Daddy Issues Read online

  Salt made a soft sound at the back of his throat but didn’t try to in­ter­rupt so I went on. I could barely get the words out but I made my­self say them any­way.

  “My father left me when I was so young and I guess…I guess I missed that. Missed hav­ing a man I could de­pend on and trust—one I thought I could trust any­way—never to leave me.” I looked down at my fin­gers which were twis­ted to­gether in a tight knot. My knuckles were white with ten­sion. “I con­vinced my­self you felt it too,” I said in a low voice. “What a stu­pid fool I was.”

  “Andi—” he began again but I found I couldn’t look at him any­more. Now that I had ad­mit­ted my shame, I just wanted to get away.

  I walked quickly into the kit­chen and went to the counter where I had been pre­par­ing cel­ery and car­rots earlier. Blindly, I picked up the knife and star­ted chop­ping again, sli­cing heed­lessly, not pay­ing much at­ten­tion to what I was do­ing. How could I? My en­tire be­ing seemed to be one snarled knot of shame and pain and hor­ror at what I had just ad­mit­ted to my part­ner—to the only man who had ever mattered to me since my father had left when I was nine.

  He’ll think I’m sick, I thought. Sick and dis­gust­ing, ad­mit­ting I wanted that—no, that I needed it. Needed everything he did to me at the In­sti­tute. What man in his right mind would want a wo­man like that? Someone so weak? So needy and de­praved?

  My thoughts were a mil­lion miles away and I wasn’t watch­ing what I was do­ing. It’s hardly a sur­prise that the knife chose that mo­ment to slip in my grasp and slice my fin­ger in­stead of the stalk of cel­ery I’d been hack­ing at.

  I gasped and dropped it with a clat­ter on the cut­ting board. I didn’t know how bad the cut was and I didn’t want to know—I grabbed my bleed­ing fin­ger in my fist and squeezed tight, try­ing to stop the flow.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever had this hap­pen but some­times when your mind is a mess and your emo­tions are in tur­moil, all it takes is a little phys­ical pain to push you over the edge.

  I hadn’t cried when Salt sat in the Cap­tain’s of­fice and said he wanted an­other part­ner. I hadn’t cried while we watched the video of the two of us to­gether, even though I knew we never would be again. I hadn’t even cried when I told him my shame­ful secret—that I liked and needed the things we had been do­ing to­gether at the In­sti­tute. But now the sharp pain of my wounded fin­ger brought the tears that had been hov­er­ing like a rain cloud to the sur­face and I couldn’t hold them back any longer.

  I clutched my wounded fin­ger to my chest and bowed my head as the sobs shook me. I didn’t want to be like this—didn’t want to be weak and needy and sick but some­how I couldn’t help it. The events of my child­hood had left me raw and warped in­side—flawed in a way that seemed im­possible to fix. I was scarred…dam­aged and I didn’t blame my part­ner for want­ing noth­ing to do with me now. I didn’t want any­thing to do with me either.

  I wished I was dead.

  Sud­denly I heard Salt come up be­hind me.

  “Andi,” he said and his deep voice was wor­ried. “What happened—what is wrong?”

  “I…I’m fine,” I choked out, try­ing des­per­ately to get con­trol of my­self. I didn’t want him to see me like this. Didn’t want him to think I was even weaker than he already did. “I just…I cut my­self but only a little bit. It’s a really small wound—I’m okay—you can go now.”

  “Bull­shit,” he said. “Is not a small wound—there is blood every­where!”

  “Is there?” I looked down and saw he was right—the pale green cel­ery and bright or­ange car­rots I had been cut­ting were now spattered with gory droplets of scar­let.

  “Yes. So let me see.” He spun me around and tried to take my wounded hand but I backed away, keep­ing my dis­tance.

  “I told you, I’m fine,” I said, wish­ing my voice soun­ded stronger. “Now please, would you just go?”

  “I am not go­ing any­where un­til you let me look at your fin­ger,” he said firmly. “Come.” He held out his hand for mine but I still res­isted.

  “No.” I lif­ted my chin. “You’re not my part­ner any­more and you’re not re­spons­ible for me.”

  “I am re­spons­ible for you,” he growled. Then his voice changed—went low and soft and com­mand­ing. “Mishka,” he said. “Let me see your fin­ger.”

  “Don’t.” I looked up at him, my heart beat­ing so hard I thought it would burst. “Don’t do that.”

  “I must.” Salt cupped my cheek in his big hand gently. “Mishka,” he said again. “Show Papa your hurt fin­ger. Let me make it bet­ter.”

  For a mo­ment a blind­ing rage filled me—how dare he do this to me? How dare he use my weak­ness against me? Then I looked up at him, looked into his eyes. They were filled with ten­der­ness and de­sire—he was look­ing at me the same way he had at the In­sti­tute. The way he had when he rocked me and bathed me and read me bed­time stor­ies. There was no lie in his eyes—no de­cep­tion. Only the de­sire to heal and pro­tect me.

  Word­lessly, I held out my wounded hand.

  “Hmm.” Salt ex­amined me wor­riedly. The bleed­ing had mostly stopped be­cause I’d been put­ting pres­sure on it but it was still a long, ugly cut right up the middle of my ring fin­ger. How in the world I’d man­aged to slice my­self in such an awk­ward way I didn’t know but there it was and it hurt like hell.

  “Salt—” I began but he shook his head.

  “Call me Papa. And come to sink—let me tend you.”

  He walked me over to the kit­chen sink and ran cold wa­ter over my cut. This made it bleed again but Salt wrapped it firmly in a pa­per towel and had me hold it tightly while he went for the first aid sup­plies. By the time he brought the Neo­sporin and bandaids, the cut had mostly stopped bleed­ing again. Salt ten­ded the wound and band­aged me care­fully.

  “There,” he said at last, eye­ing his handi­work with ap­par­ent sat­is­fac­tion. “Should heal with no prob­lems now.”

  “Thank you,” I said, not meet­ing his eyes.

  “Thank you, what?” Salt asked sternly. When I wouldn’t an­swer him, he lif­ted my chin so that I had to meet his eyes.

  “Thank you…Papa,” I whispered at last.

  “That’s good. Very good, my little mishka.”

  Without warn­ing, he swung me up into his arms and car­ried me back to the liv­ing room.

  I wanted to protest but be­fore I could, he had settled on the couch with me in his lap. I thought he was go­ing to kiss me but in­stead he pulled me against him and po­si­tioned my head on his chest. Then he stroked my hair and held me close. His big hands felt won­der­ful, mov­ing over my trem­bling back and shoulders, pet­ting my hips and arms and thighs, al­most as though he couldn’t bear to stop touch­ing me.

  For my­self, I felt like I could never get enough of his touch, enough of be­ing close to him. But I still wasn’t com­pletely com­fort­able with what seemed to be hap­pen­ing.

  “Salt,” I said in a low voice. “Please, you don’t have to do this—don’t have to act this way just for me.”

  He stopped strok­ing me and let me sit up for a mo­ment.

  “You think I am do­ing this only for you?” he asked, rais­ing an eye­brow at me.

  “Well…aren’t you? I mean, the whole ‘Papa and mishka’ thing? What could you pos­sibly get out of it?”

  “The chance to hold you,” he said ser­i­ously. “The chance to care for you and pro­tect you the way I have wanted to al­most from the mo­ment I first saw you.”

  “You…you really feel that way?” I asked, my breath catch­ing in my throat.

  Slowly, he nod­ded.

  “When the Cap­tain first put us to­gether, you re­minded me of my young­est sis­ter. Not in looks—she has black hair and blue eyes, like me,” he ad­ded hast­ily. “But in size. You were so tiny—so del­ic­ate. I wanted at once to pro�