FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

014

Three months of silence rot in the air of my small room, thicker than the smell of stale beer and cheap vodka. I groan, the sound scraping against my dry throat, and crack one eye open. The sunlight tries to stab through the gaps in the heavy curtains, but I’ve blocked them out well. My head feels like it’s being split open by a rusted axe, the hangover a pulsing, throbbing beast behind my eyes.

I push myself up, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. The floor is a disaster zone—a graveyard of empty green glass bottles, crumpled clothes stained with who knows what, and discarded takeout containers that have started to grow their own ecosystem. I kick a bottle aside; it rolls with a hollow clatter. I don't give a s**t. I haven't given a s**t since the day they lowered the casket.

I fumble on the nightstand, my fingers knocking over an ashtray until they find the blister pack of pills. I dry-swallow two, chasing them with lukewarm water from a glass that’s seen better days. The taste is metallic and gross. I slump back against the headboard, waiting for the chemicals to kick in, and grab my phone.

One new message.

It’s from Lila. On my way over.

I stare at the screen, the brightness searing my retinas. Before I can process a reply, a sharp, insistent knock rattles the thin wood of the door.

"Coming," I croak, my voice sounding like sandpaper. I drag myself out of bed, stumbling like a zombie with a broken leg. I’m wearing nothing but a tank top that’s seen better days and panties that I probably should have washed three days ago.

I unlock the door and pull it open. The hallway light floods in, blinding me. I squint, shielding my eyes. When my vision adjusts, I see Lila standing there. She looks radiant—hair done, makeup flawless, holding two large shopping bags like she’s just walked off a runway.

The smile on her face dies instantly. She gasps, a dramatic, sharp intake of breath, and raises a hand to cover her nose.

"Oh my god, Ana!" she exclaims, her voice muffled by her palm. "It smells like a brewery and a dead hooker in here. What the hell have you been doing?"

She pushes past me, her heels clicking on the floor, navigating the minefield of my filth with practiced agility. I watch her, feeling small and disgusting.

"Lila, it's fine," I mumble, but she ignores me.

She marches to the window and yanks the curtains open. Dust motes dance in the sudden, blinding assault of daylight. The room is revealed in all its glory: trash everywhere, bottles rolling, the bed unmade. She turns on me, hands on her hips, her eyes scanning the devastation.

"This isn't fine, Ana. This is a pigsty. Look at you." She steps over a pile of dirty laundry, grimacing. "You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out by a garbage disposal."

"I've been busy," I lie, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.

"Bullshit. You’ve been wallowing." She grabs my shoulders, her grip firm, and spins me around toward the bathroom. She gives me a shove between my shoulder blades. "Go. Wash that stank off your body. Scrub your hair. And stop being miserable. I’m not letting you rot in here."

I stumble into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind me. I grip the edges of the sink and stare into the mirror. The reflection staring back is a stranger. My eyes are sunken and rimmed with red, my skin pale and clammy. My hair is a tangled, greasy rat’s nest. I look worse than I feel, and that’s saying something.

A tear tracks through the grime on my cheek. Then another. I turn the faucet on, splashing cold water on my face, but the tears keep coming. I strip off the tank top and panties, kicking them into the corner, and step into the shower.

The water is hot, scalding my skin, but I don't turn it down. I scrub my scalp until it tingles, watching the grey water swirl down the drain. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed, trying to scrub away the taste of the last three months. I stay there until the water runs cold, washing away the layers of neglect and self-pity.

When I finally step out, I wrap a towel around myself, tucking it tight over my chest. I open the bathroom door, steam billowing out into the hallway.

I stop dead.

The room is spotless. The bottles are gone. The clothes are picked up. The bed is made. The smell of stale alcohol is replaced by the scent of lemon cleaner.

Lila is standing at the small sink, just finishing washing the few dishes I had left soaking. She turns, drying her hands on a towel. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she forces a bright smile.

"About time," she says softly.

She walks over and pulls me into a hug. Her arms wrap around my damp towel-clad body, squeezing tight. I stiffen at first, then melt into her, burying my face in her neck. She smells like vanilla and expensive perfume.

"I'm so sorry, Ana," she whispers into my wet hair. "About your dad. I'm so sorry I wasn't around more."

I pull back, wiping my face with the heel of my hand. "It's okay. I'm... I'm fine now. Seriously. Seeing you actually makes me feel almost human."

She smiles, wiping a stray tear from her own eye. "Good. Enough of that emotional crap. Crying makes my face puffy." She grabs my hand, pulling me toward the bed. "I brought something for you."

She reaches into one of the fancy bags and pulls out a dress. It’s cute—sleeveless, a soft floral pattern with a neckline that dips low enough to show off cleavage without looking trashy.

"I saw this and thought of you immediately," Lila gushes, holding it up against my body. "The color is perfect for your skin. It’s going to fit like a glove."

I eye the dress, then her. "Lila, you're broke. How did you afford this?"

She waves a hand dismissively. "Does it matter? I found a way. Don't worry your pretty little head about it. Just try it on. Now."

I take the dress and slip it on. The fabric slides over my skin, cool and smooth. It fits perfectly, hugging my waist and flaring out at the hips. It shows off my legs and accentuates my t**s, pushing them up just right.

Lila whistles, grinning from ear to ear. "Damn, girl! Look at you! You’re hot. Guys are going to be tripping over their own d***s to get to you tonight."

I giggle, a sound I haven't made in months. "You think so?"

"I know so. Now, get your shoes on. We’re going out."

"Out? Where?"

"To eat. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."

We finish getting ready—I pull on some boots and run a brush through my damp hair—and lock the door behind us. We hail a taxi, giving the driver an address to a part of town I rarely visit.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulls up to a restaurant. It’s not a five-star joint, but it’s nice—clean windows, white tablecloths visible through the glass. Definitely not the greasy spoon we usually haunt.

I look at Lila, confused. "Why are we here? We always go to Mario's."

Lila pays the driver and hops out, dragging me by the arm. "Because we needed a change in food taste, Ana. Mario’s pizza is going to clog your arteries. Come on."

I want to argue, but the headache is finally fading, and my stomach is growling. I let her lead me inside. The atmosphere is warm, low lighting, soft jazz playing in the background. Lila marches through the tables, her heels clicking on the polished floor, pulling me along like a stubborn child.

"Lila, slow down," I hiss, but she doesn't stop.

She stops abruptly at a table in the back corner. I almost crash into her back.

"Here we are," she says, her voice dropping an octave.

I look past her, following her gaze. Sitting at the table, a glass of white wine in front of her, is a woman dressed in a sharp black blazer and silk blouse. She looks older, but the makeup is expertly applied, hiding the wrinkles. Her hair is styled in expensive waves.

My breath hitches in my throat. The room spins.

Valeria.

She looks up from her menu, her eyes locking onto mine. A small, knowing smile curves her red lips.

"Hello, Anastasia," she says smoothly. "Please, sit down. I've ordered the wine."