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Inhindsight,Iignored the red flags to escape my predicament.BecauseeitherItrustedDamon, orIhad to keep living with that damn homewrecker.
“Nevermind.Let’sgo.”
Damondidn’t budge untilIfolded myself inside the car.Heclosed the passenger side door and activated the lock while rounding the vehicle as ifIwere a flight risk.Washe preventing my escape attempt?
Argh.Iwas letting my family get in my head.Theseweren’t legitimate concerns.Ishook them away, checking out the sleek interior and the black leather of the heated seat.Sameas mine.
Damonslipped into the driver’s seat, quickly shifting the gear to drive off beforeIcould change my mind.
* * *
DAMON
Anew habit took root in my life afterPoppy’smother remarried.Whatstarted as lightening my guilty conscience turned into watching out forPoppyaround campus.Iused to wonder ifPoppywas suicidal or perhaps an adrenaline junkie who welcomed the danger.Ormaybe it was the grief blinding her from her otherwise rational personality.Whatother reason could there be for walking home alone after dark in a big, bad city?Noone seemed to care about irreversible damage to her,Poppyincluded.
Thepart of me that was still riddled with guilt refused to let anything else bad happen to her.DuringPoppy’sfirst year at college,Iwalked behind her every night until she reached her dorms safely.
Itwas remarkable how much you could learn about a person by simply observing them.People’sinhibitions were exposed when they thought no one was looking.Theuninterrupted observation allowed me to graspPoppywas neither suicidal nor an adrenaline junkie.Shehad done extensive research to confirm the path she took wasn’t riddled with past crimes.Poppyknew it was safe to walk the route and, as an added measure, carried a taser.Ifound out when she pulled it out one night upon hearing my footsteps.
Itwas ironic.Iinadvertently ended up stalkingPoppywhile paying a small fortune to keep stalkers away from me.Permy publicist’s prodding,Iparticipated in dozens of magazine campaigns, television ads, and outreach programs.Theexposure brought forth all kinds of crazy.Withthe rising fame and exponentially increased attention,Iwas forced to move out of the dorms and into a penthouse, with security patrolling my building around the clock.
Womenpresumed they had a claim to me if they collected my magazine articles or taped my televised ads.Peoplewaited in front of my building for an autograph or picture.Studentson campus followed me for a chance at fame or to share in the limelight.Magazinearticles flooded the stands with my “good deeds.”Despitethe monotony of my new life, there was one routine that didn’t irk me.
WalkingbehindPoppyhad turned into a routine, andIwas a person of habit.Bythe start of my senior year of college,Ialtered my schedule so my first class would fall near hers.Ialso changed my garage to the one closest toPoppy’sdorm.Afterwalking her home religiously for a whole year,Irealized she was a person of habits as well.Shewas also overly cautious, constantly weighing risk versus reward.So, imagine my surprise when one day, she took a new route.Poppylooked different today, as well, with makeup and high heels.Herraven hair was in a messy bun, giving her a slightly older look.Forthe hundredth time,Ifound myself thinking she was beautiful.Thethought resulted in immediate admonishment.
Yousick fuck, she was fifteen and too young for the ideas playing on a loop in your dirty mind.Myjob was to make sure she survived, nothing more.
Lightingup a cigarette,Iput distance between us with the pre-measured number of steps.Poppywas too observant, andIperfected the routine to ensure she couldn’t discover me.Iwas shocked whenPoppypulled open the door to a tattoo parlor.Themakeup, the high heels, the hair, all of it finally made sense.Itwas a ruse to appear older because she planned on getting a tattoo.
Flickingmy cigarette to the side,Ipulled my cap down and slid inside the parlor.Ipretended to study the art on the wall like a potential patron about to be inked.
Abulky man covered in a sleeve of tattoos approached me. “CanIhelp you?”
“Justbrowsing,”Idismissed him, never taking my eyes off the wall, simultaneously listening toPoppy’sconversation with the girl at the front desk.Ihad become a pro at multitasking, watchingPoppyout of the corner of my eye while appearing outwardly busy.
Thefront desk gavePoppya once-over. “ID?” she asked cautiously.
Poppydropped a driver’s license on the counter.Withouta doubt, she procured this fake for the purpose of getting a tattoo.
“Doyou know what you want?”
“Here.”Poppyslapped a piece of paper on the counter.
Thewoman glanced at the design. “That’ssimple enough.It’lltake less than fifteen minutes.Wheredo you want it?”
“Theback of my neck.”
“Followme.”
Thewoman led her to the other side of the counter.Therewere various massage tables spread across the floor.SheledPoppyto her station.
Whatthe hell,Poppy?Thisplace better be sanitary.Atleast it appeared posh, butIopened my phone to check their online reviews.Itwas rated high onYelpand accredited.Clearly,Poppyhad done her research.AsIwas about to hit the lock button,Ifroze upon noticing today’s date on the screen.
Itwas the dayPoppy’sfather died.
Sincehis funeral, there has been no other commemoration surroundingJayAmbani.Evenon the anniversary of his death,Poppywas alone at a tattoo shop.
Fuck, this sucked.
