Possessive by Lena Little

8

Paul

Ispin the pen over and under four fingers of my hand, weaving through them like a serpent only to repeat the process over and over again. I motion with one finger to the barista for another shot of espresso as I stand from my seat and pace in my corner of the coffee shop, nervous eyes afraid to look at me directly, women with their children getting up and leaving.

I stare across the street as Poppy walks into a bank. We came to the agreement that she had the rest of the afternoon to get her personal affairs in order and then she was to be by my side forever. I insisted on being with her today, but she said some things she just needed to do on her own.

So I let her…let her think she was by herself.

The tracking device I dropped into her bag didn’t make her hard to follow at all. I just needed to keep a small distance as I stayed back on my motorcycle, never far enough away that I couldn’t step in if things got out of control.

Even though I knew I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight today, it was hard enough just giving up the illusion of control, of choice, to her. Maybe that says more about me than I realize. Or maybe it just means I’m a fucking lunatic when it comes to her.

There’s an old wise tale about how a bushman finds water when the days between rain get to drawn out and one of life’s truly few essentials runs dry.

The bushman puts a lump of salt in a narrow hole, and then he waits…waits for a baboon. Baboons love salt, so when he comes along and smells the salt, he naturally puts his hand in the hole and grabs the salt. The salt in his grip makes his hand bigger, and then he can’t pull it back out of the hole. He’s trapped. He can’t get his hand out.

If he was smart, he’d just let go. But he doesn’t want to let go.

The bushman, knowing this, comes along and puts the baboon in a cage and then proceeds to give him all the salt he wants. Eventually, the baboon gets thirsty. The bushman lets him out and the baboon can’t run to the nearest water source fast enough.

The bushman follows him and they both drink to their fill.

What I did today, putting that tracking device in her bag made me feel like the bushman at first. Like I was smart and I was going to jam my nose in her business no matter what. Now? Now I realize I’m more like the baboon, because no matter what I’m never letting go of this girl, and if I can just get her to follow my wishes life will be that much better for the both of us because I’ll lead her, lead us, to what we both want. Peace and happiness, which we can only find together, whether she’s yet to fully realize it or not.

But the key is she has to think it’s her choice, which is why I find myself stalking her from a short distance.

I twirl the pen again across my fingers, remembering that it’s the same device I used to take the lives of three men before the cops caught up with me.

Moving closer to the glass I cascade my fingers over the top of an empty table and watch as other men look at my Poppy as she enters the bank. The doorman not very covertly damn near breaking his neck to catch a look at her backside as she walks past him.

First thing I’m doing once I get her home and safe is ordering her a truckload of turtlenecks. Hell, I might even look at home prices in Amish country in Pennsylvania while I’m at it. Keep her covered at all times, not to mention all the social pressure that would be on her to have as many of my children as she could bear.

I swear I crave her pussy one hundred and twenty minutes of every hour, possible because both sides of my brain, both analytical and creative think about her non-stop. My creative, thinking of all the ways I can come up to please her, to show her how much she means to me. And the analytical side thinking of how many babies she can bare over the rest of her lifetime because that’s the number I’m going for…not a single child less.

The barista sets the espresso on the table next to me, the new table I’ve acquired as it gives me a better view of her. I take the hot drink in my grip, tipping it back like it’s nothing, and place the tiny cup on the counter, my hand tightening around it, my pulse starting to pound when I see she’s on the move again.

Quickly, I stuff a twenty dollar bill in the kid’s hand and move toward the back entrance, my motorcycle parked in the lot around the corner.

I wait for my phone to beep and pull up the app, seeing that she’s on the move. I quickly fall in line behind a public bus, wincing that she’s on that kind of transportation, potentially sitting beside guys who I wouldn’t put it past them to pull their dicks out and beat them right in public. The worst part is I’m not there to make sure they don’t. Or is it because I’d be tempted to do the same.

Rounding the corner I keep the bus in my sights, wondering what exactly she was doing at the bank, knowing she’s about to never have to think about money again. Waiting to hear her voice when she checks in with me at the top of the hour. Needing to hear her. Needing her to know I’m there for her, without knowing I’m here...just behind her.

But that’s where I belong…in the shadows. She’s young. It’s her time to shine, not mine. I’m her support system, her encouragement. And that’s exactly what I want to be, along with her protector, her provider, her lover…her everything.

And I will be in all ways, whether she tells me what ways those are or if I have to figure them out myself.