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Daughters who followed their father’s date were, what was the word? Paranoid? Insane? Overprotective? Weird?
But damn it, here she was, on a Friday in one of Seattle’s busiest neighborhoods, waiting across Nineteenth from Monsoon for her father and Trey to emerge from the restaurant. She was hidden by shadows in the doorway of an independent coffee shop called the Nervous Center—which Miranda thought of as fitting because she was very, very nervous. She rued the moment she had this crazy idea, even if her intentions were good.
She wasn’t so much afraid of being seen and caught out as she feared her own inclinations. She was, maybe, overstepping her duties as a good and faithful daughter. She should be home at her house, working on her novel, which was due to be turned in no later than April and for which she’d written exactly 22,700 words. Or at least hanging out with David, Debbie, and Rick, who were doing a rare thing—staying in on a Friday night for a night of pot smoking, IPA, and subsequent munchies ready to be fulfilled by Pop-Tarts, Doritos, and Rick’s homemade brownies (which also included weed). They were going to bingeAbsolutely Fabulous, which David had confessed to never having seen earlier that week.
They’d begged her to stay and called her a traitor to the house for leaving when they had such a festive night planned. It was little comfort for her to realize that they’d all probably already nodded off with bellies full of junk food and throats hoarse with laughter.
Her breath caught as she witnessed her dad and Trey emerging from the restaurant. Damn it—why did they have to look so happy together? She hoped her father wouldn’t go back on his promise to keep things casual. Right now, they were awfully chummy, laughing and even exchanging a quick kiss. She was afraid they’d hail a cab and head off together to Dad’s East Queen Lake neighborhood. She imagined herself grabbing another cab and screaming at the driver to “follow that car,” as though she were some zany heroine in a madcap movie comedy.
Except there was nothing zany or madcap about this situation.
She observed them as they chatted and then, relieved, watched as they went their separate ways, her father heading south and Trey going north.
It was time to get to work. Miranda was glad she’d worn her running shoes because they’d make no sound on the pavement. She’d dressed for stealth too—all in black—jeans, T-shirt, and denim jacket. She slid out from the doorway of the coffee shop and followed Trey, staying several feet back. He probably wouldn’t be suspicious or worried about being followed, because we don’t live in thriller-movie scenarios, but she thought she couldn’t be too careful.
She was glad she’d worn comfortable shoes. She’d followed Trey through most of Capitol Hill, cutting through Volunteer Park and the side streets that bordered it, finally heading south on Tenth Avenue and, at last, the street that was the heart of the Hill, Broadway. They’d walked for miles.
She was about to give up and go home, a warm bed and a glass of whiskey calling to her, when Trey finally stopped, lingering outside a kind of notorious place she’d heard about from her slutty roomie, David, Tank.
She watched from across the street as Trey lit a cigarette.
He smokes?
She waited until he finished, flicking the glowing butt into the gutter. What he did next, though, disappointed her more than she’d expected. She knew, instinctively, the man was a snake, but she didn’t know until right now how much of one.
He’d just finished a date with her father, giving him a chaste buss on the cheek before they parted, and now he was heading into Tank? If it hadn’t been for David, she most likely wouldn’t have even known what Tank was, because the outside was so nondescript, just a gray industrial-looking building that had somehow missed the gentrification of the new pricey ’hood. There were no windows except for high up, second or third story, and all of those were blacked out, like empty eye sockets looking out on the night.
There was no sign even advertising what the place was, just a simple address number, lit from above, and next to it, a black plateglass door.
Tank was one of Seattle’s filthiest and most infamous bathhouses. David told her that it was where all the tweakers went to get high and take on as many partners as they could in a night. He said, laughing, it reeked of bleach and semen. According to David, the only people who went there were “on the spin cycle.” She hadn’t questioned him at the time what that phrase meant or how he’d come to know of it.
She waited for a few minutes, hoping Trey would come back out of the place, although she didn’t expect him to. One went into such a place for only one reason—anonymous sex. She hated to think of Trey’s lips on her father’s cheeks only a short time before he disappeared inside Tank.
She started toward the curb, her head turned to look for a southbound cab.This isn’t gratifying at all. Sure, it kind of proves I was right. But damn it, I really didn’t want to be right. Not about this. Daddy will be heartbroken. Oh sure, they were far from exclusive, but doing something like this right after a date ended? Not cool. A mixture of emotions coursed through her—anger and sadness prominent.
What kind of guy does that?
She shook her head as she stepped between two parked cars and raised her hand to hail the taxi heading her way.
THERE WAS NOginger ale, so when Miranda got home, she poured herself a half tumbler of whiskey. She knew she shouldn’t, knew it would guarantee her a crappy day tomorrow when she needed to be attending to her studies. But she found herself shaking when she rolled in her own back door at almost midnight.
She couldn’t get the image of Trey Goodall heading into a bathhouse after just having had a date with her father. It was sleazy. And to her mind, a betrayal.
She took her glass and a warm fleece blanket out to the back porch. She sat and cocooned herself against the evening chill. One of the things that had sold her on this place when she’d first seen it was the backyard. It was a good half acre, with a decrepit but serviceable gray-painted deck. The yard was weed choked, a bear to mow because it went uphill and never appeared better than untamed. But, it was a bit of a sanctuary, with its mature pines swaying over the perimeter and the feeling it gave—that one was out in nature alone, rather than being smack dab in the middle of Seattle’s busy University District.
She closed her eyes, leaning back in the kitchen chair they’d dragged outside for moments like this. She tried to forget what she’d seen, to not dwell on how she should deal with it. She simply wanted a few moments of peace, of oblivion, of being alone with herself with absolutely no thoughts.
She was actually succeeding in relaxing, whether it was due to whiskey, the cool quiet of the night, or her own mindfulness. It didn’t much matter what the reason was as long as she had this result.
And then, in a not entirely unwelcome change, her peace broke when the creak of the back door opening alerted her she wasn’t alone.
“Hey, why are you sitting out here in the dark? It’s frickin’ cold, Ran!”
Her roomie David stood above her. Shadows blurred his features, but she could still see him in her mind’s eye—the reddish-brown hair, the freckled, pasty-white skin he hated, the few extra pounds he could never seem to shake. Still, he made her laugh as no one else could. He had the ability to work that magic on others as well. It was probably why he had no trouble attracting men—he was average looking, but he had the air of a mischievous bad boy that was irresistible.
He was also one of the kindest men she’d ever known, next to her dad.
She debated whether she should share her heartache of the evening. She didn’t need to debate long. Talking to someone about the situation suddenly became a very attractive option.
