Daddy Issues

by Wyatt, Dani

  “It’s not my turn, I —” A sudden hot flash takes over as I look out to see the customer striding through the clean white walls and dark oak floor of the gallery. I’m too young for hot flashes, but it’s an affliction I’ve developed over the last couple months. They are directly related to one person. The one I’m looking at right now.

  I look out toward the front counter and my breath catches in my throat, my stomach doing an Olympic gymnastics routine.

  “When are you two just going to get to it?” Andrea gives me a wicked smile and picks up my calculator and pen, handing them to me.

  “He’s not interested in me like that.” The hot flash has my palms sweating, and red blotches form on my neck and chest.

  “The hell he isn’t.”

  “He’s just polite. It’s just business.”

  “What about the wine he brings you? That doesn’t look like business. And the way he looks at you. He spends two hours here talking to you every time he comes in.” She sighs dramatically as she looks out to see the man she’s nicknamed “Hulkerson” closing in on the long, custom-framing design counter toward the back of the store. “You’ve talked to him more in the time he’s been coming here than you’ve talked to me in two years. He probably knows more about you than anyone. I listen when I go out there.”

  “Yes, like I said, he’s polite and I am polite back.”

  “I don’t see him being ‘polite’ with any of the other staff here.” She makes little air quotes as she says it. “And if you’re not here when he comes in, he leaves. I mean, you’re good at your job, but you’re not that good. We’re not talking brain surgery here. Besides, when I eavesdrop on your little polite business conversations, y’all ain’t talking no business.” She snaps her head back and forth as she says it. “I heard you telling him the names of your stuffed animals, for crissake. And he was listening.”

  “Shut up, it’s not like that. He asks me a lot of questions and I just answer. He’s nice, Andrea.” I glare at her and my mouth is watering. “And, he says he likes what I pick out for the posters. He’s just getting things done for the Wine Distributorship he owns, passing time. Once the building is done and decorated, he won’t be back. He just wants everything to be consistent. Since I started with him, he just wants the same person. That’s it.”

  I stifle my groan because she’s right. At least about part of it.

  From the first time I waited on him, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I’ll never tell anyone how I laid in bed that first night after he’d come in the store and imagined him sitting there next to me. Then as time went on it was more. Me wishing he would hold me in his lap. Read to me. Help me pick out my clothes. Even brush my hair and give me a bath. It still shocks me. The fantasies I have about this stranger who would want nothing to do with me in that way.

  But that’s not even the worst of it. I think about all of him. I wonder how he would feel as he pushed inside me. How he would look without his clothes. If all his dark facial hair is balanced out by more in other places. I’ve never fantasized about anyone before him. I’ve tried to masturbate when I think of him, but I can never quite get there.

  With all the strange thoughts I’ve had about him, I’ve decided there must be something wrong with me. That part of me must be broken. I’m a deviant.

  No, no one would understand the things that go through my mind, and I’ll never tell.

  Andrea turns toward me, lowering her voice. “Well, whatever. You can tell yourself all sorts of stories, but I know if it was me I’d be climbing that like a tree and swinging from every branch. That guy is a beast. And I bet he’s got beast mode down low too. Have you Googled him?”

  “No!” I snap at her. She knows better. The calculator and pen shake in my hand as I step toward the door out to the gallery floor.

  “You’re a technophobe. It’s not natural at your age. Your phone is from the seventeenth century. I would be embarrassed to pull that thing out in public.” Andrea mocks me by flipping open an invisible phone, bobbing her perfectly arched eyebrows.

  I laugh and shake my head, shouldering open the door. “Shut up.”

  He’s at the counter. I snap my eyes his way and he’s looking back at me with those eyes.

  Those eyes that remind me of black coffee. Sometime I think I even see steam rising off of them, they draw me in, make me warm and giddy. Just like a good Starbucks. Gah, I’m a mess.

  Magnus Leonard.

  He sets down a stack of posters on the long design counter out front and my menopause symptoms kick in again when he looks back to the door where I’m standing. “Technology is the root of all evil, Andrea. I’ve never ‘Googled’ someone in my life and I’m not starting now. And don’t you dare, either.” I point at her with a scowl. Part of the problem is even if I did have a computer, and internet and all those first world things, my spelling is so crazy even Google would scratch its head. Not to meantion it would take me so long to figure out what I was reading in the search results, it’s just not worth it.

  I gather my breath. If I’m honest, I know I’m the only one that he will let wait on him and for some reason it makes it harder to go out there.

  My feet feel like they are encased in lead as I force them to lift and propel me forward. Heat is already radiating from my cheeks as I walk out of the back room and to the framing counter where he’s standing, hands down in his pants pockets, chest as broad as a billboard. He’s like a wall. His black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, like XXXL is still a bit too small, tapering down to a narrow waist where it’s tucked perfectly into pressed, gun-metal-gray dress pants.

  Whenever he comes in, whatever he’s wearing, it looks like he just stepped out of the dry cleaner. Even his t-shirts are pressed and perfect. His onyx-colored hair looks freshly cut as well. Every time. He’s got this GQ caveman vibe and I have to be honest, I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man or a boy in my life. Must be some powerful pheromones he gives off.

  Either that, or I’m having a stroke.

  I’ve probably helped him frame at least a hundred wine posters already, but he just keeps bringing in more. He never asks the price, just tells me to pick out what I like and slips his black Amex into my hand.

  Oh and there’s the wine. He gives me two or three expensive bottles of wine every time he comes in. I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t drink. He’s clearly a wine connoisseur and I’ve never taken a sip of alcohol. Nor do I plan to. Been there, seen that, want no part of it in any way.

  Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s like some big deal. He owns this wine distributorship, but from what Andrea says, he used to own or be part of some big demolition company. Whenever she tries to tell me something about him I hush her and walk away. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to know.

  But, from the bit she’s managed to sneak through my defenses, apparently there is a lot of money in blowing things up. So, he’s him and I’m... well, I’m me.

  I’m homeless. And chubby. And dyslexic.

  And homeless.

  Did I mention homeless?

  I’m surprised the ‘L’ on my forehead isn’t visible from Mars.

  I wish I could enjoy the wine he brings me. Sometimes I consider downing a bottle to lose myself for a while. But I won’t do it.

  My Dad drank. He had good reason, I guess. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember enough. Mom said things were good with all of us in the early years. Then there was an accident at the steel mill where he worked. A furnace he was working on exploded and killed one of his co-workers. Mom said he never got over the guilt. She said he was never the same after that. She told me to marry someone kind, someone without a damaged past. It hurt her as much as it did Dad.

  He disappeared one night when I was seven, but I still remember when he was drunk. The sweet and sour smell on his breath when he would lean down and yell right in my face for not picking up my room or not finishing my dinner. That was enough for me. I’m sure wine can be deli
cious, but I’m not going to find out.

  Magnus has spent more here in a couple months than I make in a year.

  “Hi.” I gulp down my nerves as I come up behind the counter. Those Starbucks eyes following me like a painting in a haunted house. “Haven’t you filled all those walls yet?” The inferno generating inside me makes trickles of sweat traverse slowly down the indent of my spine, only to be lovingly absorbed by the too-tight waistband of my skirt.

  It took me a good year working here to be comfortable waiting on customers. But that seems to be a hat I can put on, as though I’m acting a part. I have to take my time taking names and information, but I have a system that helps hide the fact that I’m writing as slow as a second grader. And, I’ve got Andrea. She double checks everything for me as well.

  “Hi Cassie.” His voice turns my girl parts to molten lava.

  From the first day he came in here, he and I seem to have had things to talk about, despite my antisocial streak. You would think with his imposing presence and form it would be the opposite, but I feel comfortable, like I can talk to him about anything. It’s very strange for me.

  I’m uncomfortable in general because it’s conversation and socializing, and still somehow it’s at least tolerable with him because he doesn’t seem to expect anything. He asks me things about myself. And I answer. Truthfully, most of the time.

  And then sometimes I ask him things. And when I do he answers. It’s going on three months now, and we’ve managed to find out quite a bit about each other. I love listening to him. He seems so disciplined, so controlled and sure. There’s this twinkle behind those dark chocolate eyes that feels soft.

  Talking to him is like listening to someone read a classic book. The words roll out of him with such ease yet each one is chosen perfectly. There is no filler. No posturing. He’s sincere and honest and I can feel things while around him. Nice things. Comforting things.

  I have a feeling there is a lot more going on inside that calm, controlled demeanor. But I don’t delve too deep.

  Because after all, he’s him and I’m me.

  I do my job as I try to keep from drooling and jumping across the counter and doing the things I read about in my books.

  Oh and what about his name?

  Magnus.

  His name is seriously Magnus.

  It couldn’t be more fitting. I have to crane my neck to look up into his face when he’s standing; falling upward into those stout-brown eyes, dark and clear.

  And today, fire shoots up and down my spine when his full lips turn upward at the corners as I settle on the other side of the counter; his slightly crooked smile always looks a bit out of place, like he doesn’t smile often enough. It pulls at his lips and reveals just a hint of white teeth. They’re not perfectly straight, nor is his nose for that matter and I like that. I think his rough imperfections are exactly what makes him perfect.

  “These are for you.” He slides two bottles of wine toward me. “Did you enjoy the last two? The Bordeaux was from a particularly good year. Good Bordeaux is hard to come by these days.” His voice rumbles out like a train from a tunnel, sweeping me along with its momentum so that I feel like I have to say something.

  “Yes, it was...a good year,” I mumble like an imbecile.

  What the hell do I know about Bordeaux and years? Nothing, that’s what. If you ask me about strawberry-flavored milk or what kinds of sprinkles taste best on top of a hot fudge sundae, then I’m your girl.

  Blood rushes in my ears as I try to follow up with something less idiotic. “It was smooth.”

  What the heck? Smooth? I give up.

  I drop my eyes to the table and start to measure the dimensions on the stack of posters, scribbling the numbers on the order forms. My face is so hot it’s about to go super nova, and I think my nipples just stabbed right through the fabric of my blouse.

  Chapter Three

  MAGNUS

  She sees me as a monster. I can tell by the way her fingers shake and she tugs at her skirt whenever she waits on me.

  Because in a way I am. A monster that is.

  What’s the weather like up there?

  You beat up any grizzlies lately?

  What’s it like to lift a small car over your head?

  The funny thing about the jokes is, the people who make them seem to think they are so very original. Like they’re the first one to every make a joke about my size.

  I’m sure if my IQ were displayed on my forehead, that wouldn’t be such a joke.

  Seems having a high IQ isn’t as funny as having strikingly dominant physical features.

  Humans baffle me.

  She definitely baffles me. But in a good way. And the way she smells is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Like purity and softness with a hint of cherry on top.

  And that’s one cherry I wish I could taste.

  Maybe I am part bear like my mother had always said, because when I catch her scent a fury claws inside me. A raging, spitting, snarling urge to consume her. To protect her and show her the ways I would love her. Ways that make me think of things I’d never thought of before.

  At the same time, I’m afraid I would break her. My cock would break her. My past would break her. She’s so soft and I’m so hard.

  My love would break her.

  But then I would fix her.

  Because I want that, too. I want to break her and then be the one that puts her back together. I can see it – this, us. Her coming to me. Asking me my advice, guiding her in this world, making sure she’s safe, but then wanting everything good for her when she goes out to be successful without me. I don’t know what this is that she’s shaken loose inside me, but it’s dark and perverse, and it only makes me think I may truly be a monster.

  Not to mention, my face won’t grace the cover of GQ anytime soon. I’m no pretty boy. A beauty like her would never want a Neaderthal like me. Besides, I my size and my crooked features weren’t enough to drive her away, I’m too old for her.

  I clear my throat and shake my legs out. Those thoughts are driving gallons of blood into my dick, and the last thing I want is to really scare her.

  So I settle for just hovering around her, coming in here on the pretense of getting my posters framed. But sooner or later I’m going to run out of posters. And then I’m not sure what I’ll do, because I can’t imagine not having her in my life.

  “So, same as usual? You just want me to pick out what I think looks best?” She shifts on her hip behind the counter and looks up to meet my eye. She has this way of widening her eyes when she looks up from under her lashes, like she’s not sure I’m real.

  I lick my lips. “Yes.” Her body shifts and sways under her clothing as she moves, filling in the fabric with round softness. I like how she dresses. It’s sweet, simple, never showing too much or being garish. Almost always skirts and simple dresses. Her favorite outfit is the one she’s wearing today. A yellow skirt with some white lace at the bottom, a white blouse that she buttons to the top and a pair of red and white polka dot Keds with rainbow sparkling laces.

  How do I know what her favorites are? Because I’ve been following her.

  Yes. Probably by the legal definition it’s stalking.

  Jesus, I’m so far gone I don’t even recognize myself.

  The groan that comes up from somewhere in my toes as I think about her makes me uncomfortable, and I swallow and look away just to regain some composure. I lose the fight and my eyes snap right back to her.

  Her eyes flash up at me with a flicker of amusement. I want to light her face with a smile to match but I’m no comedian.

  I need to say something. “So, how are you doing?” Stupid question. “I mean...” Around her, words become like calculus problems after a fifth of tequila. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to ask if you’re doing okay. I mean, with your mom and Cherokee. I worry about you. You look like you need to eat. Are you eating okay?” She gives me a quizzical look; my questions have turned to something more
paternal over the last few weeks and I can tell it puzzles her.

  In the ninty-four days since I walked in here, she completely up ended my program. In that time, we’ve actually shared a lot about ourselves. Secured an unusual bond which for me builds with every passing day. I need to know everything about her life. I can’t stop myself. I admit, I’m obsessed. And jealous as fuck. I nearly snap when anyone other male looks her way.

  It wasn’t more than a month after I’d been coming in I asked her what she did over the previous weekend. She mentioned she’d been out Friday night with the gal that works with her, Andrea. I immediately asked her where they went, who else they were with, what time she got home, who drove, if they were drinking. I bordered on fatherly interrogation. I felt it was my right. My obligation to know everything.

  When she told me there was some jack-off that tried to follow her to the ladies’ room, I jumped to my feet and from the way she startled at my sudden movement, I think I scared her. Her green eyes darkened and her bottom lip quivered for just a second. Thank Christ she quickly tagged onto her story that she’d managed to lose the guy and dragged Andrea out of there, because I was already imagining tracking the little fuck down and teaching him some manners.

  Then, twenty-seven days ago, I stopped in just because I couldn’t fight the urge to see her, to hear her voice. Usually I call first to make sure she’s here, but I was in the neighborhood and had to come inside, my obsession getting the better of me. I keep a couple of posters in my trunk, just for such occasions.

  Only, that day when I came in, the guy that must be the manager told me she would be gone for a week. I’ve seen him around and I don’t like the vibe he gives off. His name’s Eddie because I make it my business to know the names of the folks she works with. I don’t like the way that he fucking looks at her. If I could eliminate him from her life I would, but that scares me because it only makes it that much clearer just what a psycho I’ve become for her.

  The morning she was due back at work, I was at the front door when the shop opened, waiting. My heart broke when I saw her. Red-rimmed eyes, her usual, perfectly smooth hair was in a messy ponytail, her face hinted with gray instead of her usual peachy pink cheeks. Finally, I asked enough questions to demolish her barriers and she told me both her mom and dog had passed away within a few days of each other. I knew about her mom already; when they said she would be gone for a week I did some digging and found out why, but I didn’t know about her dog. I mean I knew about her dog –she’d talked about him a lot– but to find out they’d both died so close together broke my heart.