Page 52 of Cryptic Curse

I look around the room, at the torn remains of my underwear strewn across the carpet.A sick feeling wells up in my stomach as I leave the parlor, stumble up the stairs to my bedroom and into my en suite bathroom, throwing up until there’s nothing left but dry heaves.I take a shower afterward, scrubbing my skin raw to scrape away the feeling of dirty hands on my body.

I put on loose pajamas and curl up on the bed, drawing my knees to my chest.I stare at the canopy of the bed that was once my mother’s.A tear slips down my cheek, wetting the silk sheets underneath me.

Why did this happen?

Aren’t fathers supposed to protect their daughters?

“Mami,” I whisper into the silence, wishing more than anything that she were here with me.She would know what to do.She would know how to make it stop.

But she’s dead.In the ground.

And I’m on my own.

* * *

Present Day…

I’ve been thinking about Hawk Bellamy for the past three days.I didn’t text him again, nor did I respond to hisdrive safelyand heart emoji that he sent me the night I drove home after we kissed.

Today is my first day of culinary school, and I’m trying to focus.

The class is called “Culinary Foundations,” and we’re set up with partners in front of tiny kitchenettes as our professor, Chef Charleston, describes how to prep the kitchen before cooking begins.

“In order to create, one must first prepare the area,” Chef begins.He moves with practiced ease as he organizes the workspace in front of him.“A cluttered kitchen is like a chaotic mind.You should always start clean and organized.”

He clears the surface, placing each tool and ingredient in its specific place.He talks as he works, explaining each step in detail.

“Now, safety.Knives are not toys.They are essential tools in our craft and must be treated with respect.”He picks up a large chef’s knife and demonstrates the proper grip.

I glance at my partner, a burly guy named Jordan who grins back at me.I can’t help but return the smile, feeling some of my nervousness dissipate.

The class continues like this for the next few hours, Chef Charleston explaining and demonstrating while we follow along at our stations.We learn about the importance ofmise en place, the practice of having all your ingredients chopped and measured before you start cooking.We learn about the different types of knives and their specific uses, and the correct way to hold a chef’s knife for maximum control.

If I’m being honest, I’m bored to tears.This is all stuff I had already figured out on my own.

Jordan turns out to be a friendly partner at least.He’s patient and easygoing.He’s been working in a restaurant for a few years now and wants to expand his culinary skills.He effortlessly chops an onion, his eyes watering slightly.

His eyes widen when it’s my turn to chop.I used to chop onions at home in Colombia all the time.My father’s chef was allergic to them, so they were my domain.

“Wow.And I thoughtIwas an expert chopper,” Jordan says.

“Cooking was the one thing my father let me do at home in Colombia,” I reply.

It’s not exactly the truth.

The truth is that once I turned fifteen, I read cookbooks under my covers and bribed my father’s chef with smiles and a few blowjobs—turns out I’m pretty good at them—to let me help in the kitchen.

I learned to hate the taste of dick.

But every one of my father’s friends and associates, including his chef, wanted my mouth on their privates.

My cheeks warm at the memory, a sharp contrast to the coldness I feel inside.I wonder if Jordan would be so friendly if he knew about my past.If he knew what I’ve done.What’s been done to me.

“Hey, you okay?”he asks, concern etching his features.

I nod, forcing a smile onto my face.“Yeah, just thinking.”

He gives me a warm grin.“Don’t think too hard.It’s only our first day.”