Discipline by Lena Little
5
Daniel
Something is clearly off. There’s a reason Delilah is continuously acting up and she’s not telling me why. Not to mention, why is she damn near throwing herself at a man over twice her age as if she’s dying to get her cherry popped before some imaginary ticking clock hits zero?
I motion for Winston to follow me into his study, and wisely he does just that.
“Something up with Delilah?” he asks, real concern on his face.
“Something’s up with her all right, but I think the problem doesn’t start with her. There’s something else bothering her and I think it has to do with you.”
“With me?” He takes a step back.
“What’s changed in your life recently, Winston? What might have set her off-kilter?”
He looks up and away as if trying to narrow down what it could be. “Nothing,” he finally says, but I’m not about to buy it.
“Why did you hire me?” I grill further.
“To help get my daughter under control.”
“Nobody hires an ex-con fresh out of the joint to come live in their house to help get a girl who’s a buck o’ five soaking wet under control. No man worth his salt that is. Now, are you in trouble? Is there someone you need me to take care of? What’s really going on?”
“No. Heaven’s no,” he says, his effeminate nature making me want to reach down, grab his balls and twist them off just so I’m doing my duty for the rest of the actual males on this earth, the ones that still have a set of functioning balls.
“How’d you get my number? Let’s start there.”
“Guy I used to do business with. Said you were a real stand up guy, just got caught up in a bad situation but you didn’t fold. Said you were reliable, structured, and disciplined, which is exactly what Delilah needs.”
“What guy?”
“Doug Westfield.”
“Doug Westfield,” I repeat, surprised I’m just now getting around to verifying the source. Fortunately, Doug’s a good one. We were both in the dark about some arms smuggling at a company we were handling import and export for. Once we found out I burned the fucking place down. Turns out a twenty thousand foot structure fire comes with some serious consequences, especially when you don’t rat out the guy behind the reason why you did it. I’m no saint, but I know where that amount of weapons goes, and it’s not into the hands of adults. It’s kids in second and third world countries who are hopped up on testosterone and ready to be a part of a revolution, not smart enough to understand that it’s really just a thinly-veiled U.S. coup to get a Central or South American ruler to play ball with our energy companies, turning over the countries resources in exchange for a loan from the IMF and World Bank. A loan, or loans, that are structured so they can never be paid off. Then the country defaults and the Americans keep the resources, the money, and install a puppet president to do their bidding. Not something I’m going to be a part of. “So Doug referred me,” I repeat.
“That’s right.”
“And you’re not under any sort of duress in your life or your business?”
“Nope.”
I lean in, grabbing Winston by the tie, and pull his face to mine so he can see the flecks of gold in my pupils. “If I find out otherwise I’m going to be very pissed Winston. And when I’m pissed I become uncontrollable. Do I make myself clear?”
“Uh huh,” he whimpers.
“What’s going on in here?”
I turn toward the door and see Delilah standing there, looking way to fucking beautiful and I release her dad’s neckpiece.
“We’re going for a walk. That’s what.” I close the distance between us and grab her by the hand, leading her right out of the room and then the house.
“Where are you taking me?”
“What’s wrong with your dad?”
“Nothing’s wrong with my dad.”
“What’s going on in your lives that you’re not telling me.”
“Nothing,” she protests.
“Why are you so shit hot to give up your cherry then?”
“Could it possibly be because I actually like you? Did you ever think of that, or are you too dense to understand that, and therefore I need to question my own judgment?”
The words sting because they seem real, although I’m not quick to buy them. Maybe growing up as an orphan has made me question my own self-worth. Why would someone else be so interested in me when the two people who gave me life weren’t? I’m well past those thoughts, or at least I thought I was. Maybe they’re so deep, so subconscious I didn’t even know it.
“Okay,” I grunt, letting go of her hand.
“Okay? That’s all you have to say?”
“Until I can find out what’s really going on?”
“Uh!” she exhales. “Why don’t you just leave? Huh?”
“That’s not part of my job.”
“Your job. Is that all we are to you?”
“I was hired to bring you to heal and in order to do that I need to find out why you have such a problem with acting up and being an all-around brat.”
“Maybe because it’s fun. Did you ever stop and think it might be that simple?”
I just look at her, realizing she is just a kid still. Sure she may be an adult in age, and underneath it all, she’s probably had to grow up quick without a mother, but deep down she’s got deep-rooted emotional scars that are still very much on the surface. Apparently just like me.
“Maybe it is,” I say, walking back into the house and dropping it. Or at least that’s what I want her and her dad to think…so I can figure out what’s really going on.
