Leaning down to whisper in her ear, I demand, “Have dinner with us tonight.”
She lols her head to the side in order to meet my eyes. I see indecision in her depths. There is also need, a yearning she feels down to her bones. I recognize it because I feel the exact same way.
“Tomorrow.” She nods. My lips capture hers in a kiss sweeter than I ever thought I could give. She tastes like mint. Our tentative meeting of tongues spurs me on to make it firmer, to give her more. Nibbling her bottom lip gently, she opens her mouth on a small gasp granting my entry. I take advantage, wanting to taste all of her. To feel her passion deep inside.
Slowly pulling back, Jet mewls in protest until Eli swoops down nearly before we’ve separated. Highly aroused, I watch as he takes her lips with such intensity that I can’t wait to feel her in the flesh.
Jet
Holy fuck, Batman! They can kiss a girl senseless without a thought. Eli and Greer left my shop ten minutes ago, and I am still glued to the same spot as before.
Confused, aroused, even a little mad.
The way Greer drew me in with just a look pisses me right the fuck off. I’ve never just…zoned out like that, fallen into a man’s eyes or arms without them doing anything. I’m not some frigid bitch, but I sure as hell ain’t some easy slut either.
I’ve slept with a total of two men, and neither are very memorable. My exes didn’t put a dent in my heart the same way Eli and Greer are trying to.
Peer pressure from my older sisters had me caving when I was sixteen. Thinking about it now makes me realize it was at that point that a lot of the problems with my parents started, and I began rebelling. The day after that train wreck happened, I got my first tattoo.
Looking at my wrist, I remember exactly how I felt when I got it…
Lost.
Tainted.
Alone.
I asked for a small white daisy on the inside of my wrist as a way to remember. To keep in mind that I was a child when I gave up something so precious that I should have held onto.
I can still see myself walking out of the tattoo parlor both fascinated and intimidated. The shop owner was a big, burly biker, yet he treated me with kid gloves. Seemed to have known I was somehow broken from that day forward.
I became addicted to the pain and numbness the needle gave me after that. It was the reason my parents tried to homeschool me. So I had no need to leave the house, but they soon realized it wasn’t going to work because I started sneaking out at night. When I turned eighteen, my dad handed me a suitcase and walked away.
It was his way of telling me to leave. Of course, my mother just took another drink. Why parent when you can ignore the problems, right? At least that’s what she thought. When she wasn’t popping pills, she was downing glass after glass of wine. My sisters seemed to follow in her footsteps.
From a young age, I always knew I was made differently than them, that I was somehow flawed in their eyes. It took me a few years to realize the reason they hated me was because I broke the mold. I wasn’t like them and had a sense of self they envied. I didn’t hold on to what was proper. To them, I was free of the constriction they held on to.
Two years ago, my oldest sister Margo got married. My presence had been demanded. Mom told me they were having my dress and shoes delivered, and the people doing Margo’s hair and make-up would do mine.
Imagine their surprise when I showed up late, had hair and make-up done, and was wearing my very own clothes. It was bitchy of me, I know, but I still enjoy the memory of it. And now, they know not to try and control me. Any invitations sent to me are more out of a sense of duty and likely because their friends and other family members have asked about me. There is no doubt that they don’t want me there, never have and probably never will.
Just like the phone call I received while tattooing Greer—I know there’s a voicemail from Mom or Dad with the same bored tone to their voice and the same obligatory invite to Christmas. I will politely decline like always, and they will breathe a sigh of relief.
I’ll never understand why they bother when I can tell from their tone of voice that they’d rather be swimming in pig shit than speaking to me. Heaven forbid I ever actually accept the invitation to whatever the event is.
I almost went home last Christmas, and I think I heard my mother having a panic attack over the phone. I had no idea you could hear that kind of thing until then, but it confirmed what I always knew to be true; it was best that I steer clear.