Walking into the restaurant across the street from the hotel, Elijah has his hand possessively wrapped around the back of my neck as he guides me into the
front. For someone who’s been self-sufficient their whole life, I would think this kind of controlling behavior wouldn’t sit well with me yet strangely I like it.
I like that he’s claiming me as his in public for the whole world to see.
I like that he gives me direction, even if that direction is nothing more than the path I was walking in any way.
I like that he’s a man and a borderline caveman at that. There’s no asking where I want to eat, who’s going to pay, or if the bill will be split, taking out a calculator to determine who ate what. No hemming and hawing. Elijah knows what he wants at all times, and what his desires start and end with is always me.
Sure, there’s probably plenty of people who would say I have Stockholm syndrome. Let them. I say I have a man who loves me, truly cares, and takes the time to make the decisions and make sure they fit my needs, relieving me of those burdens to focus on other things. If that isn’t love I don’t know what is.
But by the looks on some of the faces in this swanky restaurant, they don’t exactly love us being in here.
We picked up some simple tourist clothes in the gift shop of the hotel, so it’s not like our outfits are dirty or stink. But from the turned-up noses all around us, they think our relationship is what’s smells afoul.
Elijah seems to ignore the whole scene, picking a table for us that’s right out in the open for all to see. But just as I think he’s not noticing he reaches in and says softly in my ear, “If you’re uncomfortable sugar, we can go eat somewhere else.”
“We’ll stay here and stand our ground.”
“Atta girl,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek and I swear I hear a few pearl-clutchers gasp.
It’s the third time today people have had a problem, whether they knew it or not, accepting our relationship. First, when we brought the boat in and the guy referred to me as Elijah’s daughter. Then the hotel receptionist who gave Elijah a knowing look, although he was completely wrong in knowing anything, that Elijah was my sugar daddy or he might be paying for me. Daddy? Yes. Sugar daddy? I’m not for sale. Never have been and never will be. I could always support myself, but I welcome Elijah because he’s a real man that knows money doesn’t buy love, but caring and thoughtfulness are definitely the way to a woman’s heart. And being well-endowed certainly doesn’t hurt either. Throw in possessive as a feral beast and how could I ever have eyes for anyone else?
The waiter uncomfortably takes our order, after a wait that seems longer than necessary and after people who had arrived after us are seated and attended to, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve got six more days and no rush to cross them off the calendar.
“Angel, I feel like I’ve known you my entire life like we’re meant for each other. But still, I feel like there’s so much more to learn about you. Daddy needs to know what makes you tick so he can make sure you always have what you need, what you want, and what you deserve.”
He says nothing else, waiting attentively for my answer as he takes my hand in his, kissing my wrist.
“Well, my job right now is basically just to make money. I work at the docks back home gassing up tour boats for day cruises, things like that. It’s hot work in the sun, but it doesn’t require much mental capacity, which is good. I like to save my brainpower for when I get home, so I can immerse myself in the books I like to read.”
“What kind of books do you like to read?”
“Stories about…people like us.”
“Just goes to show we were destined to be together.”
I nod. “Yeah, it does.”
Time flies as he compliments me and reminds me that I don’t need to work but if I want to he’ll support me if I want to try my hand at writing, or anything under the sun for that matter. After what seems like forever talking about myself I catch myself and find my manners, asking him about his time on his boat and his jobs with my dad.
He doesn’t elaborate too much on the specifics, but I can fill in the blanks. Granted, he shouldn’t have done what he did, but in the grand scheme of crimes, smuggling cigars doesn’t exactly sound very life or death or harm to anyone other than older men who are old enough to make their own decision about what they want to put in their bodies or not.
If anything, the way he tells some of his stories only gives me more of a sense of wanting to be part of his wild adventures. When he reminds me that he’s committed to me, to us, to our family now, I have to remind him that I’m only nineteen and a half and I’ve got a lot of life left to live, and I sure as heck want to live a good chunk of it in the fast lane, especially now while I’m young.
“You’ve mentioned your boat as she before, as if it’s a woman,” I question.
He lets out a suppressed laugh. “It’s about as close to a woman as I’ve ever had.”
“Really?” my head pulls back. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I dated before, but I was never into it. I wasn’t into the idea of going out with a bunch of strangers to have tacos, and margaritas, and mildly buzzed conversations in hope of clicking with someone. Let’s just say I always knew my needs were…different. I always felt something was a bit off and I was never fully present on those dates or around women in general. What they could offer me, and no offense to anyone, wasn’t what I needed.”
“What did you need?”
“That’s the thing. I wasn’t actually one hundred percent sure…until I met you. Now I understand completely, because—“
“What you need is exactly what I need—“