BED ROT BABY

  WENDY DALRYMPLE

  Bed Rot Baby

  written by Wendy Dalrymple

  published by Quill & Crow Publishing House

  This book is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters, except for some well-known historical and public figures, are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2025 Wendy Dalrymple

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Quill & Crow Publishing House, Ohio. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Design by Fay Lane

  Edited by Cassandra Thompson

  ISBN: 978-1-967911-02-8

  ISBN: 978-1-967911-01-1 (ebook)

  Publisher’s Website: quillandcrowpublishinghouse.com

  To all the unlikable girls

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Thank You for Reading

  Discover More

  Chapter One

  It’s a Tuesday night in January, and I’m sitting across from George at Bosco’s Steakhouse again. George has ordered the usual for me: filet mignon with fingerling potatoes and parmesan-crusted broccoli. I haven’t eaten all day, and my stomach is in knots as I fork a stalk of broccoli drenched in steak juice across my plate. The soggy floret leaves an unnatural red trail against the white porcelain like some kind of bleeding vegetable. It’s another expensive dinner that will likely go to waste.

  Tonight, I’m stuffed into a black strapless chiffon dress from BCBG that George bought for me on our last date. It has a tiered ruffled skirt and a sweetheart neckline and is about a size too small. The Agent Provocateur lingerie I’m wearing underneath cinches in my waist just enough so I can zip the damn thing, but the push-up bra underwire is digging into my side, poking at the soft, thin flesh over my ribcage. My hair is big and blonde, and my French manicure is still fresh, with baby pink nails and tips white as snow. I feel awful, but I look good, and that’s the most important thing.

  My date is dressed in his usual navy suit and tie with the top button of his shirt undone. What’s left of his salt-and-pepper hair is swept back from his tanned forehead in a slick of sweat that glistens in the low restaurant lighting. George breathes heavily as he eats, thick fingers gripping his fork and knife as he shovels in mouthful after mouthful of gourmet food with gusto. I worry that he may keel over on me during one of our dates.

  “How’s the painting going?”

  George smiles at me from across the table, grinding a hunk of red meat between his molars. He always reminds me of my dad when he asks me about my work, acting as if he cares when really, he’s indifferent. Splotchy crimson patches creep up his neck as he chews, and he makes happy grunting noises of approval. I wonder if his wife also hates watching him eat. I wonder if she has someone special that she spends her weeknights with, too. For her sake, I hope so.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m almost done with my current project.”

  “What are you working on?”

  I tilt my head and smile, and for a moment, fool myself into thinking he might actually be interested. George works for a big law firm downtown, and as far as I know, doesn’t really understand or appreciate the arts. One time, he asked me who my favorite artist was, and I said Georgia O’Keeffe, and he said he had never heard of her. It’s nice that he’s always kind and supportive of my artistic endeavors, or pretends to be anyway.

  “I’ve been working on studies of body parts,” I say. “When I have the inspiration and time.”

  George wiggles his eyebrows. “What kind of body parts?”

  “Hands, feet, eyes,” I say. “All in pastel colors.”

  “Sounds great,” he says. “That’s real art. Not like that garbage they hang in office waiting rooms. You know the kind, just a bunch of mess.”

  “Abstract art?”

  “Yeah, like that,” he says. “I’m glad you make something that has, you know, substance.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” I let out a low, girlish laugh. “Anyway, my work is coming along fine, but I’ll need some new canvases and paint soon.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll cover it.”

  He winks at me and rubs his stockinged foot against mine under the table. George is a foot guy, my weeknight regular for the past three months. While his wife busies herself with scrapbooking classes, Zumba classes, or her book clubs, George buys me expensive clothes and meals I don’t eat. Tonight he’s enjoying a twelve-ounce porterhouse with a lobster tail and a baked potato. He’s already on his third scotch.

  “Is your food okay?” George motions toward my plate. A challenge. “We can order you something else.”

  “No! This is fine!” I say. “Just a little too heavy for me at the moment. I’m going to take my food home and eat it later.”

  “Good idea.”

  He gives me another warm, fatherly smile and digs back into his dinner. My stomach clenches as he reaches for a roll and slathers it with a healthy pat of butter. I’m starving now, but I can’t eat—not the food he ordered, anyway. The steak dinner is a test, a mind fuck to see just how dedicated to him I really am. It’s not that George wants me to completely starve, per se, but he prefers to watch me eat sweets instead. He likes to observe as I consume delicate, dainty desserts, and only in small amounts. Restriction. Control. It’s all part of George’s kink.

  “Any dessert this evening?”

  A server appears out of nowhere, smiles, and refills our water glasses. He isn’t the same server who brought out our food, but I recognize him as a fellow student from one of my freshman classes at USF. Ethan? Evan? I can’t remember. He squints, the corner of his mouth screwed up in a confused expression. I gaze up at him with a fixed grin, frozen as the cogs in his brain churn, trying to figure out where he knows me from.

  George smiles and glances at me. “Brittany, do you want anything?”

  “Yes, I’ll have the tiramisu, please.” I nod enthusiastically and smile, smile, smile. My stomach gurgles. Bosco’s has great tiramisu. “And a to-go box for my dinner. Please.”

  “You got it.” The server takes the dessert menus, his perplexed, pursed lips curved in a shitty smile. “Brittany.”

  The server walks away, and a swarm of angry wasps buzzes in my guts. I hate being recognized out in public, especially when I’m on a date.

  “Everything okay, baby?”

  George rubs his feet against mine again. My face is hot, but my toes are cold.

  I smile and nod. “Yeah. Everything’s perfect.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “That waiter,” George said. “Looks like maybe he recognized you.”

  “No.” I take a controlled sip of water. “I think maybe I just have one of those faces, you know?”

  “It’s a nice face.” George rubs his foot against my calf.

  “Thanks. You have a nice face, too.”

  I break my gaze away from George’s reddening cheeks and focus on the fancy chandelier hanging over the dining room. I need to get my head back in the game and be present in the moment. A thousand crystal teardrops glitter in the dim lighting, shooting faceted rainbow patches against the wall like dancing fairies. Each table is covered with a starched white tablecloth with real red fabric napkins to match the thick pile red carpet in the entryway. Bosco’s isn’t the finest dining establishment in Tampa Bay, but it’s George’s favorite place to eat, and it’s the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to. Even though it’s boring going to the same place again and again, I know I should be grateful I’m here.

  By the time probably-Ethan brings my tiramisu and coffee to the table, I’m so hungry that I’m no longer annoyed by his presence. A headache throbs between my ears as I savor the first bite of tiramisu slowly and sensually, the way George likes. His eyes glitter as I lick the airy mascarpone cream off the spoon until it's clean. George probably wouldn’t have been mad if I ate my dinner first, but he likes the idea of me being a bad girl and skipping dinner in favor of dessert. I do things the way he wants, so I don’t spoil our dynamic. Men get bored so easily. I have to keep the tension between us taut and precarious, like a droplet of water clinging to a spiderweb, or he’ll drift away from me like all the others.

  George finishes his steak while I pick at the tiramisu in little bird bites. He makes small talk about his job and about some home improvements his wife wants to do around the house. I nod and smile behind the coffee cup, leaving a dark cranberry lipstick stain on the rim. The coffee is too hot, and it burns my throat
on the way down. I imagine the boiling liquid splashing on the hive of wasps inside of me, melting their wings, quieting their droning.

  After dinner, George drives us to a park overlooking the water. I let him smell my shoes, and he masturbates with his eyes closed. When he’s finished, he gives me three hundred dollars and drives me to the Bay Vista Condominiums, where I park my car during our dates. He doesn’t kiss me or maintain eye contact as we say goodbye, and I wonder if this will be the last time I ever see him. I wait behind the bushes in the Bay Vista parking lot until his taillights disappear into the night.

  Cool winter air whips through the condominium breezeway, and the briny scent of the gulf hits my nostrils. I shiver and pull my faux fur jacket closer around me. I like to park at Bay Vista to give my daddies the impression that I’m doing well financially, and also so I can fantasize about living in a fancy beachfront condo. What would it be like to wake up every day staring at the endless blue-green gulf? What would it be like to watch the sun sink into the horizon from my bedroom window every night?

  For a moment, I consider taking a walk on the beach to clear my head, but think better of it. It’s far too chilly out, and I’m not properly dressed for a winter stroll by the shore. I dig into my Louis Vuitton bag, find my keys, and unlock my car door. A woman walking a little Yorkie throws me a dirty look as I slide behind the driver’s seat. Even in the dark and behind her oversized sunglasses, I can tell that she’s sneering at me. Is it because of the way I’m dressed? Or the broken driver’s side window of my Corolla?

  When the woman’s back is turned, I flip her off and start the car. I don’t have anywhere that I need to be, no one expecting me, nothing to do. Even though my art project is waiting for me at home, I’m not looking forward to facing my roommate just yet. My stomach rumbles again, and my thoughts drift to junk food, art supplies, and designer underwear. The night is young, and I have money to burn.

  Chapter Two

  The mall is where I usually ask to meet daddies for a first date. The indoor shopping center is my safe space, always busy and full of people, with good lighting and plenty of things to do. Every time I walk through the glass mall entrance doors, I get a rush of nostalgia-driven endorphins. The sights and smells and sounds of a suburban mall wrap me in a hug, and I’m a teenager all over again. Except now, instead of hanging out with friends and scoping out cute guys, I’m getting my kicks in other ways.

  Meeting up at the mall is also a good indicator of whether a prospective daddy will be cheap with me or not. If they don’t offer to buy me something on the first date, then there isn’t a second date. Every now and then, a prospective daddy will get frustrated and pretend not to understand the dynamics of our proposed situation, and that can lead to trouble. When you meet guys online, you have to be safe and follow the rules. Girls who get careless get killed.

  The mall is quiet today, though it usually is once the holidays are over. After everyone returns the Christmas presents they didn’t want and spends their gift cards, things slow down again. Even though I like it when the mall is decorated for Christmas, it’s harder for me to get what I need when it’s busy. During the holiday season, there are too many people and too many watching eyes. From November to the end of December, shops have more staff on the floor, and the security guards are on high alert. Extra safeguards go away when sales die down. Slow season at the mall is harvest time for thieves like me.

  My first stop is the food court, where a sprawling sea of empty tables and chairs surrounded by fast food stalls awaits me. I’m a fan of Pizza Bella, but Little Wok is the best restaurant and the most affordable of them all. For $8.99, Little Wok will fill up an enormous styrofoam to-go box of bourbon chicken and fried rice, plus you get an egg roll and a fountain soda. I procure my favorite meal and sit in the food court. I eat half of the bourbon chicken, shoveling plastic spoonfuls into my mouth and swallowing the first two bites without even tasting them. I should have gone home and eaten the steak and potatoes from Bosco’s instead, but old habits die hard, and I lost my appetite for George and his overpriced meal.

  It’s hard to feel alone at the mall. I like getting lost in a sea of faces and being one of many without having to engage in conversation if I don’t want to. The mall is fairly quiet tonight, and the only other people in the food court are a couple of older, rough-looking unhoused men and a young mother with her little girl. The little girl gazes at me from under a crop of too-long chestnut bangs as her mother reads a newspaper. I wave at the little girl, and she waves back.

  When I’ve had my fill of sugary, salty chicken, I head toward my next destination, Alice’s Art House. It’s an expensive place to pick up supplies, but it’s the only art store in the mall. The clerk—a young man who definitely isn’t Alice—eyes me warily as I admire the rainbow wall of oil paints, my fingers caressing the tubes of cerulean blue and cadmium red. I buy a large canvas with the money George gave me, but I pocket some paints and a couple of sable brushes. I would steal the canvas, too, if it weren’t so ridiculously huge.

  My next destination is Victoria’s Secret, where the real work begins. Two bored-looking teenage girls are behind the counter when I slip through the entrance. Their heads are together, both too involved in gossip to notice me as I slither through the displays. The thumping techno club music drowns out my footsteps and the swish of my dress as I float like a ghost toward a display of delicate things.

  The lingerie store is empty and not well-lit, and smells of cotton candy and vanilla. I head straight for a table laid out with lacy thongs and silk bikinis with bows in a mix of bright hues and spring collection prints. I run my fingers over a pair of hot pink mesh panties with neon green ruffles, $12.50 each. The teens giggle in their oblivion bubble as I stash panties in the large shopping bag that holds my canvas and art supplies.

  “Hi there! Let us know if you need help with anything!”

  Anxiety spikes through my veins. The teens beam at me with their obligatory retail worker smiles as I plunge my hand into the art store shopping bag.

  “Thanks.” I flash them a smile and move on to the bras.

  One of the girls purses her lips and glances at her co-worker. I can’t hear what she says, but I know the word security when I read it on an anxious retail worker’s lips. Shit. I hate it when underpaid employees are so eager to follow the rules, itching to bust suspicious shoppers like me. Time for plan B.

  I place my half-empty container of rice precariously on the edge of the table with the matching bras and walk towards a display of silky robes. The girls emerge from behind the counter, arms pumping as they make a beeline straight for me. Then, like magic, the to-go container reaches its tipping point, yielding to the laws of nature and the weight of the leftovers within. The container hits the floor with a satisfying styrofoam crunch, and fried rice and saucy chicken splash against the pristine black tile. The two teens scramble to clean up the mess, and I slip out of the store as silently and easily as I entered.

  My heart hammers in my neck like crazy as I zip through the mall, triumphant with my spoils. I planned on hitting JCPenney too, but my close call with the Victoria’s Secret girls meant it was time to go home. I won’t be able to wear this wig to the mall again, but otherwise, my shopping trip proved productive.

  The cool night air soothes my burning face as I speed toward the parking lot. My bag of stolen goods swings at my side like a pendulum, making plasticky thwap thwap thwap sounds as it slaps against my thigh. I spent less than a hundred dollars at the food court and the art store, but I likely made out with a thousand dollars’ worth of underwear and art supplies. I could have taken more, but when you get greedy, you get caught.