Read Tats Too for Free Online Page B

life and the best, too. She was right. Because I love her. And I didn’t want to imagine a life without her.
    “Okay. Let’s make a plan,” I utter, giving in. “A plan where we get out of this alive.”
    “And get the ten million,” she stresses.
    We sat there drinking coffee while Georgia sugar-crashed herself to sleep with her face in her plate. I wrote on my napkin as we brainstormed. When I was done it read like a bad B-movie plot: Georgia with Delia. Get diamond. Fake death with hot water heater exploding. Go to Mexico. Get baby back. Live happily ever after.
    I underlined that last sentence.
    It was a damn good thing I love B movies.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    I rang the doorbell and banged the gold lion’s head knocker against the metal door twice and rang again before Delia finally answered. Delia’s my birth mother. She didn’t raise me, and I didn’t even meet her until a year or so ago when she found me down and out and took me in. She’s beyond rich and doesn’t mind spending her money. She bought the old strip club where she used to work and now she owns a big part of Tulsa.
    She also happens to be a knockout, especially in the knockers department, so it’s always kind of depressing to remember she’s my mother.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    Delia opened the door wearing nothing but a skimpy red teddy and high heels with little feathers on the toes. Vivian took one look at Delia and said what I was thinking, “Holy shit, Delia, you look amazingly hot.”
    “You look pretty good yourself,” Delia said to Vivian. “Where’d you get the shoes?”
    “Oh, these things…” Vivian smiled. “I’ve had them forever.”
    I looked at Vivian’s shoes for the first time and realized they were the heels she’d bought just last week. Femme small talk has always confused me.
    “Give me my favorite granddaughter,” Delia cooed and took Georgia out of my arms.
    “You always answer the door dressed like that?” I asked. That might have sounded a little harsh, but what I really meant was “You don’t look like any grandmother I’ve ever seen.”
    “I thought you were Chopper,” she said. “He’s due back any minute. Gotta keep the man’s interest.”
    Chopper is my dad. Not my father. I don’t know who that honor belongs to. But Chopper’s always been the male role model in my life. If I were a man, I’d want to look just like Chopper: long hair, wiry muscles, tats of naked ladies on both arms, wrinkles from riding the bike, goatee and flavor-savor. Chopper looks rough, but is the sweetest guy on the planet. He taught me everything I know about motorcycles, which is a lot, and he also taught me everything I know about women, which isn’t so much. Delia and Chopper met over my almost-deathbed and fell in love with each other. They’re perfect for each other.
    “C’mon in,” Delia said, stepping back inside. “What’s she got all over her?” she asks, unsticking her fingers from Georgia’s face.
    “Maple syrup,” I said. “We don’t have time to come in right now. I was just wondering if you could watch her for a little. We have something important to do, and I know it’s last minute, but can you keep her for a bit?”
    Delia smiled. “Of course.”
    “Great,” I said. I hung the diaper bag over Delia’s free shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks.”
    Vivian and I took turns kissing Georgia’s sticky cheeks and slowly walked back to our car.
    Vivian guided the car down the long driveway as I turned in the seat and watched my baby grow smaller and smaller.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    “I forgot it was Sunday. They’re closed,” I said.
    Vivian threw Hell Camino into P in the alley behind Feinberg’s Funeral Home and turned off the engine.
    “No worries,” she said and hopped out of the car. “I have a key.” She kicked her door shut behind her. If my car had a decent paint job, I’d have been pissed.
    I followed her to the back door of the funeral home. “How’d you get a