Read Tats for Free Online Page B

butcher knife.
    I press my ear up against the door. She’s talking to herself all right, but I can’t make out what she’s saying over the noise of the shower. She’s quiet for a moment and just as I start to tippy-toe back to bed, I hear her. She’s crying. It’s unmistakable. She’s crying pretty damn hard, too.
    I back away, sorry now that I invaded her privacy. I squirm out of my jeans and slip under the bedcovers. I wonder why she’s crying. She doesn’t seem like the crying type.
    I touch my tender nose and even that slight pressure brings tears to my eyes. Great. We’re both going to be crying all night.
    I hear the bathroom door open and I quickly slide to the right side of the bed. I’m right-handed so my right hand is my tittie-dominant hand. I’m just thinking ahead here. I like to be prepared.
    When Vivian walks back into the bedroom, she’s wearing a too-big, old OU T-shirt and panties and that’s it. The T-shirt has a big rip under her right arm and I catch a quick glimpse of her right tit as she sits on the other side of the bed and slides under the sheet.
    Pink nipples. I knew it.
    I breathe in deep and easy, smelling her newly clean scent. We lie on our backs next to each other and her electricity lights up the dark. I listen to her breathe and am reconsidering the whole let her make the first move thing when she whispers softly, “If you were a man...”
    I hold my breath.
    She continues, “...you’d have already left by now.”
    She turns on her side, pressing her butt against my thigh and is snoring lightly before I breathe again.

Chapter Three

    Something tickles my nose. I snort and it disappears. Tickling again. I open my eyes. Long red hair caresses my face. I wipe it away and turn my head to look. Vivian looks so angelic in her sleep. Except for the snoring part.
    I slide out of bed and get my journal out of my jacket pocket. Writing when I first roll out of bed before my brain wakes up is the best time. I mean to write about Vivian, but when I get started I wind up thinking about Lori Spangler instead.
    Lori had red hair, too, and she was the beginning of my red hair fetish. She was the prettiest girl in seventh grade and me and every other boy in our class had a giant crush on her. She’s the reason I got up early on a Sunday morning and put on my best pair of jeans and ironed the wrinkles out of my shirt and laced up squeaky shoes and left the house without waking anyone up. She was the reason I walked through the doors of the First Baptist Church because if Lori wanted to personally introduce me to Jesus, that was fine with me.
    A couple of old ladies with matching flowered dresses and huge hats perched on their hard nests of hair patted me on the shoulders and pushed me in the direction of Sunday school.
    I clomped down the steep stairs and into the basement feeling like I should’ve worn a dress, except for the fact that I didn’t have one, and I took a bath that morning but still felt dirty.
    I stood in the doorway and shoved my hands in my pockets. What the hell was I thinking? Baptists don’t have ragged, bitten fingernails and bruises and scabby bug bites. I was just about to turn and race back up the stairs when Lori saw me and waved from across the room.
    Her pretty dress rustled when she walked and I could smell her fruity perfume from ten feet away. When she smiled at me, my throat froze shut.
    She politely held out her hand. “Welcome.” She smiled. I gave her a limp handshake and made my mouth into a smile that I hoped looked easy.
    “I’m Lee Anne,” I introduced myself.
    “I know that, silly,” she said. “Wanna sit by me?” Before I could answer, she pulled me in the direction of two empty chairs and sat down beside me.
    That’s how I knew there was a God.
    The Sunday school teacher was a cranky-looking old woman with wrinkles all over. Even her panty hose were wrinkled and baggy. It was like she used to be five times bigger before she deflated inside