couple reasons. The first is that it means that she was never taught good manners, and that's excusable. That's fixable. I’m confident that she’s the sort who will learn from others if she’s just put in the right environment. She pushes back to keep people from seeing her vulnerable spots, but I’ve also seen the way she watches everyone else and copies them so she doesn’t have to admit when she doesn’t know what she’s doing.
I don't feel bad about punishing her for being a brat, but she needs more guidance coupled with positive reinforcement while she's young enough to absorb it.
The other reason I like that she's messing up is it means she'strying. She didn't just grumble into Addison's room and give the barest, brattiest details that guilted Addison, who does have impeccable manners, into dolling her up. I never asked Baylee what her goals are, but I get the feeling that she's mostly here because she doesn't have it in herself to finish school and knows the only jobs available to her are minimum wage. She's probably too stubborn to swallow her pride and work an espresso pump for eleven bucks an hour until she can prove herself worthy of managing the other people manning those espresso pumps for sixteen an hour.
She's getting enough money from this weekend to set her up for the next year, for her to do whatever she wants. If she's pregnant and smart with money, she'll be set for a very long time. I already know if she carriesmybaby, she'll be set her entire life, no matter what that costs me. She may only be mine this weekend and only because I declared it, but I can't see myself raising a child she gives me without seeing her in that child's face. I see my wife in my children still, sixteen years after laying her to rest. And if I see Baylee like that, it will be impossible for me to not take care of her from whatever distance I have to.
Already, I feel the same fear for her that I feel for Taylor, still 'finding' herself three years after finishing high school. I indulge her as responsibly as I can, and I only want her to be happy. But a life without goals, without accomplishments, is not a happy one.
What will Baylee accomplish? Will my intervention help or hinder her?
Baylee reaches over and squeezes my thigh, shooting me a smile that reassures me while also begging for reassurance from me. Bollocks. My brooding right now is throwing more stress at her. I take her hand in my own and bring it up to my lips to kiss the thin, warm skin so she knows I'm just lost in thought.
Across the table, Luke glares at me. Whatever's been between us since the first night is only gathering strength. I don't get what he's so pissed about, but everything I do seems to be making it worse. In another eight hours, we'll be driving home. There's a private jet we can take, but we chose to drive four hours. We had fun on the way down. I'm thinking it's going to be a silent return, but I'm hoping after a night in our own beds, things will be okay tomorrow.
Still, I'm glad my attention is averted by Greg, sitting on the other side of Baylee, when he says, "How are you doing today, sweetheart?"
It's a simple enough question at the breakfast table in the light of day, but last night, he clearly enjoyed his time with an unconscious Baylee. I gave him permission. We all did. She did, too. I saw the contract the girls signed. She knew it was a possibility. But it wasn't just a novelty for Greg. He nearly smacked her across the face before I stopped him, reminding him she wasn't passed out drunk, she was going to wake up if he did that. My argument didn’t make sense, but I had to give some explanation about why there was suddenly a line that couldn’t be crossed. The way he nodded and said, "Right on, right on," made me think he has, in fact, fucked girls who were unconscious due to far more nefarious reasons than orgasming themselves into a coma.
Baylee looks at me before responding. Not for protection but for permission. I want to say no — after everything last night, I would not trust Greg to be alone with my daughters, and I think most of the other guys are probably safe outside of this place — but I don't want drama here. I nod, and Baylee lights up, saying, "Yes, I'm good! Thank you!" too loudly to Greg. She turns back to me, but then her eyes go wide and she whips right back with, "Oh, and how are you today? Did you sleep well?"
Greg's grin is definitely inappropriate as he says, "Not as well as you did," with a wink.
Baylee’s grip on my hand tightens. She says, "Yes, thank you," weakly and turns her attention to the empty plate in front of her. The food comes out on carts with servers, but I take the dishes from them so I can serve us both.
There are the usual breakfast items: pancakes, eggs, meats. Yogurt and fruit. Toast and pastries. There's also tomatoes, mushrooms, and beans, making me think someone took note of my citizenship on my paperwork. Baylee nods when I offer her the tomatoes and mushrooms, but when she sees the beans, she gives me the same look my children do when I bust out a full English.
I'm not an ass. At that look, I say, "I take it you'd rather a danish?"
She sinks with relief.
It's just beans. My god. But whatever.
Conversation is lively around us as we eat, but Baylee works hard for her gifts. She seems to be working just as hard to prove she's not a brat. Not because she doesn't think she's one but because she's such a brat that she's doubled back around to prove a point.
And that's fine. I do my best not to stare at her, but I can't help constantly tracking her from the corner of my eye. She could sit there silently and sullenly pushing her food around, but she doesn't. She actually listens to the conversations. I see her open her mouth several times to interrupt, only to catch herself. The conversations range from business to childrearing to movies to politics, and she sits there absorbing it all.
If I didn't know any better, I'd think she's actually learning from it.
So of course I ruin the moment. I don't mean to. I just want to give her an approving squeeze of the thigh, but she misunderstands it. She hops right to her feet, and her voice is barely a whisper as she says, "Umm, Greg?"
He nods his wolf mask to her. "What's up, sweetheart?"
"Umm, thank you for coming in my pussy and calling me a whore last night."
I regret everything about this moment instantly. I shouldn't have goaded her into this. I shouldn't have demanded such a spectacle of it.
As Baylee turns away, no doubt to say the same to Everett, Greg smacks her ass and says, "The pleasure was all mine, sweet cheeks."
My jaw clenches. I dig my fingers into my thighs to keep from doing anything stupid. Baylee turns back to him, which means she turns back to me. I see the mortification in her flushed face. But then she takes a deep breath and keeps going.
The table is dead silent, but soon Addison strikes up a stilted conversation with Will. Others follow suit, letting Baylee do her thing without so much spectacle, although most eyes stray to me accusingly at some point.
I don't care. They know I put her up to this, so what. Even if this weekend went exactly as Baylee expected, I doubt she'd be back. It's not like I'm running her off from them. I have no fucks to give until she skips over Luke, who didn't show up last night, and I get a good look at the daggers he's throwing at me.
