Daddy’s Rules by Kelly Myers
Nick
Maybe I should just fucking marry her,I think.
I let out a breath and run a frustrated hand through my dark hair. Problem is, Margo York is giving me an ultimatum and I don’t like that. She’s backed me into a corner and is now demanding that I propose marriage or we break up.
How romantic.
Sure, we’ve been dating for a year, but what the hell is the rush? And, when I ask her that, she gets even more pissed. I seriously can’t win.
“Nick,” she snaps and I force myself to look back over into her pale green eyes. She crosses her arms and taps the empty ring finger on her left hand as though reminding me there should be a sparkling diamond there. “If you don’t want to marry me then what are we even doing? Because it feels like you’re just wasting my time.”
When it comes to women, I have three rules: 1. Never get emotionally-involved. Keep it purely physical. That doesn’t mean I can’t develop a modicum of affection for her. I’m not a robot, for chrissake. But, when all is said and done, love is for suckers and it’s important to be able to walk away, if need be, and not look back.
My second rule: Never let her take control in bed. I’m in charge and she doesn’t come until I say. This doesn’t mean she can’t initiate sex. Sometimes that turns me on, knowing that she desires me. But, when it comes down to it, I’m the man, the alpha, and I call the shots.
And, lastly, my third rule: Never mix business with pleasure. This is the most important one because I’m a photographer and my job requires me to work closely with models. Young, beautiful, empty-headed girls who will do anything to make it in this Industry. But, if they try to cross the line, I will ignore their advances because the last thing I want is a sleazy reputation or sexual allegations or charges against me when they decide they aren’t happy with the shoot or something I said pissed them off. #MeToo is taking down quite a few power players and I want nothing to do with that shit. I am a professional with a sterling rep and I plan to keep it that way.
Right now, Margo is a perfect example of why I have rule number one. Even though we’ve been together for about a year, though on and off, I am not attached to her. I can kick her out of my life and my bed right now without blinking.
Maybe that makes me cold, but I think it’s smart. Heartbreak is a horrible thing and I don’t ever want to set myself up to potentially experience it. I saw firsthand how it broke my Mom when my Dad left her. It took her years to pick up the broken pieces and get her life back together. Now, she’s with John, my stepdad, who is a good and kind man who treats her with the respect she deserves.
But, what if he had never come along? I think she’d still be curled up in bed, crying her eyes out over a man who never gave a shit about her or me.
Fuck that.
I have a bit of a dilemma, though. As much as I want to tell Margo to walk, there’s something she doesn’t know. She thinks I’m pretty well-off financially, but that’s hardly the case. The truth is I’m drowning in debt. Mostly because of her.
Here’s the catch, though. My eccentric Grandmother died last year and, since I was her only grandchild, she left me a nice-sized inheritance around $200 grand. Problem is, there’s just one stipulation. I don’t get a dime until I get married.
So, I can marry Margo and roll in the dough. Or, retain my sanity and debt and break up with her.
Margo York has me by the balls and doesn’t even know it.
Money never concerned Margo because she’s a trust fund baby who spends her days shopping, doing yoga and meeting her wealthy girlfriends for lunch. Her biggest concern is usually a chipped nail. Her family is worth around half a billion, old money, and I think her great-grandpa was a first-class passenger on the Titanic. Shit, if his wife was anything like Margo, he probably chose to go down with the ship.
I’m not going to lie. She’s my meal ticket, the answer to my current financial problems. But, hell, the majority of my debt is due to her. Even though she’s loaded, Margo expects me to pay for everything. And, I don’t mind that, but, at the same time, when we have to go to the most expensive restaurants for dinner, fly first class, take exotic vacations and stay in 5-star resorts, the great money I make as a fashion photographer disappears quicker than a virgin on prom night.
And, now she wants a ring?
Christ, help me.
I can only imagine how much that would cost because if I know Margo, she’s already picked the ring out and it probably costs a fortune. I can already hear her whining: “But, Nicky, I have to have it. Yellow diamonds are all the rage now so I can’t very well have a plain, boring, clear diamond.”
God fucking forbid.
I feel a headache begin to pound behind my eyes and I just want her to leave. All I want is a quiet night with a couple beers and some In-N-Out burger. Or, better yet, a nice greasy pizza.
Margo would probably rather die than consume fast food. And, beer? Well, that’s the poor man’s drink. Margo only sips $30 martinis. Half the time, she doesn’t even finish them. “I just want to try a sip, Nicky,”she says and orders three.
I can’t support her lavish lifestyle any longer and I’m drowning in debt, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. If I marry her, though, her money becomes our money. Right?
And, then there’s the inheritance that I’ll finally be able to get my hands on.
So, do I marry her and be debt-free and miserable? Or, do I break it off and just fucking declare bankruptcy?
I grit my jaw hard, not liking either choice.
“You’re not even paying attention to me. I can’t do this anymore,” Margo yells. I blink back to attention and see her snatch her designer handbag up off a chair and storm toward the front door. She grabs the handle and glances over her shoulder. “You have one week to make a decision, Nicholas. Either propose or it’s over.”
She slams the door behind her and I roll my eyes. As I massage my temples with my fingertips, I try not to think too hard about her threat. Here’s the thing-- I may be 42, but I am not ready to get married yet. At least not to Margo York.
God, I used to have more money than I knew what to do with. In my 20s, I was a top male model and walked the runways in Europe and did campaigns for designers like Versace, Dolce & Gabbana and Ralph Lauren. I bought this beach house in Malibu and dumped my Toyota for my dream car-- a Dodge Demon which is a limited piece of automotive history. With 840 horsepower, she can do 0-60 miles per hour in 2.3 seconds and 0-30 mph in a second flat. Driving that baby down the Pacific Coast Highway is better than fucking a supermodel.
Trust me, I know. I’ve had my fair share and despite their beauty, most are vapid, boring and have zero personality.
For me, modeling held no challenge and I found myself becoming more and more interested in photography. One day, I bought a camera and started taking pictures. And, they were damn good. I discovered a talent I never knew I had and began booking gigs on the other end of the lens.
Along the way, I guess I became a little...arrogant. I knew my pictures were better than the majority out there and I knew how to get a good shot fast. But, at some point, my reputation turned from exciting new photographer to moody and difficult to work with.
And, now, when I need money, the photography jobs have dried up.
I don’t think I should apologize for having high standards, though. I expect my crew and the talent to work hard. If they slack or don’t take the job seriously, I’m going to get pissed. What’s so wrong with that?
On my set, I maintain a professional atmosphere at all times and I challenge everyone around me to rise to the occasion. Not to be better, but to be the best. I won’t tolerate anything but perfection.
Apparently, my brilliance at getting phenomenal pictures is the reason I have a difficult reputation. It’s bullshit. An artist is under a lot of pressure to succeed and most people don’t have a clue what it takes to make it in this town.
Now that Margo is gone, I head into the kitchen and grab a beer out of the fridge. I think I’ll order that pizza, too, I decide. With extra pepperoni, bacon and sausage.
“Processed meats are full of nitrates and nitrites, Nicholas,” she would say in that silky voice of hers. “But, if you want to get cancer then go right ahead and order it.”
I pick up the phone and place the order.
Then, I wander outside, onto the back deck, and lean against the wooden rail, eyes on the gray waves of the Pacific Ocean. It’s still overcast today, but the end of June Gloom is in sight since July is almost here. I don’t mind the cooler weather and mistiness but, after a month, I’m ready for vibrant blue skies and the warm sun again.
As I take another sip of the beer, my phone rings. It’s my agent and I answer on the second ring. “Nick Knight,” I say.
“Nick, it’s Deirdre. What are you doing this weekend? Because I have an amazing job opportunity for you.”
“What’s the job?” I ask, interest piqued.
“Guess campaign with a new up and coming model. It’s going to be brilliant and guarantee a hefty paycheck for you. The shoot is Saturday and Sunday, but we’ll fly you in a day early to get situated.”
“Where?”
“Las Vegas, baby. After the shoot, you can stay a day or two and get some gambling in if you want. What do you say, Nick?”
“Who’s the model?” I ask.
I hear some shuffling and wait while she tries to find the newbie’s name. “Uh, Sierra, no, wait, Savannah. Savannah Hart.”
Never heard of her.But, all it takes is one campaign like this to launch a model’s career. And, I like that kind of challenge. And, God knows, I could also use the paycheck. There’s a stack of bills on the kitchen counter and I’ve been dreading opening them for over a week now.
“Book it,” I say. Even if this Savannah Hart never modeled a day in her life and looks like a toad, I have the talent and expertise to make her look like a million bucks. Like a superstar. And, even though the money won’t solve my current dilemma, it will help.
Vegas, here I come.
