Page 9 of Possessive Ink

The huge towels I had my interior designer get for me are incredibly soft, and by the time I’m dry, I’m feeling calmer and more relaxed than I’ve felt in months. Stepping back into my bedroom, I open the closet door and wander in, perusing the cabinets until I spot the jeans I want to wear.

My style lands somewhere between rocker and Fortune 500 CEO. Some days I enjoy the way people treat me when I turn up to work in a perfectly tailored suit. Other days, I get turned on by the hint of fear in their eyes when they see my tattoos, ripped jeans, and piercings.

Today is a jeans day. Sliding my feet into my jeans, I button up the fly, not bothering with any underwear. The sun is shining, so I pull a muscle shirt from the rail and slip it over my head before I head to the display cases that hold my belts, jewelry, and watches. Unfurling a thick leather belt, I fight the urge to double it and test the sting of the leather against my hand. Heavy impact play has never been my thing, but the sound of the snap and thud of leather hitting flesh has always made my dick hard. Ignoring the urge to torture myself with an erection I’m not going to do anything with, I thread the belt through the loops at my waist and buckle it in place.

Selecting a heavy silver watch from my collection, I slip it onto my wrist, then add a few twisted leather bands beside it. Sliding rings onto both ring fingers and my right thumb, I drop a silver chain around my neck, then step back to check out my appearance in the mirror.

The ring in my nose, gauges in each ear, and other piercings, along with the outfit that shows off the tattoos that cover my chest, back, and both arms down to the ends of my fingers, all combine to accentuate the step-the-fuck-off persona I’m trying to enforce today.

Some days I actively try not to look like a scary motherfucker. But today I don’t care. Let anyone who looks at me see the darkness in my eyes. As I turn to leave the closet, my gaze lands on the only thing in this room that isn’t mine.

At the center of the display cabinet that holds my jewelry is a rose gold necklace draped over a black velvet cushion. No one has ever worn it, and every time I look at it, I wonder why I still have it. But the necklace is a reminder of what I want. What I crave and need. It’s a reminder that I’m not willing to settle. That half measures aren’t enough. That I’m still searching.

Hopefully, one day I’ll find the perfect woman, and I’ll put the necklace on her. Once I do, it’ll never come off, because circles are everlasting, and if I ever decide to give that necklace to someone, it’ll be because I’ve decided they’re mine and to never let them go.

After sliding on socks, I push my feet into sneakers, then open my bedroom door and step out into the rest of the loft. Just like I expected, Felix’s door is wide open, his bed sheets are a screwed-up mess, and the clothes he was wearing yesterday are haphazardly hanging half out of the hamper.

While his bedroom looks like he’s been living here for a month, not a day, the kitchen and living spaces are all immaculate, so it’s clear he hasn’t attempted to make himself anything to eat since I brought home the takeout from the diner last night.

Stepping into his room, I make his bed, slide his discarded shoes into his closet, and push his clothes fully into the hamper. While Felix might not care about how his bedroom looks, I know that he won’t sleep at all if he tries to get back into an unmade bed.

Opening the kitchen cabinets, I groan when I’m reminded that I haven’t been grocery shopping yet. Back in New York, I ordered all of our groceries through a delivery app and then had Marcus or our housekeeper put everything away.

Unfortunately, small-town Montana has yet to embrace DoorDash or Uber Eats, and I haven’t found us a housekeeper yet, so if I want food, I’m going to have to go and buy it from the grocery store.

My cell is charging on the kitchen counter, so I unplug it and slide it into my pocket before I push open the loft door. I’m hit in the face by a wall of sound that’s pounding from below us. Felix’s taste in music varies depending on where he is in his creative process. While his mind is chaotic—like it is now—he listens to heavy metal or hard-core dance music, which is why it feels like I just stepped into a rave as I descend the stairs from our living space down into Felix’s studio.

I wave to Marcus, who is grimacing as he alternates between typing on his cell and checking on Felix, who is pacing back and forth across the floor. Spread out on five easels are huge drawing pads that Felix is moving between, sketching things that right now only he understands. As his thoughts and ideas gain clarity, the sketches will change from chaotic lines to intricate drawings of how his sculptures will look. But right now, it’s a menagerie of unfocused thoughts and ideas.

Approaching Felix from the side, I step in front of him, blocking his path to one of his sketch pads. His lips part as he speaks, but the music is so loud, I can’t hear what he’s saying. Pulling my cell from my pocket, I open the app for the music system and turn down the volume until it’s low enough that we can speak without yelling.

“Hey, I’m heading to get groceries. Is there anything other than the usual that you need?”

“Charcoal pencils,” he says, trying to look around me to the sketch pad I’ve blocked him from accessing.

“I doubt they’ll have them in the Piggly Wiggly,” I say with a scoff.

“There’s an art supply store in Bozeman. I’ll head over there now,” Marcus says from behind us. “I have a list of other things we need too.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” Felix says, not even turning to look in the direction of his PA as he steps around me and starts to make slashing marks on the white paper, drawing something that only he understands.

“Okay, bro. Let me know if you think of anything you need and I’ll grab it. Where’s your cell?” I ask him.

His shrug is all Felix, and I feel my lips twitch into a grin. My brother hates cell phones. He doesn’t want to be contactable, and it’s taken me years to bully him into getting one just for emergencies.

“It’s over there on the docking station,” Marcus says, pointing to the wooden unit leaning against the wall that he’s stocked with protein bars, fruit, bottles of water, and energy drinks.

“Call me or have Marcus call me if you need me,” I tell my brother, pulling him into a quick hug. “Love you, bro,” I whisper against his ear.

“Love you too, Att,” he says back, his body completely relaxing for a short moment before he pulls away and sidesteps to the next sketch pad, slashing curved lines on this one instead of straight.

Shaking my head in amusement, I motion for Marcus to follow me outside before I turn up the music to ear-splittingly loud again.

“Do you need help with something?” Marcus asks the moment we’re standing outside the warehouse.

“No, I just wanted to check on you,” I tell him.

“Me?”