Save Me, Daddy

There he is.

And he’s making pancakes?

My mouth kind of falls open a little bit. It's the man from the photograph, certainly. He looks different. His hair is thick and close-cropped, dusted with silver at his temples. He scowls at a sauté pan as he jerks it in his hand and flips the pancake, landing it precisely in the middle of the pan. Steam wafts dramatically upward. His muscles clench and unclench with every motion under the gray tank top. I can see the ridges of his abdominal muscles rustling under that fabric as he moves back and forth.

Something about his animal strength being displayed for the homely task of making pancakes makes me tremble through my core. I jam my thighs together again, trying to keep myself still. Something twinges inside me, like a rubberband snapping that I didn’t even know was there.

Is this real life? This kitchen is gorgeous, with stainless steel appliances and black enameled cabinetry. Light from a skylight filters down and makes everything seem to coolly glow.

Without looking up, he says: “Don’t just stand there. Come and sit down, Kita.”

And I want to, but I also want to run.

Yet, I find my feet obediently shuffling in his direction.

Chapter 5

Daniel

As soon as I hear the bedroom door open upstairs, my heart starts to beat faster. As I'm whipping up a simple pancake batter, I can't help but imagine what she's doing up there. Waking up, wondering where she is? Exploring her surroundings?

I wonder if she's all right. Should I check on her? Should I call out to her? She had quite the dose of tranquilizer last night. Roofies, I'm guessing. I imagine that comes with a bit of a hangover. I hope she's not feeling too unwell.

As soon as I hear her feet on the stairs, I can see them again in my mind. When I laid her down, I couldn’t help but stare at those tiny, pale feet, limply crossed. The long bones of her legs curved subtly as she drew her knees toward her chest. A downy covering of fine, almost invisible hairs laid neatly along her upper arms, similar to the way her blond, bobbed hair fell softly across her cheek.

I don't want to th

ink about it. I won't think about it.

As the surface heats up, I keep my head down, ladling a half cup of batter into the bottom of sauté pan. I see her out of the corner of my eye, just outside of the kitchen area.

I won't look. I'm not some old pervert. I don’t want to frighten her off.

But when she steps into the silvery light from the skylight, I catch a glimpse of her. She's wearing my shirt. It falls to just above her knee, the curve of the shirttail exposing her upper thigh. I don't want to think about it. I shouldn't be looking at her, but my pulse is racing and feel something uncoil in my belly. Something I haven't felt for a long, long time.

I clear my throat. “Don't just stand there, Kita,” I tell her in my most businesslike voice. “Come and sit down.”

Her tiny feet make almost no sound on the kitchen tiles as she obediently comes in, pulling out a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island. She climbs into it nimbly, and seems so dainty as she rests her elbows on the counter and perches her chin on top of her fingers.

She blinks at me a few times, saying nothing, and I'm happy to see that her dilation responses seem to have returned to normal. The drugs have worn off. That's good.

“Want some juice?”

“Coffee? If you have it,” she says in a small voice.

“Coffee is bad for you,” I reply, surprising myself with the sharpness in my tone. While that is a fact, why am I telling her this?

“Oh,” she sighs, sitting up a little taller. “You're probably right.”

That makes me feel a little bit worse. Most women would have snapped at me, telling me that was none of my business, telling me that bossing them around was also bad for me. But her courteous answer just sort of pointed out what a jerk I was in a much more precise fashion.

I flip the pancake over again in the sauté pan, then slide it out onto a plate. I can feel her eyes on me as she watches everything that I'm doing. She probably thinks I'm up to no good.

As I push the plate toward her, she drums her fingers against the granite counter.

“Go ahead and eat. There are berries there and maple syrup. I'll make you some coffee.”

I turn around to find the French press at the back of the cabinet, and I'm happy to hear her pick up the fork. So, she's not too suspicious of my motivations. Or maybe being hungry has made her more adventurous.