It's Dayna's fault again.
It's Dayna's fault that I'm up at 3:30 in the morning on a Thursday, struggling to keep my eyes open, nursing a bourbon, sitting in my office. That girl is nothing but trouble.
I've raised three kids now and two of them turned out fine. Julie is in med school, dating a handsome venture capitalist who knows exactly how much to kiss up to me. Tommy is a little bit of an introvert, but studying computer programming at MIT is an achievement that makes me proud of him.
Which leaves me with Dayna. Dayna barely got out of high school. I was surprised that Cal State accepted her, but she has no idea what she's going to study there. I guess I could accept all that if she weren't so obviously trouble. When she turned 18, we gave her a midnight curfew. It was a mistake setting a curfew later than we went to bed. Dayna has spent the summer staying out until the sun since Gina and I weren't awake to check on her. She gets up on time for work as a lifeguard, but those heavy sunglasses aren't just part of the look. She's hungover. I've never met any of her friends. When I see them, they look older. She must have a fake ID, because I've heard her mention on the phone the bars she's gone to. I don't want her pregnant or dead in a DUI before she even gets to school.
I'm not the most attentive father, I know. But my wife and I were okay with her staying home and me working long hours to support the family. I make good money and the kids have their mother's undivided attention. I'm not distant or cold or unloving, just absent sometimes. But it worked fine for a long time. Then the problems with Dayna started. When I mentioned it to my wife, she said, "Dayna just doesn't listen." Tonight that turned into an argument. If I didn't like what she was doing, then I should try being the parent.
So here I am, sitting up waiting for Dayna. I'm going to set her straight.
About 4, I hear a car rev its engine and race off. The front door opens and I can hear high heels clacking on the tile. Dayna walks past the entrance of my office. Her heels are at least four inches tall and I wonder how she can balance in them since she smells like a brewery from here. Just looking at her disappoints me. The skirt on her designer dress was already too short, but she's let it ride up so the globes of her ass hang out the back. The skintight black material looks damp and I don't want to know what with.
"Dayna."
She stops dead, but doesn't startle. Slowly, she pivots toward me. She smiles broadly. "Hi Daddy." I can't figure out when she started saying, "Daddy," with that tone of voice. Nor can I figure out exactly how sarcastic it's supposed to be.
"Come in. Sit down."
She walks into my office slowly, but confidently. She plants each foot surely and looks right at me. She's smirking. She doesn't know what's coming.
Or I don't. Because she sits up on the edge of my desk a few feet from me, facing me directly. I hadn't expected this.
"I think you should sit in one of the chairs."
"You said to sit down, Daddy. I'm sitting down."
I think about the art of the negotiation. Don't get sidetracked. I ignore where she sat.
"Dayna, you have a curfew of 12:00. You are nearly four hours late."
"Well—" she started, but I cut her off.
"Additionally, you've been drinking and you're underage."
"Daddy, I—"
"And you've been very disrespectful to your mother. I'm not naïve. I know that you're 18 and you want to have fun, but a flagrant disregard for the rules doesn't buy you more freedom and trust, it buys you less. Now tell me what I expect of you."
She didn't answer. She laughed. It was a deep throaty laugh. It rolled out slow and there was nothing fake about it. She was amused. Her brown eyes twinkled in the low lamp light.
"Flagrant disregard for the rules. Daddy," she said as she picked up my glass of bourbon. "You have a way with words."
"Now just a minute," I said, starting to stand.
Like a flash, I was pinned back in my deep leather swivel. She had a high heel pressed against my chest. I was surprised by how strong she was. Maybe I shouldn't have been since swim team was the only thing she ever excelled at. And now one of those powerful swimmer's legs was flexing inches from my face. Her calves were lean, tanned, and toned. Her thighs were surprisingly thick, but perfectly round and firm, not a jiggle on them.
I realized I was staring at the leg in shock. I looked up at Dayna. She cocked an eyebrow at me over the rim of the bourbon glass as she took a long sip.
I negotiate for a living. Often I say little. A look can set my adversary to babbling. I saw that look in my daughter's eyes. I thought carefully before I spoke. I'm not going to babble.
I spoke in a calm, controlled voice. "Dayna. I'm not going to get physical with you. I want you to remove your foot."
She laughed a little before taking another sip.
"Dayna. I'm telling you to take down your foot."
"You don't tell me what to do anymore," she said, twisting her heel into me. It didn't hurt a lot, but I looked down at the leg. And discovered Dayna wasn't wearing any underwear.
Just between her parted thighs, I could see her lips glistening, not a speck of her blond hair to be seen anywhere. I didn't know how to react. I wasn't turned on—not by my own daughter. I took a calming breath and looked back up at her. She knew exactly what I had seen and she smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth as she finished the bourbon. She placed the glass down, then swung her leg from my chest to the arm of the chair. She pulled with her foot and I rolled toward her. Suddenly her other leg was on the other arm and her legs were spread wide for me.
"Oh Daddy. I always wondered how I could be your favorite. I wasn't as successful as Julie or as smart as Tom. What could I do? And then the answer is so simple."
I wasn't going to look down there. I kept my eyes on hers. "Dayna, we were already discussing your poor judgment. This goes beyond anything. Now put your legs down."
She spoke quietly. "You don't tell me what to do anymore. You looked Daddy. You looked and you liked it."
"Dayna. I'm not amused."
"Oh, I am," she said tossing her wavy blond hair and smiling broadly.
She pulled the chair a little closer to the desk. Now I realized that I didn't have the leverage to get up without knocking some things over, including Dayna. I just never expected any of this. I expected yelling, crying, accusations, and lying. I was ready to be calm through the hysterics, but now maybe my calm was losing me the battle. I didn't understand how.
She leaned in close to me and some of her hair fell across one eye. Her lipstick still perfect and bright red, I watched her mouth as she said, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. What am I going to do with you? Looking up my dress!"
"Dayna—"
"Daddy, what would Mom think? She would be so mad."
I wasn't going to rise to this bait. I struggled to stay cool. "Dayna, I'm the adult here."
She straightened up with a bounce. "Haven't you heard Daddy? I'm 18 now. I'm an adult. I can do so many . . . adult things."
It was past four in the morning. This is prime time for her, but the middle of the night for me. That's why she's winning this.
"Dayna, we'll talk in the morning. When you're sober."
I start to push back the chair to escape her. I was so focused on that action I didn't notice her unzip the dress. Suddenly, her breasts were out. I froze again and stared at these perfectly round C cups that defied gravity. At 18, she didn't need a bra for them to hold up firmly. Her skin was pale and flawless. They looked soft and inviting. I wanted to touch them. I didn't.
There was a long silence before Dayna giggled. "Oh Daddy. I've really got you now. Mom would be so angry."
It took all of my will to stand up. As soon as I did, her hand was on my crotch. And she felt it. She felt that I was hard. Because of my daughter. She didn't talk now, she just started pumping inside my pants. I didn't say anything either, I just panted.
And suddenly she stopped. She shoved me back down in my chair. I stared at her, not sure what was happening. She leaned back and grabbed a box off my desk. She pulled out a Montecristo No 2. Without looking, she picked up my cigar cutter, then carefully clipped the end. I suspected she had taken my cigars before. She placed the cigar between her lips and looked at me expectantly. After a moment: "Daddy . . ."
Quickly, I fumbled for my matches and struck one, moving the flame toward her face. She leaned in and expertly started puffing very lightly as she rolled the cigar around getting an even burn. Once lit, she leaned back and let out a large cloud of smoke. "Oh, Daddy . . ." She took another puff and looked straight at me. "Take off your pants, Daddy."
