Possessive

by Willow Winters

  I don’t have any problems with him. Yet.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, she’s looking at going to the university. New to town. You know, that kind of thing.”

  “Hey Jake,” I start and wait for him to look up at me. “How do you know her name?” My body’s tense and tight, even though I don’t think he has a clue how badly I’ll fuck him up if he hit on her. He’s a flirt, young and carefree. He gets plenty of action from girls coming in here to get a drink and drown out their problems with alcohol.

  The fucker looks up at me like it’s a given and says, “From her credit card.”

  I don’t like his tone, or the ease with which he talks about her. But my body’s relaxed, and the smile on my face grows as I tell him, “Of course. Sorry, she’s got me a little wound up.”

  “I could tell.” My back stiffens at his confession. “I mean I get it, she’s hot,” he says, completely oblivious to how my hand reflexively forms a fist. He shrugs and dries off the last glass. “You want me to keep tabs on her?”

  The correct answer is no. But it’s not the word that slips from my tongue. “Yes,” I reply and it comes out harder than it should, with a desperate need clinging to the single syllable.

  Jake pauses and takes in my appearance.

  “I have a soft spot for her,” I tell him and inwardly I hate myself. Both for the lie and for the hint at the truth. He nods his head and hangs up the dish towel in his hands.

  “So she’s going to the university?” I ask him and he returns to his normal easy self.

  “I didn’t get much information from her. She’d just gotten here and Mickey was at the bar.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. But if she comes in here again, text me.”

  “No problem. You need anything else?” he asks and I remind him of my earlier question.

  “Did Marcus come?” I already know the answer. He hasn’t shown up yet. Carter, my brother, messaged me to let me know not to waste my time in the bar tonight. But I know Marcus is a lot like me. He likes to know people’s habits and if I tell him I’ll meet him, I want him to know I’ll be there.

  This isn’t my first run-in with him. Last time it took weeks before he finally showed.

  There aren’t a lot of men I’d wait on, but Carter says this is important and Marcus and I have history.

  “He didn’t. I don’t know why he- “

  “Looks like you’re almost done,” I cut him off with a trace of a smile on my lips. “Sorry to keep you.”

  “Not a problem,” he says to my back as I turn and leave the bar.

  The bright light of the Iron Heart sign casts a shadow beneath my feet as I walk toward the barren parking lot with only one thing on my mind—how to find little miss Addison Fawn.

  Chapter 5

  Addison

  * * *

  Daniel’s a prick.

  Why is it that the assholes stay in your head, rankling and festering their way into your thoughts while the nice guys are passed over?

  I went shopping on the strip downtown to distract myself. I spent a pretty penny on décor for this apartment and on the softest comforter I’ve felt in my life.

  One tweed rug, two woven baskets and a dozen rustic wood picture frames later and my living room is acceptable. Snapshot after snapshot I post the different angles on Instagram, where I have my largest following and where I sell most of my photos.

  But it’s all done absentmindedly. And it’s not like these are for sale, just pictures that serve as an update to let my followers know I’ve found a new place.

  I don’t have an ounce of interest flowing through me.

  I came here to settle down. To finally give myself a reason to stay and possibly take formal classes to breathe new life into my business.

  And instead I’ve been pushed back to when I was only seventeen.

  No home.

  No life.

  No reason to do anything at all.

  My throat tightens and my eyes prick, but I refuse to let a single tear fall.

  It’s all because I’m still not worthy enough for Daniel fucking Cross.

  My phone pings and I go into the messenger app on Facebook to see who it is.

  Another person wanting me to photograph their wedding.

  I don’t do functions.

  I politely message back that I don’t do shoots. I only photograph the things around me and tell my own story. Not other people’s. In other words, I’m not for hire. Photography is my business, but also my therapy. I photograph what I want and nothing else. It’s the only way I’ve survived and I won’t compromise that.

  That’s how I’ve made a living for the past few years. Little sales here and there. Enough to keep my head above water and to keep moving from place to place.

  Searching for Something is what I eventually called my business.

  Not that it started as a business. I was just taking pictures of every little thing that reminded me of Tyler.

  All I had was my camera, the only present my last foster mother had ever given me. Tyler told her she should get it for me for Christmas. He said if she wouldn’t, he would. He would’ve given me anything.

  And so it started with me wanting to take a photograph of the snow around his old Chevy truck that couldn’t run anymore. The rusted-out hood. The flat back left tire.

  I started taking pictures of everything, obsessively. It was something Tyler and I had done together and it made sense to do at the time.

  I needed something and although I didn’t know what that something would be, I took photos of everything on my way to find what I was looking for.

  Something to take the guilt away. Something to make me smile the way a boy who loved me in a way I didn’t deserve had.

  Searching for Something.

  What it turned out to be was profitable.

  A myriad of photos all priced ridiculously high. In my opinion, at least. But that’s what everyone else was doing. The competition’s pictures sold for hundreds. And mine looked like a steal simply because of the price tag.

  I adopted the “fake it till you make it” strategy. And it’s been working. But I don’t know shit about running a business.

  The random person on Facebook shoots back an apology and I don’t bother to respond. My customer service isn’t the best either.

  Some days are better than others.

  Some days are filled with reminders of the past. And those days are the worst for me personally, but the best for the things I see and can capture with a lens. And they sell well. Not just well, like serious money.

  The shots I’ve taken today don’t tell my story. It should be a part of my journey, but the pretty images of wooden frames and white tweed with pale blue accents are what I wanted before last night. Before I went to Iron Heart and ran into that asshole.

  This is a décor shoot for a new life with new roots. It’ll look pretty on Instagram with a soft filter, but that’s about all it is. Just a series of pretty pictures.

  My phone pings and pings with updates and I put it on vibrate before heading to the kitchen, where I place it on the table.

  Next week is the kitchen makeover.

  For now, it’s all black and white with pops of cherry. A red teapot sits untouched on the stove as I shove my sunflower mug into the microwave to heat up water for tea.

  I doubt I’ll ever use that teapot.

  My phone vibrates yet again, rattling the table just as the microwave beeps. A heavy sigh of irritation leaves me, but I know it’s not the messages, nor the headache from stress and exhaustion.

  It’s because of Daniel. Just like years ago, I’m losing sleep over the asshole. Back then I never said a word. I let him treat me how he wanted, and I cowered away.

  I’m older now and last night I should have said something. I should have gotten up and slapped him for being such a dismissive prick. Well, maybe that’s taking things a little too far. But he deserves to know how much it hurt me. How I still struggle
with what happened and how him treating me like that only makes the pain that much worse.

  As the tea bag sinks into the steaming water, an idea hits me to search for Daniel on Instagram.

  If not Instagram, then Facebook. Everyone is somewhere online now.

  With my feet up on the chic glass table and the mug in my right hand, I search both on my cell phone.

  And when both of those prove useless I try Twitter.

  The steady, rhythmic ticking of the simple clock across from me and above the little kitchenette gets my attention when my search proves to be futile. I stare at the second hand that’s marching along, willing it to give me an answer.

  But time’s a fickle bitch and she’s never helped me with anything.

  I take another sip of the now lukewarm tea before getting up for another cup.

  As I wait for it to heat, I decide to search Iron Heart Brewery on Church and Lincoln Street.

  Slowly a grin forms on my lips. Jake Holsteder stares back at me from a black and white photo where he’s holding up a beer in cheers. The bartender from last night is apparently the owner. Jake has links to his social media accounts.

  And more importantly, Daniel knows Jake.

  It’s a stretch, but I send a message to Jake on Facebook and then prepare my second cup of tea.

  Nice to meet you last night. Sorry I left early.

  It’s a simple message and if he doesn’t respond, I can always go back to the bar. I’m vaguely aware that I’m chasing after Daniel. After the man whose very existence brings back the ghosts of my past. But I don’t care. I live off instinct and everything is telling me that I need to find Daniel. If for no other reason than to tell him he knows damn well who I am.

  I add more sugar to the cup this time than last and the spoon clinks against the ceramic edge of the mug as my phone vibrates.

  No worries. You leave for any reason in particular?

  I chew on the inside of my cheek at his message.

  Just had to go. But I wanted to come back and try that beer. I don’t even remember what the hell the beer was called, but then I add, I’d love to take pictures of the place too if that’s okay?

  I purse my lips and tap my thumb against my phone before finally sending the message.

  Pictures? That’s all he answers.

  I send him a link to my Instagram and then text, Your place gives me so much inspiration.

  NICE!

  Even if he’s only being polite, I appreciate it. Thanks!

  He writes, Seriously, these are beautiful. You should try selling them.

  I do. It’s what I do for a living and I’d love to take some pics in your bar. The whole place gives me a ton of inspiration. Maybe we can chat too?

  He takes a moment and then another to respond. Each second makes my heart beat a little faster and I find myself picking at my nails. You come by looking for him?

  Him? I play coy.

  I thought maybe you knew Daniel? he asks me although it’s a statement.

  I did, but I haven’t seen him in years. I send the message without checking it. Maybe I gave away too much.

  You should stay away, Jake warns me and although I know he’s right, it pisses me off. All the kids at school told me that about Tyler too—well, more about his family than him specifically, and he was the only good thing I’ve ever had in my life. And I really don’t like people telling me what to do.

  I didn’t go to your bar looking for an old friend. I pause before adding, I’m here to make new ones.

  It feels like a hand’s squeezing my heart in my chest as an anxious feeling comes over me. The only sense I can gather from it all is that I know I’m only doing this to piss Daniel off. And that’s something I shouldn’t do; I’ve done it once before and the memory makes me feel weak.

  You can come by anytime. What’s your number? he asks me and although it’s forward, I send it over. Jake knows Daniel. So maybe I can get some intel at the very least.

  Daniel was always the possessive type. Even if he hated me, he hated anyone who showed me any attention more. So maybe finding out Jake has my number will piss him off. I can only hope.

  I feel petty as I walk away from the phone, listening to it vibrate in time with the ticking of the clock.

  As I peek out of the sheer white curtains and down onto the street below me, an eerie feeling washes through me. It slowly pricks along my skin until the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  It’s a feeling like someone’s watching me. I’m slow as I turn so I’m facing my living room. There’s no one else here in my studio apartment. Not a soul.

  My hand wraps around the hot mug and I pull the curtains shut. It’s only the memory of Tyler that’s brought this back.

  I couldn’t go anywhere without feeling him there. Watching me. A shudder runs down my spine as I remember each day. Each photo I took as I whipped around, expecting to find someone lurking in the shadows. There was never anyone there. It was only my shame that followed me.

  I hate Daniel even more in this moment.

  It took me years to get to where I was days ago. And with one look, I’ve gone back to being the girl I was trying to leave behind.

  Chapter 6

  Daniel

  * * *

  “It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” my brother’s voice asks on the other end of the phone.

  My eyes close as I try to push down the irritation. Madison Street is busy today in the quiet town. Cars pass and I can hear the hums and rumbles with the windows opened in the diner as I lean back in the booth. The vinyl coverings protest as I lean forward and wave the waitress away before she can offer me another cup of coffee.

  “We go through this every few months, Carter.” I close my eyes again as I continue, “Do you really want to have the same conversation again?”

  Across the street is a coffee shop. And inside it, Addison. She’s hunched over in the corner with her laptop on a small circular table as she sits cross-legged in a chair. Some things never change.

  I watch her from a distance in the safety of the diner. I’m within view; she could see me if she wanted to. But that’s the thing about Addison. She never wanted to see me.

  “How long are you going to keep this up?” Carter asks me. He’s older than me by a year, almost on the dot. Irish twins, so to speak. I don’t bother answering him and instead I remember the details of her address that Marcus gave me.

  Funny how he can’t show up to deliver the package from the Romanos. But one encrypted message from me to him with Addison’s license plate number sparks enough interest for him to respond.

  I suppose he hasn’t forgotten. Marcus has a good memory.

  “Whatever, I just need the package.” Carter sighs on the other end of the phone. “I need to know what we’re getting into before we decide…”

  He doesn’t continue, but I know what he’s getting at. It’s best not to speak those things where others can hear.

  “He’ll show. You know how he is.”

  “He’s a pain in my ass.”

  The corner of my lip kicks up at his comment. “So many things are a pain in your ass, Carter. It’s hard to believe you can sit down without wincing,” I joke as I watch Addison take a large drink from her coffee cup. It’s the tallest size the shop has and it looks like she’s almost done.

  “You’re fucking hilarious, you know that?” I laugh at Carter’s comment even though he says it with disdain. He runs the family business now. What started as a way for my father to make extra cash became an empire formed from ruthless and cutthroat tactics. Carter’s the head, but I do his bidding more from a vague obligation that we’re blood than anything else.

  “Are you coming home after this? As soon as this package arrives? There’s no reason for you to stay away and we need you here.”

  Her name is on the tip of my tongue. Addison. I may deal in addiction, but she’s the only addiction I’ve ever had and the only one I desire.

  “Well?” he pr
esses.

  “I’m curious about something,” I answer my brother.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something of personal interest,” I mutter and the words come out lower than I intend them to. He’s quiet for a long moment. And my focus is momentarily distracted. A man in a thin leather jacket walks past the coffee shop slowly, but his gaze is on Addison.

  My eyes narrow as he stops in his tracks and glances inside the place. I shake off the possessive feelings. I’m only projecting.

  Carter’s voice brings my attention back to him. “With that shit your friend Dean pulled, there’s too much heat around you.” He ignores my earlier comment and I decide it’s for the best. There’s no need for anyone to know what I’m doing.

  I’m quick to answer him. “Which is exactly why I need to stay. Leaving would raise suspicion.”

  A line of cars pass on the street in front of me, temporarily blocking Addison from my view. At their movement, she peeks up through the large glass windows of the shop.

  Her hair brushes her shoulder and falls down her back as she takes a break to look out onto the street. Her pouty lips are turned down. They always are. There’s a sadness that’s always followed Addison. It’s only a matter of whether or not she’s trying to hide it, but it’s always there.

  Her green eyes are deep and even from this distance they seem to darken. Her hand moves to the back of her neck, massaging away a dull ache from sitting there for hours now. With each breath, her chest rises and falls and I’m mesmerized by her. By all of her.

  More so by what she does to me.

  The hate and anger I felt toward her years ago has numbed into something else each minute I sit here.

  Curiosity maybe.

  “Just get the package from Marcus. You’ve been gone long enough and we could use you here.”

  “I don’t know if I want to come back,” I tell him honestly and flatly.

  “It’s not a matter of want,” he replies but his words come out hollow and with no authority although he wishes he had it. “We’re your blood.” He plays the only card he has that can get me to do his bidding.