365 Days With My Dad’s Bestfriend

Elena Cross

The alcohol burns through my body in hot waves—hotter than my micro-dick ex ever made me feel.

I down my third shot of vodka and welcome the fire tearing down my throat. I loved Blake. More than all five of my exes combined. I loved him so much that I squirmed and faked my moans just to feed his fragile ego.

And somewhere in my stupid, juvenile heart, I thought he was my forever. We’d have six kids, and live happily in a farmhouse, far away from the world.

I've always dreamed of a fairytale wedding with him, me in an overflowing lacy wedding gown handmade with love, while my ridiculous assistants—Clara the parrot and Carol my dog—watch like they own the place. Blake will be in his expensive suit, with a pretty smile and jet-black hair.

He just had to ruin it like a freaking raccoon!

I sniffle and suck up a sob.

In my head, I’m holding a whip, and Blake is in rags, chained and bloody as he kneels before me, begging for mercy, my dazzling white dress is now black, maybe to celebrate his funeral.

“Screw you!” I yell and down my fourth shot.

I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, trying to convince myself that he’s not worth it. In his words, we’re not sexually compatible.

“Fucker.” I chuckle, realizing how ridiculous and selfish he was.

I signal for the bartender to bring another shot. This is one of those times I spend money on myself without calculating every penny.

She slips the glass over and I take it.

My fingers circle the rim, and my mind slowly drifts to the breakup.

‘I’m done, Elena.’ Blake’s cold voice replays in my head. ‘This… It’s not working. I can't cope with a dry-pussy bitch—’

Then I slapped him hard.

Yes.

I slapped the rest of his words off his sorry ass mouth. And poor nepo baby who had never been touched all his life couldn't take it.

His eyes had switched to bloodshot red, he moved with fury, tearing down the house, throwing down everything that belonged to me, then he went for that portrait, my dirty obsession hidden in innocent strokes of black and white…

It was a portrait of a faceless man banging a lady on his office desk. Well, it was decent enough to have his cock buried in her body so that the only thing it gave off was their naked skin pressed together, glistening with their filthy sweat. The lady had her boobs spill off her unbottened black sleeves as she gripped the edge of her boss’s table and moaned to hell’s door.

What Blake knew was that the portrait was a reckless purchase… not the truth.

That I was the filthy artist.

And that faceless man was no stranger.

He is Dominic Mercer.

My dad’s best friend.

A man twice my age. He was practically my dad’s partner in crime, until he disappeared.

My head involuntarily bobs to the loud banging music in the club. The neon-blue light swings back and forth as if finding the best talent, and settles on sexy strippers in pairs of daring lingerie. One of them dives for the pole and like a fluid, twists around it with her head hanging down.

I’d rather walk on water than dance on that pole.

My focus shifts as I scout for Riley, my bestie.

We’ve been friends since childhood and after our high school, she’d taken a second job here as a bottlegirl to raise money for her tuition.

I, on the other hand, every penny is spent on my mum’s cancer drugs, and Sophie, my little sister’s fees. My deadbeat dad is better off out of the picture. On prom night, I buried my dream of becoming an artist—for Sophie.

Wanna know why?

‘Cus my greatest fulfillment will be seeing her turned out to be nothing like me: broken and ruined.

“Not again!” A familiar feminine voice snatches me from my thoughts.

I blink my eyes open to see Riley’s face almost pressed against mine, her wild green eyes studying my face. She’s cosplaying a maid, her short flared black skirt hangs high on her tiny waist, revealing her long skinny summer thighs.

The kind you fantasize about smearing oil on and licking with your tongue.

Her big boobs push against her white dress, daring to snap the buttons.

“C’mon, you didn't really like him.” Her tiny lips arch as she pouts. “And you know it.”

“I loved him enough, Rey.”

She mimics a dead person, as if she’s heard it a million times and it's driving her crazy. “Poor baby.”

I try to pull back but she grabs my chin and does a last sweep of my face.

“Lena, he’s not worth it, get over him.” Her tone is accusatory.

“I am…”

“Obviously.” She takes my drink and gulps it, unapologetic.

“Rey, you can't just—”

“Bills on me,” she stops me from ranting. “First, your phone. Hand it over.” She stretches her hand.

I roll my eyes, not sure why she’s suddenly asking for my phone. I love my privacy, not because I enjoy my space, but because I have so many secrets that should never slip to the surface.

They will ruin me.

Riley isn't patient enough, she simply grabs my purse, roots out my phone, and starts typing away.

Jesus!

“What are you doing?” I almost fall off the barstool.

“Here.” She slams it in my palm. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that I can't miss.

“What did you do?” I hastily flip it to see for myself.

“I gave you the last lick. You’re welcome.” She packs my empty shots on her tray.

I zoom in on the text Riley sent to Blake. ‘Sweetie, since you chose the ‘Truth’ card, here’s one. Your penis is so tiny it can't please me like my little finger!’

Then she blocked him.

My jaw drops.

“Riley!” I stutter, stuck between laughing and ranting. “You didn't have to—”

“Like you don't like it.” She winks.

Frankly, she got it off my chest.

“Still…”

“Shhh,” she presses her forehead to mine, our lips almost brushing. “And what do you say?”

I sigh, the words are suddenly too heavy to say. “Cheers to Blake’s loss.” It’s like an anthem I repeat after every heartbreak, and now, I feel like the problem.

How many more frogs do I have to kiss?

“Now, we get high and party.” She replaces the liquor glasses. “Don't worry, my boss won't find out.” She takes my hand and drags me along.

I can barely stay on my feet.

We drink and dance and laugh till the floor starts spinning.

Till our sweat soaks through our clothes.

Till all we need is a good distraction.

And god! My legs are wobbly, I’m burning inside out and I really need to ease out.

Riley bumps into me, smearing her boobs against my full ones. Almost all her buttons are undone, stripping her pink bra for the world to see. She doesn't care, not when she intentionally bounces and gives the club a thing to drool over.

“I think he likes you!” She yells, tipsy.

My gaze follows hers to the tall fine stranger in faded jeans and a t-shirt. He plays with his glass, feeding me with ideas that I don't fancy.

“You should go!” She nudges my arm. “I think he’s the ‘one’. He looks like him.”

It's typical of her to shift into her sexual psychic energy whenever she’s high.

But there’s something I haven't told Riley…

I've never felt sexually attracted to any of my exes, except the mysterious man in the portrait.

Against my will, his perfect silhouette messes with my head. He’s built like sin, raw in form.

Skin, shimmering like liquid gold pouring over stone.

I remember every detail, every drip of his sweat that ran down his firm muscles, as thirsty as molten honey, sweet but deadly.

My throat bobs.

Fingers twitch with the urge to touch myself while I dream of his hands.

Those callous hands that leave imprints on your throat, on your bare skin when they grip your waist.

Oh, fuck…

The firm curves of his hip when he rams into bodies, wrecking you, body and soul.

Oh, I remember… Every sinful thrust, the filthy sound of his balls bashing against wetness.

I shut my eyes and bite the inside of my lip, so hard that I taste my own blood. My thighs involuntarily clench, squeezing against themselves like a feral beast hunting for pleasure.

A deep groan slips off my throat.

Something wet slips down my body, soft and warm, like I’m all lubed up and soaked, it pools in my cotton panties, and clings to my wetness.

No. Not here. Please.

“Fuck…” My legs give way and I fall forward. “I have to go.”