Page 32 of Sire
That has to be the name for this avalanche of emotions. Care tumbling with awe, admiration colliding with lust, warmth and want sliding into protection, possession, passion: I don’t want to feel them, but I do. I don’t want to call itfalling in love, but goddamn, I think I am.
“No, not really.”
She tilts her head, not believing. “Forty-three years and you’ve never been in love?”
“I love God. I love my family and my flock. I fuck people, and I don’t hate them, but no. I’ve never been in love. I’ve been busy.”
I’ve been cursed.
“Busy helping women like me?”
I nod.
“Have you ever been with one? A woman you rescued?”
“Fuck no,” I snap. “Damn, why would you think that?”
“Why else would you risk everything to help us?”
I don’t confess this part about me. It’s not only my past and secrets. It’s my family’s lives at risk.
“My turn.”
“Fine,” she sighs, turning to fill her coffee mug. Then, she gives me way too many feelings, pouring me another cup, too. “Your turn. Ask away.”
I spot them on her wrists as she’s pouring. “Why did you get stigmata tattoos?”
It’s been taunting me. The reason why. The way she appeared in my life. Is it a sign from God, or the Devil, because I get visions of holding Wren’s tattooed wrists, bound above her head while I fuck her so hard I make her bleed, with her marked feet, digging into my pumping ass, mydick filling her with every inch, every drop I have. Over and over.
Now I know why people need exorcisms.
I knew I could be evil, but with her, I feel possessed.
She falls quiet. Like something dark possesses her, too. “If I tell you,” she pauses, “will you promise to answer my next question?”
“Yes.”
She sets her mug down. “The last home I was in before Nannie’s: the preppers. The father started giving methatlook. When you’re a teenager, you know it. I’d seen it before and knew I was in trouble. And I knew there was one thing that’d protect me, one thing he feared above all—God.” She swallows. “He wouldn’t touch me if I had his marks.”
I clench my teeth, certain plans for that man’s death forming in my mind.
“There was a woman in our town who owned a tattoo parlor,” she explains. “She gave me the tattoos, no questions asked, except she asked if I needed help. I told her I needed a safe place to go, and she told me to go to the library, to ask for Nannie, that she’d help me, and she did. After two weeks, I was placed with her.”
There’s so much to unpack, but I ask, “Do you regret the tattoos? Why you got them?”
“No,” she says flatly. “I have two parents: Jesus and Dolly.”
I fight my smile. “Dolly?”
“Dolly Parton.”I knew it.“She’s like my mom. I listen to her songs every night. I love butterflies like Dolly does. I even got one tattooed right here…”
Nonchalantly, she starts to unbutton my shirt she’s wearing. “I get the idea.” But I stop her. I worry. “Wren, if Nannie’s home was so safe, how did you wind up where I found you?”
“My turn.” She lifts her chin, controlling this game oftruths, too. “You said you have dark needs when you lie with men and women. What are they?”
Hey, God. You win.
Because I won’t lie to Wren, she’s earned my respect. Yes, I’ll lie to protect my family, but myself? I’m not worth protecting. If I can be saved, it’s up to you or someone else.
