Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Now who doesn’t want to be seen with who?” I tease, testing our comfort level.
She pushes at my chest, scolding me. “Shut up!” But she’s smiling.
“Where’d you get that shirt anyway? It’s like, ten sizes too big for you. And if it was some other guy, lie to me so I don’t have to kill anyone with my bare hands today. I’ve kinda got a death-wish list going and shouldn’t add to it until I mark someone off.”
Wren laughs, which is a good thing because it was a joke . . . kinda. “Duh—it’s yours. I might’ve borrowed it from your place once upon a time, which is not stealing because I was only borrowing it and totally planned to give it back. Someday. Maybe.”
“That’s not my shirt. What do you mean you took it from my place?” I repeat, thoroughly lost. And then, with the rising sun, I can see the shirt more fully and recognize it. “This is Alan’s. He must’ve left it when he crashed on the couch. Have you been wearing this thinking it was mine?”
Oh, shit! What she said flashes across my mind.
“You sleep in this? Wear it when you touch yourself?” I grit out through clenched teeth.
Wren’s eyes go wide in horror and thankfully, she looks at the shirt with disgust. “Oh my God! That’s not yours?” She scrambles back like it’s a snake that might bite her, so I treat it as such.
Grabbing it between my thumb and index finger, I hold it out so it can’t attack either of us. “No! Bad shirt!” I tell it, copying the tone we use with Lester when he does something wrong. “Bad!”
With that, I fling it to the closest tree. To be clear, Hazel doesn’t do that to Lester, though he’d probably do better than the shirt, which lands high on a branch, getting stuck and waving like an unwanted flag.
Wren laughs at my silly antics, but then her jaw drops. “Oh no! What am I going to wear home? I can’t walk to my front door naked! I’m not looking to catch a public indecency charge. That’s a class-A misdemeanor in this state.”
“You can plea it down to a class B,” I tell her, waiting for the recognition to cross her face before I hold up my shirt. “Kidding—maybe. You can wear this. Though I admit it needs a good wash.” I sniff it, thankful that it’s not as bad as I feared after a day’s work. “Sorry about that.”
She doesn’t seem sorry in the slightest, pulling it over her head and wiggling it down over her body. She even presses it to her nose. “Smells like a sexy man who’s been working hard.”
“You pronounced hog sweat wrong,” I tease lightly, “but I’ll take it.”
“By the way, while we’re clearing some things up, I’ll need your tattoo artist’s name, phone number, and location.” She’s aiming for a casual, no-big-deal tone, but I know her too well, and now that I know she’s got a jealous streak as wide as mine, I can hear it loud and clear. I don’t know how I missed it before.
“Sure, his name’s Corpse. He’s over in Newport. Wyatt told me about him. You looking to get inked?”
“No, I—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Let me see.”
I shift so she can see it in the dawning light. “What do you think?” I hold my breath as I wait for her verdict.
It’s a small bird, done in a photorealism style, just above the tan line on my right biceps. There are branches below its clawed feet where it’s resting, but only for a moment before it flies away. It’s by far the best tattoo I have. I wanted something special for this one and didn’t sit for it until I found an artist who could do it justice.
“It’s pretty. Even more so now that I know a guy named Corpse did it,” she admits. “I’m not up on my ornithology, what kind of bird is it?”
“A wren.”
“Oh!” she exclaims after a moment, her hands covering her mouth as the meaning hits her. “Are you serious?”
I shrug, not sure if she’s pleased or pissed yet and hedging my bets. But she leans over to place a soft kiss to my arm, right over the bird’s head.
“Does that mean you like it?”
She nods, and I feel her smile against my shoulder where she’s laid her head. “Good, her name is Wren Fucking Ford for an amazing woman I know. Did you know wrens are badasses?” I don’t wait for her to answer, sharing what I learned when I went searching for just the right image of a reddish-feathered bird. “They’re tiny but fierce, loud to the point of being mouthy, and smart as hell. They claim all the space around them, not giving a damn about what other birds are around, and are aggressively territorial.”