In Too Deep (Doing Bad Things Book 2)(8)

By: Jordan Marie

“Daddy eat wit’ me!” he cries and the shell-shocked look on the woman’s face probably mirrors my own.

“Oh hell. Is this your game?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You train your kid to call men Daddy hoping one of them finds it cute and falls into your web?”

“My web?” she gasps.

“I got news for you, lady. I don’t want kids. Never have. I sure as hell don’t want your spawn from—”

I stop mid-sentence and I’m caught off guard when she delivers a hard slap to the side of my face. The kid for once seems speechless. I bring my hand up to the still-stinging jaw and rub it, while watching her. Her brown eyes are bright, not from tears this time—but, sparks of anger. Her body is almost vibrating with it.

“My child is just that, mine. He is not anything your vile mouth started to say. I may need your money, Mr. Smith, but let’s get this straight.”


“I will be cold and buried and see you in Hell before I let you say one thing about my son. Now, since my motel is not open yet, and since I made sure you had fresh towels for the day—”


I’m trying to say something but she doesn’t let me get it out. Each time she shuts me down. The look of fury on her face is something new to me. I’ve seen women mad before, hell Gloria cornered the market on it. It was usually because I refused to take her to some new red carpet event, or buy her the latest million-dollar trinket she found. Getting mad was her go to, especially when she found out pouting didn’t work. I’m used to women who are like that. This feels different, but I’m sure she’s working some kind of angle too. Women always do.

“Our business is done for now. I’ll be on duty later, or I’ll have someone covering the front desk,” she growls and she walks away. Her son…Jack, looks over his mother’s shoulders with large brown eyes much like hers. I could almost feel guilty…




“My sheets haven’t been changed.”

“I just changed them while you were out.”

“You did?” he asks, clearly not believing me. I swear if I could afford it, I would give this guy his money back and tell him to get the fuck out.

Being broke sucks.

“I did,” I sigh.

“They look dirty.”

“They’re not,” I answer, plastering on a smile.

“Well I want them changed again. I’m going to go enjoy the pool. Please tell me you at least have it ready?”

“Afraid not.”

“What’s wrong with it? I saw water in it!”

I study his face. He could be sexy. He’s got this bedroom eyes kind of thing going on. He’s got dark black hair with just enough gray to make him look distinguished and appealing. He’s got a scruffy beard and the gray showing in it could make a woman heat up in all the right spots. He’s got a well chiseled body and you can see Celtic designs in dark ink showing through his t-shirt. I was always a sucker for a man with ink. Jack’s father had all kinds. Too bad I didn’t pay attention to something besides his ink—like his personality.

Aden’s personality glows like a bare ass in the bright sunshine—which is fitting since he is an asshole.

“Are you even listening?” he huffs.

“The pool is closed until it filters.”

“It filters?”

“It will be ready tomorrow,” I explain, leaving out the part where I haven’t been able to afford the sand or repairs to the filter housing until he paid me. I doubt this idiot has ever hurt for money in his life.

“Unbelievable,” he growls stomping off.

“Daddy,” my son whispers after the door slams.

“That’s definitely not your daddy, Jack. Though to be honest your dad wasn’t any better. The sad fact is, little man, your Mommy has stinky taste in men.”

“Stinky butts!”

I laugh, before answering, “Definitely stinky butts.”

“Mommy p’way?” he asks holding out his favorite butterfly squeak toy and a block. He likes to build a fort around the butterfly to make it a home. He’s grinning at me. Like this he looks so sweet and innocent, you wouldn’t believe he is the same little terror who painted my kitchen with chocolate—like it was finger paint.

Maybe the sad fact is that all men were once cute little bundles that owned their mother’s hearts, but they grow into giant jerk-faces. I need to find out how that evolves and stop it from happening to Jack.

With a sigh I slide down to the floor, on the blanket that Jack’s been playing on and play blocks with him. When we knock down the house on top of the butterfly, I have to admit I’m imagining the butterfly is Aden Smith and I’m not even sorry when the blocks cover him up and squish him. In my head the small wooden blocks are heavy concrete ones.