Table of Contents
Other Bella Books by Layce Gardner
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Copyright © 2012 by Layce Gardner
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First published 2012
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designer: Linda Callaghan
ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-291-5
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Bella Books by Layce Gardner
Tats
Dedication
For Emma
About the Author
Layce lives in Tahlequah, Oklahoma with her daughter Emma, her girlfriend, Saxon, and a menagerie of animals. To read more about Layce, please visit her website at Laycegardner.com.
Prologue
I see it before I hear it.
The house, our cute little house, the place I call home, the base of my happiness for years to come, expands like it’s filling up its lungs to scream, then it collapses back in on itself, letting all its breath out and there’s an immense whoosh of hot air and—
BOOM!
—the sound of the explosion syncs with the force of the wind—glass shatters in every direction, boards, splinters, shingles, siding, furniture, fly up in the air. It’s like Old Faithful erupts and spews everything I own, some things I don’t even have paid for yet, straight to kingdom come.
I trot to the front of the garage and throw up the rolling door. I jump on my idling motorcycle, lower my sunglasses and peel out of the garage, hitting second gear before I even hit the street.
I glance back over my shoulder as I speed away. Black smoke and orange flames lick the sky.
I’m three blocks away before I pull in the clutch and skid to a stop. Vivian runs out of the alley toward me, wearing jeans, sunglasses, a V-neck white T-shirt and new white tennis shoes with her big-ass red purse on one shoulder. I’ve never seen her wear tennis shoes before. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Vivian is always full of surprises.
Her tits bounce high with each running step and I come to a sudden realization: I love to watch that woman run. Then, just like she’s reading my mind, she grabs her tits with both hands to stop their bouncing and picks up speed. She catapults herself onto the seat behind me, slaps me on the thigh like I’m a horse and yells, “Let’s roll!”
We haven’t gone half a block before a big rocket drops out of the sky and lands in the middle of the road right in front of us. It crashes with enough force to bury itself three feet deep in the asphalt. I have just enough reflex time to swerve around it.
I’m leaning into the next corner when it finally dawns on me—that was no rocket. It was our hot water heater.
Chapter One
This morning I fell asleep on the toilet. I only woke up when I started to fall off. And yesterday I fell asleep standing straight up in the shower. I only woke up when all the hot water ran out.
I can’t sleep at night anymore, but I can sleep through the day and all bodily functions. So, I stay up all night writing in my journal and watching the classic movie channel and Nick at Night.
Even though I sold my first book, I don’t have any aspirations for this journal. Nothing exciting is going to happen anyway and that’s fine with me. But I still write. I like the sound of my pen scratching across paper trying to keep up with my thoughts.
The book I sold about me and Vivian’s adventure ended up being called Tats. I wanted to name it Tits, but my agent thought that prudish people wouldn’t be able to say Tits out loud. I thought it should be called Tits just so people would think it was porn and it’d sell more copies. But I’m just the writer, what do I know?
Tats was one of those weird books that nobody could categorize. Some people thought it was a lesbian romance with action adventure, and other people thought it was a mainstream black comedy with dramatic undertones, and still others called it a dramedy for everybody. I don’t know what it was except it was about me meeting Vivian and both of us being chased by the British Mafia because we stole half a million of their dollars. In only three hundred pages, I got out of prison for shooting my stepfather; I got shot by the Mafia; I slept with a man and got pregnant; Vivian got sober; I almost died; and Vivian and I fell in love.
Tats made it onto some bestseller list and it’s already in its second printing. There was even what they called a bidding war between movie studios over the book rights. One of the big studios nabbed the rights and they issued a press release saying they were going to sign Drew Barrymore and Hilary Swank to play the parts of me and Viv. But, as luck would have it, those two were busy for the next ten years and so the studio started looking at B-list actresses and none of them wanted to endanger their potential career by playing a lesbian and, next thing you know, there’s a couple of unknowns signed on to play the leads.
I already forgot the names of the actresses, but they were the spitting image of Drew and Hilary. That’s Hollywood for you. If they can’t afford the real Drew and Hilary, then they’ll hire a cheaper version of the same thing. Vivian started calling them Fake Drew and Fake Hilary and those’re the names that are stuck in my head.
The best news was that Vivian finagled her way into what they call a coproducing credit. Which, as it turns out, means nothing except you get to see your name in the credits. That’s all she wanted anyway.
They gave me money up front for the movie rights and told me I’d get a lot more on the back end. Which made me laugh because I’ve always liked getting it on the back end. They shot the whole thing up in Canada. I guess they think eastern Oklahoma looks like Canada. They FedExed us a bunch of tickets to the Hollywood movie premiere and Viv’s already shopping for the dress she’s going to wear. I’ve put my foot down about her getting me in another dress, though. I want to pull up to the red carpet with the two of us on my Harley, but Vivian’s worried about the wind messing up her hair. We’ll see who wins that argument.
Vivian even asked if the carpet has to be red. She’s worried that it’ll clash with her hair.
I’m just glad for the money the book brought in. Between buying the house and setting up my motorcycle repair shop, we blew through all our money in about two months. It turns out that Vivian’s real good at spending money.
I watch a little more of the late-night movie then snap off the TV when it starts getting too scary. I hear Vivian’s snores echoing down the hallway and it’s like the house itself is breathing hard. A couple of tree branches scrape against the roof, sounding like fingernails trying to scratch their way in.
I really have to cut out the scary movies.
I keep feeling like I’m being watched.
I launch myself out of the recliner and follow my big belly through the
dark to the front window. I carefully stand to the side, pull back the curtain about an inch and peek outside.
They’re still there. Five of them. Sitting right there, talking to each other and looking at me looking at them.
I quickly reach through the curtain and snap the lock on the window. I test the deadbolt on the front door. I run through the house, checking all the doors and windows. They might still be able to get in, but they’ll have to break some glass to do it.
I wish I had a gun so I could sniper them off one at a time and be done with it. Vivian won’t allow me to have a gun in the house, though. She says I have poor impulse control and a Dirty Harry attitude.
I peek back around the curtain. Damn, now there’s six of them. Twelve eyes peer back at me, sending a chill racing up and down my spine.
“Lee?”
I gasp and turn. It’s only Vivian. She’s wearing her sleepy face and her hair is messed up, and she looks way too good for somebody who just woke up. It’s at times like this that Vivian is at her most heart-stoppingly beautiful. She’s just standing there pigeon-toed, in plain cotton panties and a big old T-shirt and pillow creases on her cheek. She absofuckinglutely melts me from the inside out.
“What’re you doing awake?” I ask.
“What’re you doing awake? It’s four in the fucking morning,” she says, scratching her butt.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I answer. “So I watched a movie.”
“Honey, you need to sleep. The baby needs to rest. You shouldn’t be up all night watching TV,” she scolds.
“Don’t you think I want to sleep?” I ask, running my hands over my gigantic belly. “She keeps kicking and moving, and I have to pee like every five minutes. If I could sleep, I would.”
Vivian walks up to me and sweetly kisses my belly. “Ssshhh, baby, your moms need some sleep,” she whispers to my belly button.
“Don’t talk to her. It just makes her more excited.”
“What were you looking at?” she asks, opening the curtain.
“Don’t!” I yell, jerking the curtain closed. I whisper harshly, “They can see you.”
“Who?” she asks, alarmed.
“The birds.”
“Birds?” she asks again like she didn’t hear me right.
“Yeah,” I answer a little sheepishly.
“Birds,” she says again, this time without the question at the end.
“There’s six of them out there now. It started with one. Then two. Three, four, five. Now there’s six of them and they’re all just sitting on the telephone wire staring at our house,” I explain.
She bites her lower lip and squints one eye at me.
“Scary little feathered fuckers,” I add weakly.
She puts her fists on her hips and asks like she already knows the answer, “What movie were you just watching?”
“That’s beside the point,” I answer. “Viv, you have to admit that birds are scary. The way their knees are screwed on backwards like that.”
She doesn’t say a word.
I look at anything but her and continue, “And those beaks. They have those sharp pointed little beaks that could just peck your eyes out.”
She blinks slowly, but still says nothing.
“And they have white poop. That’s wrong. It’s just plain weird.”
She nods. “Okay, the white poop thing is a little weird. But that doesn’t mean they’re doing a reconnaissance mission on our house. And I don’t think Hitchcock sent his birds over here just to kill us.”
“How do you know that for sure?” I counter.
She spins on her heels and marches off to the kitchen. I hear a drawer open and close and then she’s back, holding a pair of scissors.
“What’re you doing with those?”
She yanks out the plug on the TV and cuts the power cord in half. “Lee Anne, between all the movies you watch and your overactive imagination, one of us is going to end up dead.” For emphasis, she snips the air in my direction like a demented Lorena Bobbitt, adding, “And by one of us, I don’t mean me.”
I sigh deeply and toss my hands in the air. “Now I’m going to have to splice that back together.”
She grabs me by the hand. “Let’s go back to bed. I’ll let you play with my tits until you fall asleep.”
I stay awake just long enough to keep her true to her word.
***
I wake up lying on my back, sweating, even though the air conditioner is running and a fan is pointed right at me. I can’t see my toes over my huge belly. The sheets are damp and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m sweating or…Damn, I hope I haven’t peed the bed again.
According to Vivian’s calculations based on the umpteen billion baby books she’s read, the baby, our baby, is one week overdue. It’ll probably be born with hair and claws and pointy little teeth. It’s going to claw and gnaw its way out of me.
I never should’ve watched Rosemary’s Baby.
I hear pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. Vivian is already up and making breakfast. This whole pregnancy thing has turned her from a cheerleader into some kind of Nazi. She monitors everything I put in my mouth.
After our first gyno appointment, Vivian damn near ran to the health food store and bought a whole shopping cart of healthy pills. She came home and spread them out over the kitchen table and stuffed them into a little plastic container.
“What the hell is that?” I asked, joining her at the table.
“A pill organizer.”
I picked it up. “It’s one of those thingies for old ladies.”
“I’m just organizing your vitamins for you. You should be thankful.”
I grabbed her face in both my hands and peered deep into her blue eyes. I said very, very seriously, “Grandma? Is that you in there? Are you trapped inside Vivian’s body?”
She brushed my hands away and smiled in spite of herself.
I grabbed a pill and pinched it between my fingers. “What’s this gross squishy one?”
“Fish oil.”
“What’s that, a lesbian Viagra?”
She scooted a pill across the table to me and said, “Just take it and shut up.”
I put it in my mouth and gave her a big, good-girl smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice I hid it under my tongue. “Thank you, Nurse Ratched.”
Vivian rolled her eyes and kept sorting pills into little compartments.
“Is that the days of the weeks written on my old lady pill organizer?”
“Yep.”
“Like you’re afraid I’ll forget and take too many prenatals? I’ll take like three of these in one day if they’re not organized by the days of the week?”
“Knowing you,” she said, “you’d take them all at once so you wouldn’t have to worry about it all week.”
“And what would happen if I took too many vitamins? The baby’s born with teeth and a high school diploma? Why can’t I just do this the old-fashioned way? You know, get vitamins from food.” I thought that was a simple enough question. Women have given birth since the beginning of time and they didn’t need pills or pill organizers.
“You want old-fashioned, go squat in the backyard and plop the baby out. Just remember to chew through the umbilical cord when you’re done,” she said in a hateful, put-upon tone.
“Now you’re being gross,” I said around the pill I still had in my mouth.
“Shut up and swallow,” she ordered.
“I haven’t heard that since senior prom.”
Vivian laughed. She held her palm under my chin and I dutifully spat the pill out. She walked over to the fridge and got out a slice of American cheese. She tore the plastic off and wrapped the cheese around the pill. She thrust the cheese ball in my direction. “Here,” she said.
“That’s supposed to get me to take the pills?”
“It used to work on my dog.”
I’ve been eating cheese balls for four months now. The only way I know what day it is, is because it’s writt
en on top of my pill organizer.
“Viv!”
Her bare feet pad toward me and then she’s in the doorway, looking at me, smiling. She bounces out of bed that way every morning, happy, smiling and full of sunshine.
It pisses me off.
“Why are you wearing my underwear?” I ask.
“You don’t think it’s a good look for me?” She laughs and turns in a circle, modeling my boxers and wifebeater.
She actually looks really hot with my boxers barely hanging off her hips, her tits testing the limits of my shirt. I haven’t fit into my own underwear for months. The only thing I can squeeze into is big gray sweatpants, a man’s XXL T-shirt and flip-flops.
That pisses me off, too.
“Help me up,” I whine.
She grabs my hands in hers and pulls me into a more-or-less sitting position. “I thought of a new name,” I wheeze.
“I thought we’d already decided.”
“Yeah, well, the baby’s father visited me in a dream and told me I have to name it after him.”
Vivian smiles at me crookedly, waiting for the punchline. “And that would be?”
“Lucifer.”
She snorts through her nose. “If it’s a girl, we can call her Lucy.”
“Exactly.”
“Breakfast is almost ready. You hungry?” she asks, starting toward the kitchen.
I catch her hand and swing her back in front of me. “Yep,” I answer, running my hands up under the wifebeater.
“For food?” she clarifies.
“Nope.”
That’s a bald-faced lie. I’m always hungry. If it were up to me, I’d sit right in front of the fridge and stuff my face. But Vivian has to prepare and measure everything before she doles it out to me with my vitamins. She only lets me have three ounces of fat free ice cream a day. Whoever heard of fat free ice cream? If it’s fat free, what’s the fucking point? Besides, when something says on the box “one-third less fat,” to me that means I get to eat one-third more of it. So, if it’s fat free, can’t I eat the whole carton?
Tats Too Page 1