The Brightest Light of Sunshine

“Fuck,” Hunter grunts, the engorged head of his cock slamming against the very back of her core, earning a surprised whimper from Cordelia. “You’re so hot riding me like that. So damn good.”

Her walls pulsate around him, choking him, and Hunter moans. Such a guttural, dirty sound she’s never heard from him before. And suddenly she has the urge to hear it again, and again, and again. Knowing that she is making him come undone like this is enough to tip her over the edge.

Cordelia braces herself on his strong shoulders as she bounces faster and harder up and down his hard cock. Her thighs ache and burn, but so does her desire for him. She doesn’t ever want to stop. Her fingers curl on his long hair, pulling at it with abandon, exactly how he likes it. Rough, hot, primal. Hunter roars as her walls tighten around him. Her breathing hitches, and they—

“Attention, class.”

Professor Danner’s voice drags me back into the present moment and I slam my book shut, earning a concerned glance from Sadie, one of my friends sitting a few rows in front of me. I grimace back.

Okay, so reading smut in class is a terrible idea. Who would’ve thought, huh?

“I know it’s still quite early in the year, but as this class technically ends in April, I want to give you enough time to prepare.”

Oh, god. Nothing good ever comes out of a speech that starts this way. I can already see myself buried deep in work for the next few months and I don’t even know what he’s going to say.

“As a final project for my class this year, I want you to try something a bit more… venturous.”

And then he turns the projector on. And big, bad, scary bold letters stare right back at me. Mocking me.

10 STEPS TO START WRITING YOUR BOOK

My breath hitches. Deep down, I knew this day would come. I knew I would have to face my fears sooner or later if I wanted to pursue a career in writing.

I just never expected to have such a close deadline for it. Or to have my whole grade depending on it.

Shit.

“As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, I want you to write or co-write a novella. A short book,” Professor Danner explains with an easy smile. I can’t even hate him for this damn assignment because he’s such an amazing teacher. “It can fall in any genre that you like, but it would have to follow said genre’s guidelines. I’ll be uploading a worksheet and some PDFs on the course’s page once we’re done with the class.”

He keeps going for twenty minutes, explaining how we have the choice to collaborate with another classmate and write it together. It would pose new and interesting challenges, he assures us—challenges I’m not interested in finding out about, thank you very much.

By the time the bell rings, the only thing I know for certain is that the only partner I’ll be co-writing within the next few months is my impostor syndrome.

I’ve known I wanted to become an author ever since I was ten years old. I even wrote my first full-length, extremely cringy novel at thirteen and then another one, less cringy but still bad, the year before coming to Warlington. I haven’t written anything for fun ever since. And nobody, no one, has ever read my books. Ever.

I just hate the idea. I know, I know. If I want to become a published author someday, I’ll have to snap out of it, grow a pair and allow my writing to exist out there in the wild for everyone to see and judge.

Although, to be fair, I’m not as scared of the criticism as I am of vulnerability.

Writing is such an intimate act for me, almost like stripping down naked but in a different way. In a mental way. And it freaks me out as much as the physical version would.

I need to get over it. I know I will. Maybe this project is exactly the kind of boost I need. As a firm believer that opportunities arise for a reason, I take a deep breath and force myself to not think about it until I’m sitting in front of the computer later. There’s no point in fueling my anxiety right now.

And luckily, as I exit the Humanities building and my phone rings, I get the perfect excuse for a distraction.

“Hey, Daddy,” I greet him with a genuine smile. Talking to my dads always manages to lift my mood. I don’t know how they do it, honestly. Must be magic.

“How’s my rockstar doing today? We haven’t talked in forever, honey.” There’s no accusation in his voice, there never is, and I can only feel ashamed that I’ve let it go this long without talking to them. I text them almost daily, but I’m not so good with calls.

“I’m okay. Just finished my last class of the day. The professor was telling us about the final project, and I want to pee my pants a little,” I confess, chewing on my lower lip.

Daddy laughs. “Oh, baby. What is it? I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

In theory, it’s not. But he doesn’t know of my internal struggles when it comes to writing. No one does. “We have to write a book. The deadline is in April, and I have no idea what I want to write about.”

“Well, you read a lot so that might inspire you,” he muses. I hear the muffled sound of voices behind him. He must be at the firm. “What have you been enjoying lately?”

My mind immediately flashes with the image of Cornelia riding Hunter into oblivion. “Not much,” I lie like a bad daughter. “I’ve pretty much read every genre, but nothing appeals to me right now.”

“Give it a few days, no rush. You always figure it out and it’s genius.”

The pride in his voice makes my heart swoon. “Thanks, Daddy. I promise I won’t stress out too much about it. How’s Dad?”

Growing up with two fathers, one could think it would be confusing for me to distinguish them by name as there’s no Mum/Dad distinction. Wrong.

Daniel Allen, a pale blond like me, is Dad. Marcus Allen, with short hair darker than coal and a dark and beautiful skin tone, is Daddy.

My two-year-old self assigned the nicknames at random, so don’t ask.

“He’s busy with a client right now, but he said he’ll call before dinner. Are you coming home for the holidays?”

I sigh. “If the snowstorms allow it.”

I love going home to my family, but last year’s canceled trip made me paranoid about traveling on Christmas. Aaron and I spent the holidays alone at his apartment, eating ready-made lasagna. It isn’t a bad memory by any means, but it forces out a more recent one.

I’m still angry with him. I haven’t texted him back since yesterday, nor am I in the mood to confront him about it yet. Definitely not now with the pressure of this unwritten book crushing down on me.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he assures me before a woman’s voice comes closer to tell him something. I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. “I’m sorry, Gracie, but I’ve gotta go now. We’ll talk again when Dad calls you tonight, yeah? We’ll video chat.”

“Of course, Daddy. Don’t worry.”

Both of my dads are top-notch lawyers, and it’s never bothered me that they’re so busy and always have so many things to take care of at work. They always make time for me, always make me their priority. I’ve never once felt like a rejected daughter. Not ever. And, for that, I couldn’t be more grateful.

“I love you, honey. Take care.”

“You too. I love you.”

“I love you,” he tells me again before he hangs up.

Feeling somewhat more at ease now, I make my way to the dorms and take the rest of the morning off until it’s time to teach my ballet class in the afternoon. However, my plans to unwind and think about nothing at all but the whiteness of my walls shatter into pieces when I accidentally knock a notebook down and a small scrap of paper falls to my feet.

It’s the tattoo sketch Cal made for me.

Sighing, I pick it up and stare at it blankly as if it held all the answers I’m looking for. I haven’t thought much about the tattoo in the past few days, but it’s something I still want to do.

Tingles dance down my spine when I remember that day at the parlor, how patient Cal was with me and how invested he seemed in sketching the perfect tattoo for me. Although maybe he goes out of his way for all his clients. It would make sense. He seems like a selfless man.

I swallow down the unexpected tang of disappointment and put the piece of paper back inside the journal. I have a book to outline—I shouldn’t be focusing on my non-feelings for Cal.

And yet it’s the only thing I do for the rest of the day.

***

Callaghan

My little sister is upset.

I know it the second I walk into my mother’s house, and she doesn’t come running down the hall to greet me with a big hug like she always does.

My mother has her ass glued to the couch as the TV fills the house with superfluous chatter. To my surprise, Maddie’s father—Pete—is right beside her.

“Where’s Maddie?” I ask the room. Neither of them turn to look at me, as if I hadn’t just walked right into their unlocked home. It could’ve been anybody, for fuck’s sake. A child lives here.

“Bedroom,” my mom answers, as always. Not like I ever expect Pete to give a damn about his daughter, or even know where she is.

“Why didn’t she come to say hello?” Suspicion and worry lace my voice.

She shrugs, still not turning her head to look at me. “She was in a mood when I picked her up from school.”

In a mood.

Taking a deep breath through my nose, I force myself to remember that flipping out right now wouldn’t solve anything and it’s the last thing my sister needs. But I can’t shake the horrible notion that my little girl is alone in her room, upset with the world, and her own parents don’t give a fuck.

I storm out of there before I look at fucking Pete again and lose my cool for real. He’s more like a sperm donor than a real father.

My mother tries. She’s not going to win any awards for parent of the year, but when her head is clear I can tell she truly tries to be a good role model for Maddie. It’s when she’s too tired, or too drunk, or around the stupid bastard, that she retreats into herself and doesn’t seem to find the strength to attend to her own baby daughter.

I’m trying to be understanding. Fuck, I’m trying hard not to be a judgmental dick. I know my mother has an untreated issue with alcohol, but I can’t force her into rehab or a therapist’s office. That’s not how it works. You can’t help someone who refuses to get help, and it fucking hurts.

When I reach my sister’s room, the door’s ajar but I knock anyway. It’s important to me that she knows she has privacy, even from a very young age.

“Yes?” Her small voice sounds so dull my stomach turns.

“It’s Sammy. Can I come in?”

“Sammy!” A second later, she throws the door open and hugs my legs with such force I almost stumble backwards. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby.” I peel her arms away from my dark jeans and haul her up. She buries her face in my neck right away. “How are you doing today?”

It’s not a question I was ever asked as a kid, and only when I had a sister did I start to realize how important it is to communicate with children like you would with any friend or adult.

“Mm-hmm…” she mumbles against my skin. I carry her to the bed and sit down on the soft mattress.

“Did something happen today?” I ask her softly. She’s still not looking at me, clinging to my neck like a little monkey, but I don’t peel her away. Maybe it’s easier for her to talk when she’s not looking at me. What can I say—it runs in the family.

“No,” she answers a bit too quickly.

“Mads… You know you can tell me anything, right?” I prompt, rubbing her back. “I’m your big brother and I love you more than anything in this world. I want you to be okay, but I can’t help you if you keep secrets.”

I feel her nod. “I love you too, Sammy.” She stays quiet for a few moments, and finally, “Someone made fun of me today.”

My chest tightens, but I don’t show her how upset that just made me. “What did they say to you, baby girl?”

Before I can even blink, she untangles herself from my arms and reaches inside the small pink backpack she carries to school. When she takes out a wrinkled piece of paper, I frown. “What’s that?”

Without saying a word, she hands me the note. The logo of her preschool sits on the right corner of the paper and big bold letters stand out:

DONUTS WITH DADDY

It’s some kind of father-daughter event taking place in a couple of weeks in which dads eat donuts while they watch their kid play.

I don’t even get a chance to read through the whole thing before Maddie starts, “I asked Daddy to come with me, but he said he didn’t want to.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears and my ears start ringing with silent, cold rage. “Everyone told Miss Laura that their daddies are going, but not me. And a girl laughed at me and said my daddy doesn’t love me.”

I don’t hesitate before I kneel in front of her, clutching her hands tightly between mine, the note long forgotten. “Princess, look at me.” I search her eyes that look like my own until she does as I say. A single tear rolls down her red cheek and I gently wipe it away with the pad of my thumb. “Mommy and Daddy love you very much, more than anything in the world, and so do I.”

She sniffles. “But Daddy doesn’t want to come with me. He says he doesn’t like donuts.”

Stay fucking calm, I remind myself. Lie through your goddamn teeth if necessary.

“Daddy is very busy these days, baby, but I promise he still loves you,” I reassure her. Pete might be very busy all right, just not with finding a fucking job. “You know what? I love donuts, and I’d love to come to this thing with you. Would you like me to?”

Another sniffle. “But you’re not my daddy.”

I might as well fucking be, seeing how I’m the only responsible adult here that cares about her. But I don’t say that out loud.

I shrug like it’s not a big deal, when in fact I don’t think my heart has ever been so broken. “I’m sure the teacher won’t mind. I’ll talk to her if you want me to.”

When she nods and throws her arms around my neck again, I let out a relieved sigh. “Thanks, Sammy. I love you a lot.”

A small, sad smile breaks out on my lips. “I love you a lot too, peanut.” Then, with a new resolve, I stand and pull her up with me. “Come on, we can have a sleepover at my apartment. Would you like that?”

Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree, her recent meltdown long forgotten just like that. “Can we have nuggets for dinner? With ketchup?”

And because I might be a strong man, but I collapse the second my sister cries—and it doesn’t help that she has me wrapped around her little finger—I nod and she starts yelling with excitement.

There’s not a single thing I wouldn’t do to see her happy like this every single day.

While I wait for her to grab her favorite plushie for the night and after I get her school bag for tomorrow, my phone buzzes with a text.

Grace: I’ve had the shittiest day ever. Pls tell me you’re free for dinner? 🙁

My heart beats like a hammer inside my chest and before I know what I’m doing, I call to my sister, “Princess, would you mind if Miss Grace hangs out with us tonight?”

“Yay! Miss Grace is so cool!”

I smile. Well, then.

Me: If you’re in the mood to eat frozen nuggets and watch princess movies with a 4-year-old, I’m your man