Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“What shit?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You mean because we fight sometimes?”
“Yeah, sometimes I goad you just because I like to see you mad at me.”
I glower at him. “That’s not funny, Kane.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“Babe… it is.”
I shove my sandwich into his laughing fly trap of a mouth and smirk when he gags. “Too far?”
“You’re such a bitch.” His words are muffled by the slop in his mouth.
“Takes one to know one.”
He rolls his eyes but holds his smile, still chewing the sandwich half in his mouth.
“Reckon we can get away with fucking on the bike out here?” I ask making him choke on the remaining food in his mouth. Laughing, I pat him on the back and hand him a soda. He chugs it down without pause and wipes his chin when a droplet trickles down from his lip. When he twists the cap back on I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him again.
“I wish we’d spent more time doing this and less time fightin’,” I whisper thoughtfully and straddle his lap.
“Naw. All my best memories involve pissing you off.”
Giggling, I push my hands through his soft hair and kiss him again. “I ain’t never leavin’ you, Kane Jessop.”
Gripping my ass, he pulls our groins together. “I ain’t never gonna let you, Imogen Hardy.” Then because he’s a prick he adds, “Now take your pill so I can dick you on your new bike.”
If only those double negative promises didn’t come true.
On my birthday, Mee-maw cooks me a special dinner every year without fail. So Kane drops me off on the corner of my street and I take a brisk walk down. I really hope word of me riding around on my new bike never reaches my mee-maw.
Matthew greets me at the door and hugs me. “Happy birthday, sissy.”
“Happy birthday, broey.”
We share a smile and I rush upstairs to grab his gift after kicking my shoes off.
He does the same and we exchange presents in the hall. I got him two tickets to go and see his favorite band, Ellipses, who are touring America and are performing in Houston in a few weeks. I sorted it with Poppy behind his back. She’s going too.
He curses with excitement and beams at me like he never has. “How the fuck did you get these?”
“Stayed up until two in the morning and checked out at record speed,” I reply, slightly laughing. He spins me around but we fall into the wall.
“Now I feel bad because my gift is shit,” he admits, scratching the back of his head.
I open my envelope and tip out the contents. I read it aloud and my cheeks flame. “A two-hour slot at a tattoo parlor?”
“He’s really good, Immy, he’s the one who did the eagle on my back.”
I must admit that eagle has so much detail it looks like a photograph. “I don’t know if I want to get a tattoo.”
“I know, but it’s the final stage of your teen rebellion before you head out to college.” He punches my shoulder playfully. “Cross it off your bucket list, I know it’s on there.”
“Have you been reading my diary?”
“No, I just know it’s on there because I know you.” His eyes soften. “Do you hate it?”
“No!” I blurt, hugging him again. “Not at all. I’m just thinking of what tattoo I’m going to get.”
“That’s my girl,” he replies happily and pats my cheek. “Come on.”
2 weeks later, still 17
“Does it hurt?” I ask as Kane winces slightly. The soft buzzing sounds as the man with tattoos from his chin to his fingertips works the pen across the skin of Kane’s left underarm.
I’m not allowed to see what he’s getting, he said he wants it to be a surprise. So I’m sitting across the room, playing on my phone, chewing a piece of gum in my mouth, occasionally looking up to gauge his reaction.
“It doesn’t feel fuckin’ good,” Kane replies, his tone harsh which makes me giggle.
“You’re a pussy.”
“Fuck you. Wait until your turn and you’ll be crying.”
“When is my turn? You’ve been at this for nearly three hours.”
“It’s gotta be perfect,” the tattooist replies, dipping the pen into a tiny bottle of ink.
“Can I see it when it’s done?” I ask and Kane shakes his head.
“Not until you do yours.”
I look at the tattooist. “Will mine take three hours?”
“Naw,” he replies, grinning at the arm he’s marking. “Maybe an hour, tops.”
“Good.”
Kane is done not too long later. They wrap his arm and the tattooist, whose name is Stan, cleans up his workstation and rolls up the picture he was drawing from before stuffing it into the bin.
The chair and desk are completely sterile and clean by the time I’m sitting there.
“The image you gave me, you drew it right?” Stan asks and I nod. He whistles long and high. “That’s some good art. I tweaked it a little, perfected the edges…” When he shows me the new size and shape of my soon-to-be tattoo I clap a little. It’s a padlock, intricate and rustic, with a broken lock that shatters and becomes tiny little birds flying away.