Tats Too

by Layce Gardner

  I stand in the doorway, watching her sweep. She bends forward a little, working on a stubborn spot and the sight of her ass makes me salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I stick my hands in my jeans pockets and grin.

  She leans over and picks up whatever it is that the vacuum won’t. Suddenly, it’s like her ass is true north and I’m a compass. I ease up behind her, wrap my arms tight around her waist and press my hips into her.

  She isn’t surprised at all. She must’ve known I was watching and wanted to give me a little show. Thank God for Vivian. She knows what I need even if I don’t know it myself. She straightens up, switches off the vacuum and leans against me.

  I lick the outside of her ear. “You always wear lingerie to clean house?” I whisper, running my hands up under her tits.

  “No,” she teases, wiggling her ass against me, “sometimes I do it naked.”

  I take her hand and start to lead her out of the living room, but she balks and pulls away.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “We haven’t had sex in months,” she answers.

  “I know, Viv, I’m sorry. I’m just so tired all the time with Georgia and—”

  “Don’t move,” she interrupts and slowly backs up to the sofa. She sits on the edge of the cushions, spreads her knees with her hands, then runs her palms across her black lace bra, pushing her tits together until they’re about to pop out of the lace restraints.

  I take a step toward her, but stop when she orders, “No. Just watch.” She runs her hands over her tits, kneading them, never taking her eyes off mine.

  “Christ,” I utter low.

  Using just one finger, she traces the outline of her nipples through the lace. I can see how hard they are even through the bra.

  “My God,” I whisper in a prayer voice.

  She leans her head back against the sofa cushions, closes her eyes and her right hand works its way slowly over her bare belly and down.

  I’m like a horse chomping at the bit and I have to force myself not to run to the barn.

  Her hand snakes under the elastic of her panties and she moans just loud enough for me to hear.

  I can’t stand it anymore. I move to her and sink to my knees at the edge of the sofa, genuflecting before her spread legs. But when I reach out to touch her, she demands sternly, “I said, don’t. You only get to watch.”

  This is her revenge for us not having sex. She’s going to torment me. She’s going to make love to herself and I only get to watch.

  She lifts her ass in the air a few inches and slips out of her panties. She runs her hand up her leg, over the fishnets and back to her pussy.

  “Do you want me?” she asks, breathlessly.

  “Yeah,” I gulp.

  She dips two fingers into her wetness, then brushes them across my lips. I suck her fingers into my mouth and lick them clean.

  “What do I taste like?” she asks.

  How can I explain to her that she doesn’t taste like anything else? She’s expecting me to say something like honey or mangoes or syrup, but none of that does her justice.

  “A poem,” I say. “Sex in verse.”

  She laughs. “You’ve read too many of those lesbian romance novels.”

  She opens her legs even wider and when I lean in, she sticks one spiky heel on my shoulder and pushes me back.

  “I said watch,” she orders.

  She spreads herself open with her left hand and uses her right middle finger to massage. She teases herself, circling her clit, never quite touching it. Her hips twitch in little jerky movements, like her body is aching for more, but her fingers aren’t allowing it.

  “Vivian, please…” I beg. “Don’t tease.”

  Without taking her eyes from mine, she runs one light fingertip over her clit and shudders at her own touch. “God…” she moans. She bites her lower lip and strokes harder, this time with purpose. Giving in to her own desire, she moves her hips in rhythm with her finger, faster and harder now.

  I place my hand on top of hers and she doesn’t push me away. “Tell me when you’re coming, baby, please tell me. I want you in my mouth when you come.”

  She’s punishing herself now, strokes moving so fast and hard, she can’t get enough quick enough. She wraps her legs around my waist.

  “Now,” she breathes. “Hurry. I’m going to come.”

  I pull her hands away and bury my face between her legs. My tongue takes over for her fingers.

  “My. God. I’m coming.”

  I thrust my fingers inside her and her pussy grabs and holds on hard. She arches her back and pushes into my face, shuddering and gulping for air. She grabs fistfuls of my dreads and holds on as the tremors of her orgasm rock us both.

  When she stills, I move my mouth to her bra and bite and pull at it with my teeth.

  Vivian grabs my buttonfly with both hands and rips it open. She pushes me onto the floor and yanks my pants down. She straddles my chest, putting her ass just above my face and lowers her head. Between the sight of her pussy just barely out of my reach and her tongue and teeth on me…it only takes me maybe fifteen seconds. If that.

  Goddamn. Do I feel better. I didn’t realize I was so tense. I’ve been saving that one up for too long.

  The first time she ever did that she surprised the hell out of me. Number one, straight women usually don’t go down. Number two, if they do, they aren’t all that good at it. But the first time Vivian ever did that to me, I knew right then and there that I wanted her to do that to me the rest of my life.

  I pull her on top of me and kiss her hard, tasting myself on her lips.

  She pulls away from the kiss and grins. “You’ve got a hair trigger.”

  “You’re way too good at that,” I say.

  “You complaining?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know…” Vivian drawls, “you know why I like sex with you so much?”

  “Because I have a really big dick?”

  She laughs. “Because you make love to me. You really make love to me. Nobody’s ever made love to me before.”

  “It’s because I do love you, Vivian.”

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  She puts her hands on either side of my face and looks at me. We don’t speak with words for a long time.

  “You know, your eyes turn green after you come,” she says.

  “They do?”

  “Uh-huh, they go from dark brown to brilliant green. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that?”

  “Baby, I think you’re the first person who’s ever really looked at me.”

  We kiss again. This time gently, savoring our own unique blend of tastes.

  She pulls back and kisses me on the top of my nose. “Thanks for riding shotgun with me,” she whispers.

  “You can thank me again later.”I pull up my pants and button them. “I’m going to take a shower. Why don’t you fix us something to eat?” I say a little louder than usual.

  “Okay,” she says, pulling on her panties. “But you might want to look at the hot water heater first. The water’s been coming out kinda cold.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Vivian struts off to the kitchen. I slip out the back door and into my bike repair shop across the alley from our house. I feel my way through the dark and pull the tarp off my Harley.

  I check the gas tank. I check to make sure the saddlebags are buckled good and tight. Ready to roll. I open the fuel cock, stick in the key and fire her right up. The rumble of the engine sounds five times louder in the closed-in garage and makes my bones tingle.

  Leaving the bike running, I un-ass and walk to the back door. I open it a crack and look back toward the house.

  BOOM!

  ***

  It all began a couple of days before the hot water heater exploded and became what I referred to as The Big Bang. I realized I’d been wrong about the birds. But I had been right about being watched.

  Just two nights ago I was up
and feeding Georgia, pacing around the house with her while she sucked down the bottle, when I noticed the little green light of the smoke alarm in the living room was out. I made a mental note to change the battery in the morning.

  I put Georgia back into bed next to Vivian and decided to get myself a peanut butter sandwich. I glanced up at the smoke alarm in the kitchen and its green light was out, too.

  Weird. Both at the same time.

  Just to make sure I wasn’t going crazy, I checked the smoke alarm in the hallway. Out. So was the one in Georgia’s room. And the one in the front hallway. Maybe I got a bad batch of nine-volts when I changed them all. Highly unlikely. Maybe I put the batteries in wrong and they’ve always been dead. Even more highly unlikely.

  Maybe somebody came in after me and fucked with all the alarms. Now, that’s a crazy thought.

  That made me start thinking of spy movies. Maybe there was a camera or a microphone in the smoke alarms. Maybe Vivian wasn’t who she said she was. Maybe she was an undercover FBI agent. Maybe CIA even. Or a double agent. Or even a mole for some top-secret foreign government agency. I chewed on that and my sandwich. How well did I really know her anyway? I wished I’d paid more attention to the plot of all those James Bond movies. I scoured my brain, but all I could come up with was some gold teeth and Octopussy.

  I carried my sandwich and the gallon jug of milk to the laundry room. I only drank straight out of the jug when Vivian couldn’t catch me. I pulled the string hanging from the ceiling and unfolded the collapsible stairs leading to the attic.

  I shoved the remains of the sandwich in my mouth and washed it all down with a giant glug of milk, then I grabbed the flashlight from the cupboard and quietly climbed up the steps. I stuck my head and shoulders through the opening and played the light beam around the attic. Right away I saw weird out-of-place stuff. Little black wires lying on top of the insulation and running down the joists. And all those little coiled up wires were leading right down to exactly where the smoke alarms were placed.

  Now who was fucking paranoid?

  I folded the stairs back up and took the milk back to the fridge. I wished like hell I hadn’t stopped smoking.

  I went out to the front porch and sat down heavily on the steps. I put my hands on top of my knees and clenched and unclenched my fists. A mangy dog walked down the street like it had somewhere important to be. It stopped beside a dirty beige van parked across the street and lifted its hind leg on a back tire.

  That van. It had showed up a few weeks ago. I’d never seen anyone move it. I’d never seen anyone go in or out of it. It was one of those vans that didn’t have any windows in the back half. Like the ones serial killers drive.

  I went back inside and turned in two slow circles around the living room and before I even knew what I was doing, I strutted back out onto the front porch. I broke into a run across the front yard and straight up to the van. I grabbed the sliding door handle and pulled, but it was locked. I pounded on the side of the van with both my fists, yelling, “Open up! Whoever the hell you are, open this fucker up before I break through the window!”

  The door slid open and two pair of huge hands grabbed me under the arms and by my dreads and pulled me inside.

  The door slammed shut behind me, and I was tossed to my hands and knees in the back of the van. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dark and a lot longer than that for my brain to adjust to what I saw.

  One whole side of the van was all these computer screens and wires and hi-tech gadgets and blinking lights. The monitors showed split-screen views like in those old Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies. Each view was a different part of my house.

  One screen showed Vivian asleep in our bed with Georgia in her arms.

  And there was our kitchen, our living room, the hallway, Georgia’s room. Everywhere in our house there was a smoke alarm except the bathroom and the laundry room. My first thought was thank God they weren’t watching me while I was on the toilet. My second thought I said out loud to the two dark shapes hovering over me. “Who the hell are you people?”

  “I have a better question,” said a deep voice with a Yankee accent. “Who the fuck are you and what’re you doing with Mrs. Perelli?”

  “That’s actually two questions,” I replied, buying time because my mind was spinning out of control. “Let’s try again. Who are you guys?”

  The answer to my question came in the form of a backhanded slap. It was hard enough to snap my head around and throw me onto my side. I tasted the sharp, tinny tang of blood, but I didn’t give them the satisfaction of showing it hurt.

  “We ask the questions,” said the other man.

  They both sounded like they were from the east coast somewhere. Yankee accents. They looked like Italian mobsters. Like they could have been extras in that movie Goodfellas.

  “Then ask,” I said, sucking back a mouthful of blood.

  “Where’s the diamond?” the first guy asked. His breath stank like he’d been chewing on CornNuts.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about a diamond.”

  He drew back his arm to hit me again, but the other guy stopped him with a raised hand. “She’s telling the truth,” he said. He stared me down. “You ever heard of Cheech Perelli?”

  I shook my head again.

  “That’s his wife you’ve been sleeping with.”

  I decided to play tough gal. Okay, it wasn’t exactly a decision, it was more like I blurted. “I’ve slept with lotsa wives. What’s so special about this one?”

  That time I got another slap on the other side of my face. That one was harder to get back up from. “What was that for? I’ve never fucked your wife.”

  At least I don’t think I have. I quickly shut my eyes, sincerely hoping I didn’t get hit again. A couple of seconds went by with no fresh pain, so I opened them again.

  “You can have the bitch,” he said. “Cheech don’t give a shit about her. It’s the diamond he wants.”

  “I’ve never seen any diamond. How do I know you’re not making this shit up?”

  “Vivian was his runner,” the Goodfella explained. “Running dirty money from Rome into London and delivering it back all clean. One day she takes off with the money and an uncut diamond that she was supposed to take to Townsend to fence.”

  “Charles Townsend?” I asked. It was all beginning to make sense now. That must’ve been how Vivian hooked up with the man she called Prince Charles who chased us all over hell and half of Oklahoma. The same guy who met his untimely death when he kidnapped me and Viv. The same Prince Charles who put a .45 slug through my left lung.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “But Mrs. Perelli never showed in London. She hopped a plane and showed up in this hellhole.”

  “I’ve still never seen any diamond.”

  He leaned down until our noses were almost touching. “Find it,” he said, blowing hot CornNuts breath in my face. He had a jagged scar down his right cheek, cutting right through his oily mustache. I didn’t want to think about how he got that scar. He continued, “Find the diamond, deliver it back to us and maybe you and your kid will stay alive. You got two days.”

  Before I could respond, they picked me up by my arms and the elastic waistband of my boxers and tossed me out of the van and onto the sidewalk butt-first.

  ***

  At seven a.m. on the dot, I went inside the bathroom and turned on the shower full blast. I sat down on the edge of the tub and twiddled my thumbs.

  I didn’t have to twiddle long. It’s like a thing with Vivian. Every time I get in the shower, she comes in to pee and flushes away all my cold water. We’ve argued about it several times, but she can’t understand why I’d care. So, I knew if I wanted to talk to her all I had to do was turn on the shower.

  Right on cue, she walked in, shut the door and saw me sitting on the edge of the tub.

  “Morning,” she said, pulling down her panties and plopping down on the toilet.

  “Where’s the diamond?” I sa
id, cutting to the chase.

  She peed for a while, scrutinizing the towels hanging in front of her. When she pulled at the toilet paper, I asked again, more forcefully, “Where’s the diamond, Vivian?”

  She still didn’t look at me. “What movie did you watch last night?” she asked, grinning.

  I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and stared at her hard until she looked me in the eye. “It was a mobster movie,” I said. “All about this godfather Mafia guy named Cheech Perelli. His wife steals a diamond from him and runs away. She hooks up with a nice, unassuming woman and has a baby with her. But the movie gets really interesting, see, when Cheech sends his guys after the diamond. They bug the house with cameras and microphones. Park their van right outside the house and threaten to kill her and the baby unless the diamond finds its way back home. They give her two days to live.”

  Vivian pooched out her bottom lip, deep in thought. She took her time wiping and then pulling her panties back up. “How’d the movie end?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I didn’t see the end.”

  “I hope it was a happy ending,” she said, picking her panties out of her crack. “I hate those movies where everyone dies.”

  She opened the door and said, “I’ll get Georgia ready. Let’s go out for breakfast. I’m craving pancakes.”

  ***

  Vivian was decked out in full arsenal with her tits aimed right at me. High heels, short skirt, intoxicating perfume, the works. She must’ve thought she was going to blindside my anger with a tit ambush.

  Her feminine wiles didn’t work.

  We scooted into a booth at IHOP and ordered without looking at menus. I got Georgia all settled into a high chair. She’d been sitting up on her own since she was four months old. I popped a binky in her mouth and gave her a teething ring for entertainment, which she promptly started banging on her table.

  Viv and I hadn’t spoken a word since the bathroom. I finally sliced through the silence. “So, Mrs. Perelli, got anything else you’ve been hiding from me?”