Free Daddy Knows Best by Vincent Drake Page B

hate me. Why do they hate me?”
    “What happened?”
    “The usual. They called me a slut, said I’m a piece of trashy shit, that guys only want me coz I’m an easy lay. Beth went all psycho on me, said I was eyeing up her boyfriend, but I wasn’t. He’s a loser and she already told me he can’t keep it up. Why would I want to get on a useless sack of shit like that?”
    “You’re drunk, they’re drunk. It’ll blow over in the morning and you’ll be laughing it off over Facebook by lunch.”
    “You don’t get it, do you?” she said. I pondered her question, and found that no, I didn’t get it at all. “ Everyone hates me!”
    “That’s bullshit. Of course your friends don’t hate you.”
    “They do!” she cried. “This always happens to me. Even my own mother hates me. And you, you hate me too, don’t pretend you don’t.”
    I turned off the TV, and her ragged breath sounded so much louder, so much closer. I’d never seen her like this. Drunk, sure, drunk and cocky, but never like this, not once in the six months I’d known her. “Your mother doesn’t hate you, she loves you.”
    She laughed a bitter laugh. “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”
    “Your mother is busy with work, and she gets pre-occupied.”
    “And you?” she asked. “You hate me, don’t you? Admit it. You can’t stand me.”
    She looked so young sat there. Her eyes so big and sad, and so fucking pretty with her sweet little fingers curled in her hair. “That’s a bit rich, don’t you think? It’s you who’s gunning for me every time I step through the door.”
    “So, you do hate me.”
    I smiled. “You drive me fucking mental sometimes, Georgia, but no, I don’t hate you.”
    The hairs on my arms stood on end, clocking the danger in the room before I did. Georgia shifted in her seat, raising the hem of her skirt just a fraction. I soaked in the milky white perfection of her thighs. Shit.
    Her eyes met mine, and there it was again, the dirty girl glint. “Do you love my mother?”
    “I married your mother, didn’t I?”
    “I don’t think she loves you.”
    “Thanks for that.” I feigned chest pain.
    “She doesn’t love anyone, only herself. Sorry. If you do love her, I mean, if you don’t it doesn’t matter shit.”
    “I’m not drunk enough for this,” I sighed. “Not for a conversation about the reality of love in modern suburbia.”
    “You think I’m a silly little girl, that I’m just the spoiled little brat you see every day. You think that’s all there is of me.”
    “You make it really damn hard to see anything else.”
    “Maybe I don’t want anyone to see anything else. Maybe it’s easier that way.”
    “Easier to be a cocky little brat than show a little common courtesy?”
    Her eyes pooled with fresh tears. “See, you really do hate me after all.”
    My hand was on her knee before I’d even registered. Her skin was silky soft, warm to the touch. “If I hated you I wouldn’t be here.”
    “I don’t hate you, Andrew.” Her eyelids fluttered, her breath shallow. “I just pretend I do.”
    I swallowed hard, trying to focus the resolve behind my eyeballs. “Convincing act, sweetheart.”
    She twirled her hair. “You know, when I was little I thought my mum bought me things because she loved me, now I know it was because she didn’t. Compensation.”
    “People show love in different ways.”
    “She doesn’t show love in any way. I’ve been bad my whole life and nobody says a thing. Nobody stops me. Nobody cares.”
    My heart thumped like a jackhammer, pulsing right the way through my cock. “That’s crazy talk. Your mother is your mother. She cares. People care.”
    “I am a bad girl, Andrew. I’m really bad.”
    “It’s always a choice, sweetheart. You choose who you want to be.”
    She spread her legs, almost imperceptibly. Almost. “Maybe I want to be bad. Maybe I hope one day someone cares enough to stop me...cares enough to put me in my place and make me