Be My Daddy |18+|

34.

I just wanna hold you tight down the avenue
—Lana Del Rey/Happiness is Butterfly

I lead him into an open area of my kitchen, dining room and sitting room. Where he can stare at paintings lining up on the wall and I can pour myself a drink. A bottle of bourbon sitting on the countertop which I just had last night.

The twist of events urges me to gulp down the liquor. And right now I really need to feel the burn.

His head turns to me, and for once he tears his gaze away from the replica of Girl with a Pearl Earring.

"You start drinking again?" His question isn't accusing, but a mere disappointment still shows.

I place the glass back after downing the contents.

"I need it." I say truthfully. It's the only company for my misery. I can't breathe without it now.

My numbness feels deeper somehow and liquors kinda help to divert me from the void. I am grasping on the remaining pieces of my path of destruction.

"You don't." He states matter-of-factly.

"Then, you don't know me." I answer, holding his gaze unwaveringly. It's partly true. He doesn't know me at all until now.

"Maybe." He murmurs, turning back to stare at another painting. I exhale in relief as I'm released from his intense eyes. My hand automatically encircles the neck of a bottle to pour another, but stopping midair as he says, "I hate when you treat yourself like shit."

His words are like a knife to my chest.

My grip tightens around the bottle before pouring double. Fury flares inside me. What does he know about my struggles? My life is simply existing these days.

"It's only fair. I treat everyone like shit, too." I retort. A turn of emotion washes over me. A sudden anger overflows the sadness.

He chuckles humorlessly. "Then, try not to."

I don't say anything. And he doesn't press further.

His eyes are still capturing my paintings one by one. This room alone has ten paintings. Some are replicas, the others are my originals. I wonder what he's thinking about them. My originals tend to be odd in some way. Dark, gloom. Terrifying.

As though he reads my thought, he comments, "you seem very fascinated by ocean."

There are three ocean paintings at one side of the wall. In every shade of blue. Honestly, there are tons of them still stashed somewhere.

"It describes the loneliness perfectly." I say, voicing my mind.

"They're beautiful." He praises. Genuine.

I drink my bourbon. Words unfiltered. "You always love broken things."

His reply is immediate. Like he doesn't have to think twice to say it.

"Only when you're involved." Those eyes find mine. Warm, to the point of burning.

My heart blooms. And of course, my mouth has to ruin the moment.

"Am I going to jail?"

I've been curious since the first time he stepped into my house. What awaits me next.

"That'll be too easy, don't you think?" His lips curl up slightly. As if he finds my question funny.

"It'll be first time, though." I reply. I shouldn't be amused by now. And my clean records are not something I should be bragging about, but I can't help it.