Chapter 2

A week later, I’d packed up my apartment and loaded the last of my belongings into my Land Rover Evoque. I’d been renting a furnished apartment, and I realized that, except for a few small kitchen items, I didn’t really have many things, aside from my expansive closet that was filled with my clothes and shoes.

After driving down Tropicana, I got on Interstate 515 and took it west through the spaghetti bowl to Summerlin. I’d always hated where I grew up, because it was full of snobs and assholes, people just like my father and brother. As I drove, I reflected on the precarious state of my life.

I’d definitely hit an all-time low. Moving back in with my father at the age of 23 wasn’t what any adult child wanted. But until the lockdown was over and I could return to work, living with my dad was the only option I had. We’d never gotten along well – he was a very authoritarian father and I reveled in playing the role of the rebellious daughter – but maybe it would be different now, since we were both adults.

I’d thought of asking my 26-year-old brother, Kyle, to let me move in with him, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before we were at each other’s throats. He’d received a degree in computer science and gotten a good-paying job while he worked his way through law school. Unlike me, he was able to work remotely from his apartment at my dad’s law firm, which kept him employed. I knew he had a spare bedroom, but he used it as a home office. He’d always been so judgmental of me, and I knew it would be pointless to ask him for help. Staying with my dad seemed like the lesser of two evils.

Several months before my mother passed, she was high on pain pills and revealed that my father was very sexually aggressive. She never revealed any details, but I had the sense that she’d done whatever he wanted; I never knew whether that was because she enjoyed it, or if she went along just to keep him happy. Regardless, I reasoned that at the age of 52 those days were probably pretty much behind him. I had no idea how wrong I was.

I must have inherited the high-sex-drive gene from my father, or maybe from both parents, but that was certainly part of my rebelliousness as a teenager. My latest boyfriend had shared my enthusiasm, although perhaps not to the same degree. I loved dressing up and looking good for him when we went out, and of course there was the skimpy little outfit I had to wear at work. I also did a little harmless flirting with the predominantly male players in the casino, which helped increase my tips. I was on my feet all day at work and I wore three-inch heels to emphasize my long, shapely legs. It was something the players appreciated and it definitely helped me get better tips than my coworkers. When I dressed for a night of clubbing, I always wore my four-inch stiletto heels to show off my legs, which gave me some additional height so my six-feet-two-inch ex and I would look good together.

I never revealed this to anyone, but sometimes I’d do a little more than flirting with the players. I’d never gone as far as having sex with them, but when I was in the mood, or I needed money, a couple of black hundred-dollar chips would get me into their room for a blow job.

As sometimes happens, the newness, the excitement, the passion, the edginess gradually faded away between me and my now-ex boyfriend. Familiarity didn’t breed contempt, but it did bring routine. After a while, it got increasingly difficult to work up any enthusiasm for going out with him and especially for having sex with him. In the end, that was really the death knell for our relationship.

The break-up was mutual, and, because we’d never lived together, it was easy for us to go our separate ways. The downside of ending our relationship was that I’d been masturbating much more frequently, not every day but several times a week, to help alleviate the cravings that my high sex drive brought on. However, touching myself didn’t come close to having sex and wasn’t nearly as satisfying. I needed a man, and being horny all the time just seemed to make me bitchier than usual.

I took the exit to Summerlin Parkway and made my way to the gated community of Queensridge. Almost instantly, my stomach began to nervously churn as I pulled up in front of my father’s home. I thought of getting everything out of my SUV, but decided against it. Hesitantly, I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. About a minute later, my father opened the door.

“Come on in,” he said gruffly.

I stepped into the foyer of his large house and discovered that not much had changed. The walls were painted a light brown and the white marble flooring was broken up by small specks of brown coloring. Of course, the house was spotlessly clean, just the way he’d always demanded. There was a large spiral staircase in front of us that led to the upper floor and was decoratively ornamented with a wrought-iron rail.

“Which room do you want me in?” I asked hesitantly.

“You’ll be in your old room upstairs, but we need to talk about a few things first; follow me.”

We made our way down the long central hall to the large kitchen. Again, nothing had changed decoratively. The light-brown oak cabinets perfectly complemented the stainless-steel appliances, and the big picture windows looked out over the expansive backyard that was set against the golf course. We had a large one-acre lot complete with a beautiful in-ground pool, hot tub, and a small waterfall.

“Have a seat,” he said while pointing toward the kitchen table.

I nervously sat down on one of the chairs. I immediately regretted my choice of clothing when my short little jean skirt rode up my thighs, and I quickly tried to pull some of the denim material down to cover up just a little. It was a warm day and I’d worn a little tank top with my Cocobelle gilded leather sandals. He poured a cup of coffee without offering me one and then sat in the chair beside me.