You are not my Daddy.

Prolepsis
You are not my Daddy
July 2023
Houston, TX

“Methuselah? I’m not actually that old. Probably just old enough to be your daddy.” Sipping his whiskey, his eyes brighten as his mouth quirks into a side grin, “I could be your daddy.”
Ugh. I loathe that phrase. Who wants to screw their father? I do, however, decide I do want him. Time to go all in.
Furious, I thrust myself out of the chair and stand nose to nose with him and seethe. “You are not my Daddy.”
Grin vanishing, he grabs me by the neck and squeezes. “Pleasure or Pain? Your choice.”

Chapter 1
How it all started.
A few hours Earlier
I look down and check my phone again. Not a blip. Three messages and not one response from my sister.
I release a frustrated sigh and say to myself, "Well, it’s official, ditched by my own sister."
The bartender gives me a quick glance and hands me a Coke. I grimace at the first sip; it's flat, and the mix is off. Three dollars lost.
I look out on the dance floor and watch the brave souls dancing. My hips sway, recalling my youth and long sweaty nights of dancing without a care, while also thinking of the forty-five-minute drive back home.
"What a waste," I say, and sadly sigh at my dress. I picked my favorite. A red bodycon, with a shaped bodice and flutter sleeves. I stop people in their tracks when I wear it.
Closing my eyes, I let myself go for a moment, slinking my hips and raising my arms in the air. Likely looking like the old drunk lady who forgot she isn’t twenty anymore, but I taught my children you should never stop dancing, so I will not either.
I didn't even want to be here, but my sister was in the wild stage after a divorce. That stage when your social brain and body frantically look for another soul to collide with, but you probably shouldn't.
Luckily, I bypassed that stage. Oh, my brain and body tried, but the fates protected me, making sure any bad choices I would leap at were far out of reach. Giving my logic center time to reset the system.
Unfortunately, I completely bypassed all of it, so seven years later I am still single, and it would take a God to pull me out of my peaceful solitude.
Men don't know this, but that is what you truly compete with is whether you are worth sacrificing our peace and complete control over our lives. I’m more than happy to dance alone, then deal with the crap men put me through.
"Can I buy you a drink?" I lower my arms and turn toward the voice, still holding the bad Coke in my hand. I silently motion to the obvious drink.
"You don’t seem to like it." He replies.
I typically avoid eye contact with anyone. In the quick glance I gave him, I saw dark hair and eyes. Definitely a nice jawline. Personal weakness. "It's fine.” I reply, “It's just Coke. The mix is off."
"Would you like something else?"
"I don't drink."
He starts to ask another question, but I interrupt.
"Look, you're very nice, but I'm old enough to be your mother."
He flashes a brilliant smile. "I doubt that."
I take a second look at him, searching for tell-tale signs of age. It's not always easy, but he is clearly between twenty-five and early thirties.
I give him my polite, laughing smile, "No, pretty sure." The flaw in this gambit of judging his age is that I got a good look at him, and he's all kinds of my type. Tall, wiry, a twinkle in his eye and a mouth always about to smile. Which also means he is bad news.
I have terrible taste in men, another reason for my self-imposed abstinence. The last time I allowed myself to fall for charm and looks, I ended up emotionally abused and strung out on the highs and lows of narcissistic love.
To get past my defenses now is a matter of meeting my high standards, avoiding red flags, and feeling a spark.
He laughs at my insistence and leans in to talk over the loud music, "You don’t date younger men?"
His fingers lightly brush the back of my arm, and my eyes follow his lips as he politely pulls away.
I feel a spark. A god damn jolt.
Fuck. I shake my head. "As a rule of thumb, best to keep that age gap within 10 years." I am telling myself this more than him.
He studies me for a moment. "You're right. You'd be too young then."
I blink, "Ha, ha." I've played this game before. Flirting 101: tell the older woman they look younger. The problem is, I suck at it, so I head it off before it starts. "Let me guess. I look no more than 29?" That magic number that older women seem to crave. Not too old and not too young.
"30s. Max."
I see he is serious; this is why I am bad at it. I am mistaken for being considerably younger all the time. Some theorize it's my weird medical condition.
I laugh off the compliment, "I get that a lot. My friends think I'm a vampire."
"Really?" He says with a smile and the lilt of his voice that makes my knees jiggle. Fuck.
I shrug and begin to inwardly panic. I need to escape the conversation. He was too young, too handsome, and setting off alarm bells.
In the past I would have simply dipped out of the conversation, but my incessant urge to be candid took the lead. "Look, you're very nice, but too young. We'd have nothing in common. Hell, I have a kid your age." I start to put down my drink and leave.
He puts his hand on my glass. "Who’s to say I don't have the same thing?"
"What?" I shout.
He gets close to my ear, and his fingers brush down the length of mine. "Who’s to say I don't have the same thing? I could be like Paul Rudd or a Vampire."
I laugh, "Prove it."
He whips out his bifold wallet and flips it open, then tosses up another flap to fish out an ID. It's strange that it isn't right on top, for easy access, but I wait. He places the ID between his index and forefinger and offers it to me.
I glance at it under the flashing lights, trying to read the date. The reflective laminate and my dyslexia are not helping. I focus on finding the birth date. 1969. I look at him, then look at it again. Picture matches, and it clearly says 1969.
It also says it is expired. I scoff, "You almost had me, but this expired in 2009. Do you have a current one? Is this your father's? Or a fake ID?"
"You think I had a fake ID when I was." He pauses to do the math.
I wasn't even gonna try to do the math.
“Fourteen to get into bars?" Finishing his sentence.
"I could have; family curse. In fact, when my kid was 14, a woman asked us which one she should card to buy wine."
"I thought you didn't drink."
"I don't; it was for cooking."
He smiles, showing all his gorgeous teeth, and asks with delight, "You've looked like this since you were 14?"
I shrug, "Pretty much. Definitely, have more lines than then." I think specifically of what I call my old lady throat and touch the deep creases. I came to terms with them, but 14-year-old me hated those lines.
He studies my face, not convinced.
I look anywhere, but at him. "Here." I hand his fake ID back to him. "Nice try and all. I should be going." I put down my drink with finality and ignore the parts of my brain that like him.
Walking away, I mutter, "Another Goddamn Zaphod Beeblebrox." Almost a mantra these days to remind me to avoid men like Zaphod. Handsome, charming, witty, and arrogant.
I'm almost at the door when he steps to my side.
"Did you make a Hitchhiker reference?"
I stop and quietly panic. He's a nerd. Inner me is making grabby hands and shouting, Gimmie, Gimmie Gimmie!
I wave him off, "No, no, no. I mean yes it was, but, " I point at him, "No." Then bee-line for the door.
"Stop." He demands.
My feet freeze. I literally can't move.
He steps over. "I'd like your number, but you clearly would give me a wrong one. He pulls a card out of his wallet and decides where to put it. "Hmmm, you’re smart, and your purse is zipped tight." He gives me a sly grin and motions to put it in my decolletage.
My eyes burn with fury, but I still can't move.
Just before the card touches my cleavage, his wrist twists and he tucks it into the side of my open collar, then steps out of my way.
I jolt forward as my muscles finally listen to me and yank the card out. Pivoting to spew a litany of curses at him, I discover he has vanished into the crowd and flashing lights. Certain he is still watching me, I make a grand display of tearing up the cards and tossing them in the air like confetti.
Someone whistles loudly and cheers. I didn't expect the audience, but appreciated the support.
Done with the evening, I stride out of the club fuming. "This is why I don't do bars!"

It's dark and my savvy self picked parking that was cheap but far away. I maintain a strong stride, knowing it will deter trouble.
The night air cooled the small sheen of sweat on my arms. Brushing away the goose bumps, my thoughts wander to how he did that. Hypnosis? Not an easy task on me. I don't do prolonged eye contact. Maybe it was sound. I try to recall anything, but the thump-thump of bass. Nothing.
Lost in thought, I slip off a curb, losing my balance. Throwing my arms into the air as a counterweight, I catch myself. Regaining my balance, I lean down to ensure my shoe and ankle are still intact when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
It’s a couple humping in an alley, but the legs underneath are limp and unresponsive.
I act before I think, "Hey!"
He stops mid-stroke.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Scrambling to his feet, he shimmies his pants back up and runs off.
"Shit." I rush over and find the girl unconscious. Swearing, I unzip my crossbody and pull out my phone to dial 911. Hitting the speaker button, I place it on the ground so I can check her vitals.
Placing my hand on her diaphragm, it moves; she appears to be breathing, but it's shallow.
I lightly slap her face. "Come on, Honey, wake up."
She doesn't stir. I adjust her top and pull her panties back up.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Female," A male voice over my head states, "early twenties, unconscious, alcohol poisoning and sexual assault. Assailant is in a dumpster one block over, unconscious."
I look up and see him.
His attention is on the girl and 911.
I watch as he gives the operator directions and concludes the call.
He crouches down next to me, “Help me pick her up. We need to get her blood flowing.”
I help, but have trouble taking my eyes off of him, which is when I see him bite his thumb and rub it on the girl’s teeth.
“What the hell!” I shout and pull back his hand.
“Don’t,” He commands.
I involuntarily release him.
That’s twice he has done that, and I am not okay. I scurry back but stop, glancing at the girl. I can’t leave her. My panicked gaze flashes between him and her.
He closes his eyes and grimaces. “I’m not going to hurt her or you.”
“Why did you do that?” I ask, still baffled at the action.
“I’m making her body burn off the alcohol.” He grunts and props the girl up. She flops in his arms, but I can see color returning to her face, and her aura is no longer a sickly green.
I shake my head. “Last time I checked. Blood doesn’t do that.”
“Mine does.” He’s clearly upset, but not at me.
“Crap, Julian, what did you do?” I hear a female voice cry out.
At the alley entrance is a lanky woman in platform heels and Viking braids.
“What I had to.” He snaps, “The girl was raped and reeks of alcohol. The ambulance is on the way.”
She sighs, putting her hands on her hips, making the fringe of her top sway, and scolds him, “You’re getting sloppy.” Plodding into the alley, she waves at me, “Get her out of here and fix the problem.”
“I want her.” He states firmly.
Viking Braids eyes him. “Fine. Whatever gets you off, just not here.”
“Excuse me!” I blurt, not happy they are ignoring me and deciding my fate, “I’m not invisible and I am not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes, you are.” They both snap as sirens approach.
I was compelled to listen.
He stands up, grabs my hand, and softly whispers, “You are coming with me.”
My feet move without permission. I do my best not to stumble and trip over the dilapidated sidewalks and roads.
We arrive at a parked car, and he orders me to get in.
I comply. Once in the seat, I feel control again and reach for the door to get out.
“Stay.” He demands.
I sit with a huff.
“Buckle up.”
I reflexively buckle in, but not sure if that was a command.
He turns on the car, and Perhaps by Cake blares to life.
Fuck, I think. I love Cake, especially the deep cuts.
The song floats through my head as he whips out of the lot and onto the road.
He told me to stay but didn’t say I couldn’t talk. I open my mouth, “Where are you taking me?”
“Relax, I will explain everything when we get there.” He is not compelling me.
“Where?”
“My place.”
“I’m not going back to your place. Let me out.”
He hits the steering wheel in frustration. “Do you want me to explain or not?”
“Why does it matter?”
He exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It just matters.” He stops at a red light and looks at me. “I’m tired of the same thing night after night. I saw you tonight. You stuck out, like a gorgeous red flame.”
“So that means I get to be your victim tonight.”
He grunts in frustration and keeps driving.
“So what is your kink? Find a girl, hypnotize her, and have your way.” Even when I say it, it doesn’t sound right. Why do that and save the girl that got raped? And there was the blood.
“Are you putting it together yet?” He asks, keeping his eyes on the road.
The radio moves to the next track. A personal favorite. I see him shift gears to the beat.
I’m not putting it together. I’m not sure I want to. I grew up in the 80s and 90s. I had friends that were goths, and my mind is more than happy to dance the macabre against my will. Anything that can bite its thumb and make it bleed is not human.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to eat.”
“Why me?”
He glances at me again, his voice filled with awe, “Bonfire in a room full of cell phone lights.”
I can’t help but feel the compliment.
He pulls into a parking garage and slides into a marked slot.
I’m fighting a jumble of emotions and logic. And even they can’t agree among themselves. Fear, excitement, curiosity, fight, or flight. Then logic contradicts itself by pointing out facts that he saved the girl, or did he? Who did he leave her with? The rapist is in a dumpster, unconscious. The only way to save the girl was to stalk me. He promises not to hurt me but is making me do this against my will.
I notice him open my door.
He leans over and unsnaps my belt.
I must have disassociated.
“We are going upstairs. Have a drink, and then I will explain. Until then, let’s just enjoy the journey in silence. Take my hand.”
He hasn’t compelled me yet. He’s giving me the chance to come willingly.
I can’t.
He sighs, “Take my hand and come up with me.”
I comply.
He didn’t compel me to stay silent, but I do. I’m afraid, and I’m afraid I will enjoy it.
He walks me inside. It’s clean and tidy, but not austere. I roll my eyes at the giant tv screen and the multiple gaming consoles.
I also notice The Lovers by Klimt. It’s a wall-size, high-quality print and nicely framed. Another personal favorite. I have a small one framed on my bedside table.
He delicately holds my hand and draws me into a study. I immediately smell books. Old books. I love that smell.
I sit down in the offered chair and take the glass of sparkling water.
He remembers I didn’t drink.
“It’s pleasurable, isn’t it?” I ask, not sipping.
He grins and leans back against an executive desk. Solid, immovable. “Absolutely.”
I have one last chance to take control, while still getting out of this alive.
“I suppose you will use some ancient Methuselah powers on me and make me forget?”
“Methuselah? I’m not actually that old. Probably just old enough to be your daddy.” His eyes pan over me again and he grins, “I could be your daddy.”
Ugh. I loathe that phrase. Who wants to screw their father? I do, however, decide I do want to screw him. Time to go all in.