Page 2 of Your Daddy Does It Better
When I got out, Paul was fifteen, and the damage was already done. He’d been left to his own devices, and his mother was good at using my criminal record to keep him from me. We only reconnected when he started showing up in my circles, trying to make a name for himself on the streets.
So I did what any father worth a lick would and kept my eye out for him to ensure his smart mouth didn’t get him shot or dead in a ditch. I was too soft on him because of my damn guilt, which did him no favors and created something far worse. A fucking wife beater.
Even as a kid, Paul used to bully others. But if anyone who presented a fair fight stepped up to him, Paul would tuck his tail between his legs and run. Just like my father, picking on those he could easily overpower but pissing his pants when he had to step up to someone who could bash his head in without even breaking a sweat.
Remorse churns in my gut because I’ve got no one to blame for how he turned out other than me. I used to ignore Paul’s behavior. I want to say Julie made it hard, and though she did, I could have done better. I could have stepped up, but ten years behind bars and my fear of the system kept me from being there.
I used to tell myself I didn’t know shit about being a father anyway. It wasn’t like I had an old man who could teach me. I learned on the streets, and so would he.
As he got older, Paul involved himself with some sadistic kids, all as corrupt and cruel as him. Messed up kids who liked to torture small animals to see how long they would wail in pain before they finally died. A band of losers united in their inferiority, desperate for power and willing to get it in many repugnant ways.
There was one glaring difference between Paul and me. I did the shit I did to put a roof over my mother’s head and food on our damn table. Paul did what he did because there was a demented darkness in him that got off on hurting others. He never needed to be out hustling in the worst parts of New York. He could have been comfortable living in a brownstone in Brooklyn, with all the necessities of life provided for him without him lifting a finger.
The reason Paul chose this life was because he genuinely enjoys causing pain. It gives him a god-like euphoria. I hurt others out of necessity. Paul does it for gratification.
At one point, when I witnessed how far he’d go, I tried to help him, but he ran off to his no-good mother, and she stood in between me getting him help. Who’d believe my word over hers? She was a reputable therapist, a pillar of the community, and I was nothing but a gangbanger with a criminal record.
Paul was Julie’s golden boy, her perfect blessing. She pretended he was perfect even though he was far from it.
I glance at Isla’s face. She’s staring at the floor, a perfectly submissive woman, quiet, obedient, and pretty. Just like my mother with my old man. My gut twists as her face morphs into my mother’s. The sadness in her eyes is a door that traps me in the nightmares of my past.‘You’re meant to make me look good, Mary. I better not hear a peep out of you. No one wants to hear what bitches have to say.’
Isla’s gaze is downcast, focusing on the marble tiles outside my penthouse door. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, always meek and quiet, letting Paul dominate every moment of the conversation.
“Come in.”
Paul pushes past me with no regard for pleasantries, not even a simple hello.
Isla, however, brushes her long hair behind her ears and smiles shyly. “Hello.”
“Hope you brought your appetite. Greta thinks three people means feeding an army.”
Greta is my housekeeper. A sweet sixty-year-old woman who’s been with me since Paul was in his late teens. I employed her when I thought Paul might come to live with me, but my son didn’t like rules and never saw me as anything more than a connection to the underworld.
But I like having Greta around because she makes my apartment into a home, something I never had. She does all the things for me that I did for my mother. She cooks, cleans, and occasionally gives me motherly advice, something I never got as a kid. My mother was a good woman, but all those years with my father broke her to where she couldn’t take care of herself, let alone me.
“I need to talk to Greta about coming to work for me. She’s a great cook. She might teach Isla a thing or two in the kitchen.” Paul pulls Isla to him, his fingers digging into her flesh, almost like a warning.
My fingers itch to show him exactly how powerless he is. A few blows would ensure he understood where he fits in the food chain. I grind my teeth, trying not to knock my son flat on his ass. “I’m sure Isla is a wonderful cook.”
“Bitch even burns water,” Paul remarks snidely. He grips her jaw and brings her face to his. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You’re useless in the kitchen, aren’t you? It makes me wonder why I bother to keep a woman who hasn’t got a clue about how to satisfy her man.”
She winces, and my eyes travel to his firm grip on her biceps. Paul’s fingers dig aggressively into her biceps, and Isla looks like she’s in pain.
“You okay, Isla?”
Paul smirks at me. “Of course she’s okay, Pop. Isla is a good woman. She knows her place.”
Knows her place? What kind of diuretic nonsense is spewing from my son's mouth? Isla’s supposed to be his partner, not his damn dog. “She can talk, Paul. She isn’t a child.”
Paul laughs, a pathetic wheeze of a sound meant to make him appear strong, but all it does is remind me of Dr. Evil petting his hairless cat. “A child might be easier to deal with. I’m telling you, Dad, if you don’t keep these pretty girls in their place, they’ll ruin your life.” He pats me on the back with his free hand. “You know all about pretty girls, don’t you, Pop? Mom sure did a number on you, didn’t she?”
I grit my teeth, trying to keep calm. “Your mother wasn’t that way because she was pretty.” I was a stupid, horny kid, and she had a great pair of tits. She was a thirty-two-year-old woman, and I didn’t stop to consider how messed up it was that she wanted to fuck a screwed-up fifteen-year-old who idolized her. I was dumb and convinced myself I was in love with her, but now I realize it was misguided transference. She was someone who appealed to my mommy issues and my raging teen hormones. An adult who cared about me, and she was smoking hot. I was so eager to make her happy that I did anything she wanted, including fucking her for months. I should’ve wrapped my dick. That mistake cost me dearly. I got saddled with a degenerate moron for a son and that bitch on my back for years.
Isla’s dark eyes glance between Paul and me. Her small hands fist at her sides. She’s nervous. Her hand shakes as she unclenches it and places it on Paul’s chest. She’s trying to do damage control. “The food smells divine, doesn’t it? I know how much you enjoy Greta’s cooking.”
He taps her cheek gently. “What have I said about interrupting men when they’re speaking?”
Isla quickly drops her eyes and mumbles, “Sorry.”
