Darlin'

1| Lost and Found

WARNING: This story contains strong language, some violence, and mention of mental health crises such as eating disorders that may be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

"Oh, my..." The warmth and skill of his soft, masculine hands make my toes curl, and my head dang near spins from the euphoria of his expert touch. "Right there...a little harder." A trembling moan escapes my parted lips as he increases the pressure. "Oh, yes. Right there...harder...harder—"

"Savannah Jean Kingsley!" Shoot. I snap open my eyes, twisting my neck toward my mother's scolding voice as she pointedly glances up at my masseuse. "I apologize for my daughter's"—she glares at me, shimmying up her massage table—"inappropriate outbursts."

"Nothin' to apologize for Mrs. Kingsley." Zackery chuckles under his breath as he continues to hammer out all the kinks in my shoulders. "All it tells me is that I'm doing a fine job, ain't that right, Savvy girl?"

"Mhm," I hum, rolling my eyes as my mother's icy gaze lowers the temperature in the room by several uncomfortable degrees.

"A simple 'you're doing a good job' would suffice, would it not?" Momma asks, raising a meticulously plucked brow.

"You're doing a good job, Zack," I mutter under my breath as I rest my cheek against the raised pillow head of the table. I narrow my eyes at Momma. "Better?"

"Much," she says. "See? Look how easy it is to be a lady."

"Right, a lady," I grumble, suddenly much tenser than I was prior to the massage. "Remind me again why I agreed to this mother-daughter outing?"

"Because, Savannah, preliminaries are two months away, and if we're to win Miss USA, then I need you to be relaxed," she replies in a clipped tone, pursing her ruby-red lips. "Seriously, child, you're looking like a hunchback these days." Her gaze skims down my bare spine, and she tsks. "Posture matters, Savannah. You think the judges are gonna crown you queen if you look like you have a part-time job scaling the sides of Notre Dame? I don't think so."

Miss USA. It's all I've ever heard since the moment I could comprehend the English language. Momma made sure that she used my entire childhood to prepare me for this coveted title. Honestly, I find the idea of stuffing pageant flippers into a child's mouth totally ridiculous, but the trophies on my shelf prove that it's essential for a win.

Twenty-one years of waving, smiling, and twirling for judges does a number on a girl, mentally, physically, and posturely...is that word? Screw it. 'Tis now.

"If relaxation was the goal of this little bonding day," I say, scowling, "then I'm afraid to tell you that you've failed. I do not feel relaxed right now."

"You seemed rather relaxed a second ago," she notes. "Perhaps too relaxed."

"Well, that was short-lived," I mumble. "Now I'm stressed again. Thanks, momma."

"There's relaxation, Savannah, and then there's fornication," she states with a huff. "We're at a massage parlor, not a house of ill repute."

Here we go again.

"A house of ill repute?" My jaw drops. She's somehow becoming more uptight as the years drone on. "That is just plain rude, momma." I crane my neck up to Zackery. "Do I look like a prostitute to you?" I wiggle my brows, tossing him an air kiss. "Would you pay for some of my sugar—" I pause, giggling. "Sugar?"

"Savannah!" Momma gasps, swatting my shoulder as she rolls over and jerks upright off the table, eyes alarmingly wide. "I think it's time for us to leave now." She wraps the cotton sheet around her torso as she nods to the door. "You, gentlemen, are excused. Thank you."