Possessive by Lena Little

 

1

Paul

The opening guitar riff to Mötley Crüe’s “Kickstart My Heart” bellows from the Bose speakers announcing a new customer has just pushed their way through the front door of my tattoo parlor.

I cock my head and look at the Harley Davidson clock on the wall. Been sitting around here twiddling my thumbs for a full eighty hours this week and now somebody finds the stones to march in here and decide they want to get inked five minutes before closing for the week. Figures. I scrape my forearm across my brow, the buckets of moisture on my skin remind me that the air conditioning repairman didn’t show up…again. How am I supposed to make it through my first month in business if customers can’t even get a tattoo without sweating bullets in the process?

“I got it, boss,” Tommy, my new hire, says as I hear his heavy footfalls move toward the front door. “Sorry, miss,” Tommy says in the best customer service oriented voice an ex-con can be expected to muster up. “We’re just closing up.”

I exhale hard, just waiting for them to leave, knowing the sight of Tommy, at six foot five, and me, an inch taller, isn’t going to paint a very welcoming picture. I’m sure the scowl Tommy must have on his face right about now isn’t helping either.

“I’m sorry. Can I make an appointment for tomorrow?”

My tattoo gun slides from the tips of my inked fingers and crashes to the floor below. I pivot on the heel of my oversized black derby shoes and take in the face of an angel.

“You will not come back tomorrow,” I grit.

“Oh,” she squeaks, like a mouse caught in a trap as I stalk toward her like a cheetah ready to devour the smallest of prey. The smell of citrus fruits and ocean water wraps around my neck like a rope, yanking me toward her to find out if that’s the smell of her shampoo, perfume, or her natural scent.

My hands flex at my sides but what I really want to do is reach out a long arm and take that book bag that’s strapped to her back, relieving not just the weight of its contents, but the weight of the world, from her shoulders. I got you, little girl.

Her eyes are tired like she’s been mentally wrestling with a grizzly bear and has come up short more times than not. But she’s not done fighting. I can see it in her eyes, in her resolve, the way she doesn’t back down from my order.

He’s a survivor, an ask no quarter give no quarter kind of tough luck graduate of the School of Hard Knocks.

I’m across the parlor like I’m shot out of a cannon, beelining it right to this mysterious princess in pigtails. Her choice of hairstyle is as unusual, but not as unique as the face her hair frames. Wars are fought over a face that symmetrical, that stunning, that perfect. I’d poison every male in existence if I could, just to be the only man left on the face of the earth so she’d have to choose me. Mate with me. Make the most beautiful babies in the history of humanity. Hell, I’d even poison my own brother, if I had one, if I caught him looking at her just a second too long. And how could any man not?

I open my mouth to speak, but for the first time in my entire life, my mouth is as dry as sand. I swallow hard, the tightness in my throat relaxing slightly but the balled up fist that is my heart refusing to make this any easier. “Take a seat,” I order, causing her eyes to narrow. Her body doesn’t move.

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

My head slowly moves from side to side as my own eyes narrow this time. “You couldn’t be if you had a million years to try.”

The slightest of smiles tugs at the corners of her lips in understanding, her feet might be frozen but her brain is clearly processing the words as quickly as I can manage to get them past the frog in my throat. She’s smart. I bet she reads. I sure as hell do. What else is there to do in the lockup other than reading books, bodyweight exercises, and simply try and survive?

I throw myself into a lean on the front door, crowding her space as I plow my fingers through my dark hair, trying to get a hold of myself.

My body pivots to the side as I make room for her to pass, the iron rod in my pants damn near pointing the way.

“Are you sure?” she asks one more time, and I wonder who did this to her. Who in their right mind ever made this girl think her presence was anything less than a visit from the Pope and the fucking ice cream man in one?

“I’m not sure. I’m absolutely-fucking-positive.”

She winces slightly at my language and I curse myself for my word choice. I don’t need to posture and flex both my muscles and wit to stay alive on the outside. Those days are over, assuming I do exactly what I’ve told my parole officer I’m doing. Staying out of trouble and putting everything I have into becoming a professional tattoo artist. I did ‘em for free on the inside. Got real damn good at homemade ink too. Now to turn that into a real biz, stack some paper, and become a clean-cut taxpaying citizen who keeps his nose clean.

Then again, you can take the boy from the wrong side of the tracks to the shiny boulevard, but you can’t take the street smarts, or his mentality, out of the boy.

But this…doll…she makes me want to do right. Be right. Do things the way I should. And the most fucked up part is I have no clue why. There’s just something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on. And I’m not fooling myself into thinking part of it doesn’t start with wanting to put my meaty palm right over the top of her frayed jean shorts as she sashays past me. I bring my fist to my mouth and bite down. Those shorts make Daisy Duke look like a damn nun.

Her lightweight chiffon black button-up shirt flows in rhythm with her hips, the ends of her chiffon top tied up just beneath her bra line.

I swipe the back of my wrist across my mouth, trying to catch the foam that must be coming out of it. I feel like an animal who’s just been let out of a cage, and considering that’s damn near what the penal system in this country amounts to these days, why wouldn’t I feel like an untamed beast, less than human?

“What kind of tattoo were you looking to get?” Tommy pipes in and takes a step toward her.

My arm juts out like a clothesline, stopping him in his tracks, not allowing him to get one step closer to her than he already is. Not allowing him to come in-between me and what’s already mine, whether the two of them know it or not.

As tattoo artists, we’re both possessive by nature. When you ink someone it’s forever, it’s like you own a part of them for the rest of their lives, and in the process, they own a part of your deepest expression, your art.

“Is everything okay?” she stammers. “I-I feel like I’m interrupting something.”

“You’re not the one interrupting,” I bite off.

Her eyes move from Tommy back to me, where they stay locked. “I want to get a tattoo of a rose. It’s…my grandma’s name. She was all I had left and she just passed.”

I’m not one for sob stories, having seen more than my fair share of death in my days. But something about this hits me hard, and I already feel like I let her down by letting her grandma slip away. The thought is absolutely crazy considering I know nothing about this girl. Not even her name. “What’s your name?”

“Poppy.”

“Flowers run in your family.”

“Yeah,” she nods, and a full smile takes over her face for the first time. “My grandma and I were a lot alike. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Miss. You’re emotional right now. You sure you wanna do this or maybe you wanna take some time to think about it first,” Tommy asks.

I turn and snarl at him, baring my teeth without giving a fuck what he thinks, despite the fact we should be ‘united’ in front of a customer, whatever the hell that means.

“She’s emotional because she actually loved someone,” I inform him. “Not this half-assed shit that most people are passing off as passion these days. Watching Netflix and having tepid birthday sex once a year while your kids grow up in the other room glued to a screen playing video games and being raised by the Internet does not constitute a family. What she clearly had was a real family, despite its small size. She had someone she loved with everything she had and someone who loved her back, and now that’s gone.”

“I was just saying,” Tommy defends.

“You were just leaving,” I correct.

Testosterone cuts through the air like a hot knife as we’re clearly at the start of what’s about to become a very big pissing contest. Tommy needs to understand it’s not just him. After seeing this princess walk across the threshold of our grungy tattoo parlor I’ve been thinking of how badly I want to kill everyone who owns a pair of testicles who’s currently within ten square miles of our location.

Or fight them mano a mano, because no man worth his salt loses a fight over a woman like her, no matter how many men come at him with a full head of steam, one right after the other. And that’s because there is no such thing as a woman like her. There is only her. One. A modern day unicorn standing right in front of the both of us, and I’ll go back to prison before I share her with anyone, even so much as another man looking at her. Not. Gonna. Happen.

It’s already game over for me, put a ring on her finger and get her pregnant time. And once I get my first taste of her, of her body, when I get the chance to be everything she needs and even the things she needs but doesn’t even know yet? That’s the modern day utopia. That’s the best life any man in history could ever have. It’s a wrap.

Tommy backs away from my forearm and I take a step closer to her. “Is there a certain age you have to be to get a tattoo?”

“In your case, no.”

“Legally,” she questions.

“Eighteen.” A beat passes. “You are…legal, aren’t you?”

A few seconds go by before she nods her head.

“I’m going to need to see some ID.” I hold out my hand and motion to her backpack.

“You don’t trust me?” she asks.

“No, I just want to see what your last name used to be before you take mine.”

“Very funny,” she replies, carefully taking her backpack off each shoulder before stuffing her hand inside.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Her hand slides out of the bag and she presents me with her ID. Not a driver’s license, a state ID. I eye it, having worked in a liquor store on campus at a popular college town before, so I’m used to seeing a multitude of fakes.

I turn my head slightly backward. “Out,” I growl, my voice sounding like crushed glass as I grind my molars. She just turned eighteen today. “Now,” I add, urgency taking over every part of me.

“What you need more space for that fucking chip on your shoulder, don’t you?” Tommy adds, jamming his hand into his own duffel bag.

“Dial it back, son,” I warn, my hand turning into a fist. “Don’t make me turn and knock your knob back for you.” Tommy may feel the brunt of my aggression right now but he’s just the first in a line of many who I already know I will be communicating to that Poppy is off-limits. It’s going to be a challenge for the rest of my life, and I’m honored that I’m the one who has that privilege. And if anyone has a problem with it, they can file their complaints directly…with my right fist.

Knowing that she’s all alone now I’m immediately appointing myself as her caretaker. If she so much as eats some food that makes her stomach turn I’ll find the chef and beat him over the head with a frying pan myself. And she will be eating in restaurants from now on. She won’t be bothered with cooking, cleaning, or worrying her perfect little head with any kind of domestic duties. She’s free of those responsibilities forever.

Up until this point my whole life has been about putting out metaphorical fires, and because of where I’m from, sometimes real ones too. But the biggest inferno of all is raging inside me right now, and every second in Poppy’s presence is like another can of gasoline being thrown on top of it, spreading it more and more out of control. Making it rage knowing that there are surely other men out there dreaming of taking the same privileges with her I plan on doing.

But there can be only one. Me.

It’s not just about the desires of the flesh either. She’s awoken something almost…paternal, inside me. This need to protect, to…discipline, but only for her own good. To make sure she knows just how far those angel wings of hers extend and just how high they can take her in life. And this newfound instinct is all-consuming, making me realize why I’ve never been attracted to a woman before. Because she’s not just a woman. She’s something so much more complex, interesting, complete. And I was waiting for her all along, even when I didn’t even have a clue she was out there, let alone coming for me.

Tommy drives his palm into the front door and is quickly on the street where he belongs. I only brought him in because I knew him from inside, said he knew a lot of guys that he could bring in as clients. So far all he’s brought with him is a penchant for kicking up his feet and downing my bottles of whiskey while we stare at the door all hours of the day.

Moving quickly to the door I flip over the welcome sign to read ‘closed’, and then without thinking I slide the lock shut and quickly close the blinds. I turn to see Poppy, who’s glued to the same spot on the floor, the same wide-eyed expression on her face, but it’s one of interest, not fear.

“I wasn’t thinking,” I offer up my best attempt at an apology. “Does being here after hours, doors locked and blinds close, scare you.”

“Not…in that way,” she immediately replies, causing me to stop in my tracks. I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding and try and pull myself together, remembering this girl is here to commemorate the most important person in her life, not to understand she’s filled the same role in mine, on sight.

“Where did you want the rose?” I move closer to her and it’s only then I see why she’s not in the chair, standing next to it instead. The chair is fully extended and she’s not tall enough to easily perch her perfect backside onto it, onto the pedestal where my queen belongs.

“Where do you think would be good?” she answers my question with one of her own, dragging her upper teeth across her lower lip.

Don’t take the bait, Paul. Take it slow. You’re probably already scaring her to death.

“Somewhere where you’ll see it a lot because you want to honor her every day for the rest of your life. Not a day goes by where you don’t think about her, right?”

She nods. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s my first tattoo so I was thinking of putting it somewhere private, somewhere concealed, but after your words, it doesn’t really make sense. I want it to be somewhere visible like you said.”

Slowly, I extend my big mitt and take her arm in my hand, the heat from her body searing into mine as I get a shock straight to my fingers against her skin, and the bolt of electricity continues straight up my arm and rattles my core. All I can do is stare at her thin appendage, wondering how a girl with so little meat on her bones can protect herself in this big bad world. How she’s even pulled it off up until this point.

“You’re studying my arm like it’s a precious artifact. Like it’s some bone from a dinosaur yet to be discovered,” she giggles.

“Oh, it’s precious all right, but it’s never going to be an artifact. I’m going to make sure of that because by the time we’re old and gray there will be a cure for death. Baby, you’re mine forever.”

“You sound like you read a lot of vampire books.”

“I read everything, and right now, if I’m reading you right, you’re ready to get started.”

I trail my fingertips up her sleeve, across her covered shoulder, and then over her delicate exposed collarbone, my digits raising goosebumps in their wake. The raised dots on her skin visible even through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“I’m ready,” she confirms on an inhale.

“Can you roll your sleeves up?”

I release her arm and the second her skin is no longer touching mine I regret it instantly. She tries to turn back her sleeves and manages a roll or two, but the fabric bunches. “I have a better idea.” She rolls her sleeve back down and then her tiny fingers unhook buttons of her shirt, quickly working their way up the center of her body.

“Slower,” I mumble, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged through the gutter.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I correct. “Good idea. It gets hot in here when you’re getting tattooed, plus having the shirt out of the way will make the job easier.”

My arms are shaking as her hands glide effortlessly between her breasts and unfasten the last button. “Where should I put this?” she asks.

“On the stool is fine.”

Twisting at her trunk, she leans over and carefully places the shirt on the luckiest stool on Earth, and her contorted body position corkscrews even more as she attempts to fold her shirt. How perfect is she, making sure to make my place look tidy? As she bends over I catch a small glimpse of her panties, and the animal inside me roars. I bite down on my tongue to keep from actually filling the small space with a feral mating call.

Turning back to face me all she’s got on is some sort of tank top bra kinda thing. Not sure what to call it, other than a thin layer of fabric that’s separating me from seeing absolute perfection.

“Let’s get you in the chair.”

She comes up on her tiptoes and without waiting for her to ask for help I take charge, grabbing her by the hips and lifting her into position.

“I’m nervous,” she confesses, looking down and away.

“Shhh,” I comfort her, taking her jaw in my hand and applying the slightest pressure, just enough to get her to make eye contact with me. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me. I promise.”

She looks up at me like I’m her superhero and I want to beat my chest and yell at the top of my lungs that I’m the luckiest fucker ever, but I stay calm or at least keep it together as much as I can.

“Why do I feel so safe with you despite the way you look?” she asks out loud, but I’m not sure if it’s directed at me.

“You can’t always judge a book by its cover,” I volunteer, not wanting her to ponder the question a second longer. I’m not giving her the chance to start questioning me. She changes her mind about getting a tattoo? That’s one thing. Belonging to me is not optional or up for debate.

“I bet a lot of women feel safe around you,” she continues.

“As far as I’m concerned no other women on this world exist.” I release her chin and without taking my gaze from hers I reach for my phone, scoop it up and bring it in front of her face. I crane my neck to the side and look at it just enough to see my contacts list, clicking ‘select all’ and then ‘delete’. I toss the phone behind me, the damn thing sliding across the table and falling on the floor, but I don’t dare take my eyes off her for one second. She’s the signal, everything else is the noise, and damn am I tuned in like never before.

“Let’s make history,” I announce.

“History?”

“Your first tattoo. Once you’ve had one, especially one of mine, you’re going to be addicted.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

I pick my tattoo gun up off the ground and carefully sterilize it and prepare to get her inked for the first time. I feel like I just slammed a handful of double espressos, but without the shakes. I’m locked in, knowing this is going to be the best tat I’ve ever given someone, because she’s as far from a ‘someone’ as you can get. She’s everything, and this is just the first gift in a lifetime of presents that she’ll be receiving from me.

The only gift I want in return is her stomach constantly swollen with my babies.

I move back to my chair and prepare to start. “This might feel like a bee sting, but you’ll get used to it. Just breathe and stay calm.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

My parole officer doesn’t trust me but the most beautiful girl in the world does. Puts my life in complete perspective and my priorities in clear focus.

“What’s that?” I call out, her head jerking up to look at the door and my tattoo gun snaps to life for the first time.

“You tricked me,” she says.

“But you didn’t notice the pain, right? Because you were focused on something else.”

“Not your first time, I see.”

“But clearly yours, I can tell.”

The words hang in the air as I get to work, outlining her rose and discussing various colors of red and which one will be best for her. She’s loose, almost childlike, and her exuberance for this experience, and life, in general, rejuvenates me. She’s the light to my dark, despite her dark attire…which begins to slide off her shoulder and I can’t help but take notice.

My eyes are doing their best to stay locked on her forearm while I fight guilt over watching her black strap slowly descend down her upper arm as she talks with enthusiasm, her body moving slightly with her words, but not enough for me to ask her to stop. I stay focused on my work until I can’t anymore.

“Let me get this for you,” I pause, grabbing the tiny strap between two fingers and raising it back up her arm, trailing the curve of her shoulder until it’s in place, her breast not even moving in the process. Does she even need a bra with those perfect, young, sky high tits? God, they’re like two perfect circles defying gravity right there on her chest, and part of the material is damn near transparent.

I maneuver on my stool, trying to get the trunk of flesh between my legs to stop pointing sky high and stand at ease. Not. Happening.

My hand is still on her whatever it’s called.

“That’s one heck of a…bra,” I offer, rolling it in-between my fingertips.

“It’s not a bra, silly. I wouldn’t go out in public in a bra. It’s a top.”

“Not like any top I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?”

I release the strap and my hand continues onward, moving to the notch of her throat, my hand playing tug of war with my groin. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

My cock is rock hard and has been since I caught that glimpse of her white panties. My dick pounds with blood as it twitches in my trousers, the thin material not helping conceal my need. Not. At. All.

“Noooo,” she responds, as I lean in closer, my nose sifting through her hair, taking in her scent. “Does it hurt?” she asks.

“More than you can image,” I answer right away, my rod aching to be freed from its cotton prison.

“I’ve heard sometimes the color in tattoos hurts more.”

My body locks up as I process her words. I pull my head back and look at her face. Her mind is not where mine is, instead locked on the red paint to be used to fill in her rose.

“I’ll be right here with you.”

“Promise you won’t stop, even if I kick and scream.”

I swallow hard. “I promise.”

“I need someone stronger than me right now. Someone who can…enforce the discipline it takes to see this whole thing through. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Take care of you?”

“Yes, like I’m…I’m…,” she stalls as if she can’t quite finish and then finally spits out the rest, “a little girl.”

The entire world stops spinning and the true depth of my purpose on this planet really sinks in. It was already there, but this is the hammer that pounds that nail so deep it’s never coming out. She’s asking me to be her disciplinarian, and I like that role just fine. In fact, I love it, and love isn’t a word that’s ever crossed my mind. Giving her what she needs, wants, and craves, is everything because she is everything.

“My little girl,” I correct.

“Your little girl,” she agrees. As she should, because my words weren’t a suggestion. But then she hits me with a curveball of her own, the one word in the English language out of all the others that cuts through and hits me like a slug to the chest. “Daddy.”