The DILF (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

4: In Which She Gets a Response

4: In Which She Gets a Response

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"What are you wearing?" was the first thing out Bates' mouth when she stalked into the kitchen on what had seconds before been a glorious Saturday morning.

Lydia, who was busy whipping something up for lunch at the stove, glanced over her shoulder. "Don't sound so incredulous, Josie," she told Bates severely. "In fact, the rest of Rory's generation can take a page out of her book."

"You look like a Mormon," Bates informed me, "or like something out of Little House on the Prairie."

Pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me, I nearly said aloud.

"What's wrong with looking like a Mormon?" I asked instead, calmly sipping my third black coffee of that morning. "In fact, what exactly do Mormons look like? Your stereotypical mind disappoints me, Ms. Bates."

Bates shook her head. "I'm not going to answer that. I have bigger things to worry about. Like how I'm going to coerce Ophelia into getting her hair cut. She looks like a weeping willow!"

And, of course, her father was never going to notice that, was he? Was he ever going to look at his daughter and propose anything in regards to her wellbeing?

"I'll convince her. She'll go if I take her," I offered, wondering if it would be possible to ditch the annoyingly snooty silver-haired man Bates had chosen to be my driver. Out of all the inconspicuous staff members, I was the youngest by far. It only convinced me that Bates was singlehandedly responsible for their employment.

"Will you?"

"Of course. She's my responsibility, anyway."

Bates' eyes narrowed with suspicion. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your wanting to go to the pharmacy again, would it?" she asked, her voice like gravel. "Leland says you've been going there practically every day. Is there a medical condition I should know about?"

I felt heat creep up my neck. If I had my way, the geriatric Leland would drive himself off a very short pier. One thing I'd learned very quickly was that every single worker on Shaw's property – except for the more independent Lydia – unequivocally and dutifully reported to Josie Bates. The woman probably thought she worked for the CIA, the way she was so suspicious and secretive.

"That man exaggerates. I get migraines – that's it. Let me get Ophelia ready. Which beauty parlour does she usually frequent? Oh, and just a trim, right?" I was talking too fast, but I couldn't stop myself.

Bates raised a wary brow. "Kelly's. And yes, just a trim."

I hotfooted it out of there before she could interrogate me any further. Bates reminded me of my secondary school headmistress. That old hellcat could've broken Hitler – but she sure as hell wasn't going to break me.

Ophelia was still fast asleep in my bed. After her first nightmare, she'd sort of moved in. Various Barbie dolls – Vintage Barbie, Harley Davidson Barbie, Silkstone Barbie – were scattered in every corner of my bedroom. The plastic-doll morgue was creepier than any Wes Craven slasher.

I decided to let her sleep for a bit and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Sighing, I looked into the mirror for the fortieth time that morning and conceded that I did look like I was playing dress-up with a great-great-grandmother's vintage clothing. Perhaps it was peculiar to feel safer when every inch of my skin was covered up but that was exactly how I felt – and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out from whom.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

That was my daily chastisement. I was the epitome of the word and I was deluding myself if I thought I could blame what had happened the previous week on hormones. I'd given my boss – a complete prick – a blowjob. I'd let him ruin a covenant I'd made with God and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why him. It wasn't as if he was the first man to get me hot under the collar and it wasn't as if I'd ever unhealthily mooned over him like a devoted Devin-Shaw aficionado. He wasn't even my type; I liked my men emotionally alive and at least ninety-eight-percent normal.