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“You’re the nurse?” the unamused one sneers, his blue eyes narrowing as he takes me in.
“No, didn’t you order the stripper-gram? Obviously, I’m the nurse, have been for nearly a decade now.”
“I will pop those useless nuts like grape tomatoes. Am I making myself clear?”
“Well, I’ll get changed and then get ready to meet your dad.” “What?” He huffs out a dry laugh while giving me an amused once-over. “That’s not your uniform?” He gestures to my leather leggings and black tank top, paired with a red, long-sleeved fishnet top over it. “No, I prefer nipple tassels and a G-string. That okay with you, bud?”
“Morris,” Dorothy says while turning up the lights. “This is Ozzy Davenport. She’s the nurse Indy sent.”
“Ozzy?” he rasps, voice rough with age and bitterness. “What the hell is it with these damn weird-ass names?”
“My god, you have more tattoos than my son. And what’s that shit in your face?”
“Don’t be stealing my pills to get high now!”
“Now, why would I need your crummy pills when I brought a bag full of my own shit?”
He likes to banter, and my guess is everyone around here has taken to babying and coddling him. Well, lucky for the old man, I can dish it out as well as I can take it.
A tattooed woman with weird hair isn’t exactly subtle in a town where beige is considered a personality trait.
I stick my tongue out at Carter before biting into the warm roll.
Jackson squints. “What the fuck was that?”
“Just a tongue ring.”
“My god.” Carter lets out a low whistle, a slow smirk creeping across his angular face. “What on you isn’t pierced?”
Suddenly, Jensen inhales sharply and elbows me. “Jackson,” he hisses urgently, “I think she’s got titty piercings.”
My eyes snap to her chest before I can stop them, and—ho-ly shit.
The goat spits at her, and she huffs. “Well, that’s rude. Usually, I charge an hourly rate for that kind of play.”
“You have bee tattoos on your knees,” he observes, his brows furrowing. “Why?” “They are the bees’ knees.”
“Jensen,” she says, her voice dipping. “What’s the craic?”
“I panicked!” Jensen hisses. “She looked at me, and I forgot what craic meant, and I nearly asked her to have my children.”
Because if he face plants into a wall, I’ll never forgive myself. Or worse—I'll never stop laughing.
“Jackson? It’s late and you’re literally upstairs. What do you want?”
“I was calling because I’ve decided that maybe I’ll try some medicine, and I don’t know what to take.”
“Yeah, I can bring you up some masturbation.”
I’m about to tell him I quit and then run away when I hear squealing tires outside and… A cry.
And there, standing in the porch light, is a boy.
Wyatt Carter Rowe. “I triple-wrap this shit!” he blurts out, sounding on the verge of tears.
“What am I supposed to do?” Carter whines while staring at the sleeping boy in my lap like he’s a bomb. “I don’t know what to do with kids! Does he still need breast milk? I’m not lactating!”
I blink at him. “Don’t you have a kid to parent?”
His face falls. “Fuck! Where did I leave him?” I shake my head before walking off while Carter yells at me to help him find Wyatt.
“What is wrong with you?” “You said beg,” I reply softly. “So I begged.” She lets out an incredulous breath, half laugh, half snarl. “Oh, and what? If I told you to bark like a dog—” “Woof,” I murmur.
Oh my fucking god, I just came from dry-humping like a teenager.
“Oh, my god! Tink, I can last longer, alright? I just—shit. You’re too goddamn sexy, and my dick had a fucking panic attack.”
Some things in life are guaranteed—sunrises, taxes, and Mama regulating her sons with casual violence.
The girl lives off sarcasm and gas station snacks. She practically snarled at a granola bar Jensen offered her last week.
I’m a girl in borrowed boots, held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
