Daddy's Angel--Prologue

So this story originally appeared on fanfiction.net. Some of you may recognize it. After some quick editing and brushing up, I decided to repost it here for those who are still getting used to the Vera experience. Enjoy! Here's the prologue!

“Angel, are you ready to go?” The man asked.

Jessica McCool put the finishing touches on her lipstick. “Just one second, Daddy.”

Jackson Roberts walked into the bathroom and eyed his prized possession. It didn’t matter what time of day it was, Jessica’s beauty stunned him speechless. At first, she wasn’t really his type but he saw the potential she had. He could mold her, train her and have her doing things she’d never imagined in a million years. But that was part of the detoxification process. Erase whatever past she had so he would be her future. It worked for his other girls—it would work on his Angel.

Sure, he’s had many women come and go in his life. Some he kept around for reasons he was still trying to reconcile. But no one came close to his Angel. She was more than a piece of ass. She was an investment. And a very profitable one, at that.

But time was money and Angel was money Jackson was not getting. He watched his Angel check her lithe body one more time. She looked fine in his eyes. Hell, she was stunningly beautiful. But right now, she was clearly wasting his time and testing his patience. “Are you ready?” He growled.

Jessica shook her head as she ran a hand through her hair. He always complained. If it were raining outside, he would complain about how slick the streets were. If it were sunny outside, he would complain about how hot it was. Jessica and the other girls secretly joked amongst themselves that if given a reason, Jackson would complain about that, too. When doesn’t that asshole complain?

But he never complained when she came back with a pocket full of hundreds. He never complained when the regulars requested her by name. He never complained as long he was getting his. It was a twisted love/hate relationship between them. But they had a relationship only understood between the two of them.

“Where am I going tonight?”

“Hollywood Hills,” was his only reply. Jackson never gave out more details than was absolutely necessary. He told the girls what he wanted and they were expected to comply, no questions asked. For anyone who dared to ask, she was met with either a backhanded slap or an evil scowl. Sometimes both.

For the umpteenth time, Jessica checked herself in the mirror. Everything was perfect--not one hair out of place. Makeup was impeccable with the rosy blush bringing out her cheekbones and the soft mauve giving her pout the extra ‘oomph.’ Her choice of wardrobe was standard: the thigh-high black leather boots straight out of Pretty Woman; a barely there micro-mini skirt that accentuated her legs as well as her ass; a bright pink halter that showed off her magnificent décolletage, leaving little to the imagination.

Who was she fooling? She was Pretty Woman. Granted, she was no Julia Roberts and Jackson wasn’t anything remotely close to Richard Gere. He couldn’t be Richard Gere if he tried. In fact, there was no real way to describe Jackson other than a bully. One big-ass, tattooed-up bully. He was demanding. He was mean. He was an outright asshole.

He was her protector. He was her lover. He was her pimp.