Trade Secret: Daddy's Comic Daughter - (A Father/Daughter and MILF Family Transformation Adventure)

Manny

My daughter’s getting herself into trouble again. And I’m right behind her.

“Maricruz! You better not leave the party with that Delgado boy!” my ex-wife hollers across the parking lot, her voice as shrill as an ambulance.

My ex-wife Ariadna’s thick reddish mane bobs around my favorite pair of tits in the world under a skull and crossbones T-shirt.

She’s still three inches taller than me and striding with too much purpose to be ignored. Her eyes drift from our daughter to shoot daggers into my neck. “Manny, you’re supposed to be setting an example.”

I let my sixteenth cigarette dangle, hands stuffing my jean pockets. “You mean a good example?”

Realizing I have no idea which one to pursue first—my wife or daughter—I grind the cig with my boot, feigning to be cool.

One more minute and the two of them are going to walk right past me, where I’ll be smitten with both. I can’t have that.

Hello, girls, Daddy’s home.

Attempting to shake off a lifetime of hanger-on bad luck, I tug my black cactus print T-shirt over my belly. My break with casual stubble and knockoff Ray Bans is over, goddammit.

I stride forward.

“Peaches!” I call. “Stop at the car. You can use your phone when we get home.” I spare a quick glance for Ariadna. “No, she can’t see the TikTok Newkid vids, babe.”

My daughter’s big blue eyes sense my encouragement, and then she’s making her way to my 2010 Camaro. I try not to feel disappointment at not being needed yet.

“Oh fine,” Ari responds through gritted teeth, following Maricruz. She looks at me, wind snapping her beautiful blaze of hair. “You always side with my daughter.”

“It’s ‘our.’”

“She’s American-born. Not Peruvian like you. You want her to aspire to superhero nonsense instead of getting a skilled trade.”

I run my pointer finger along my upper teeth. A nervous tic. “We Airborne Rangers don’t play with toy weapons.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles when Maricruz isn’t looking. I planned to get Ariadna in bed tonight but didn’t count on our daughter joining us tonight.

Ari really still hasn’t spoken to me since the divorce, which was finalized right after winning my Eisner Award. A comic book about a retiring SEAL with PTSD and a talkative cat got me a payday.

After which, Ari informed me that my tracking skills were zero in the bedroom. Still, we’d agreed to split and be there for Maricruz.

Here I am thinking I might get to bang Ariadna this time around, but so far…every parent-teacher conference calendar full of disappointment.

By “full,” I mean… Oh Christ, there’s that statement again.

A group of single moms stares at me over the hood of a red Honda Civic. Daughter-chasing dads merely look me up and down, checking out my tattooed arms and road miles.

Ariadna’s English switches to Spanish. “Maricruz went back via the rear entrance.”

A dramatic sniff. “Just as I suspected—”

Our friends all comment on how I let Maricruz dress, but what can I say? My daughter’s curves are just a physical manifestation of my genes. They inspire envy, tears, and hate, and I’m happy to take my kid to therapy for that kind of thing. But I can’