New Tattoo

He was doing it again.

Wayne was sitting on the floor in front of the TV with his back against the couch and his elbow resting on one bent knee. He had his right hand over the top of his left arm, rubbing it thoughtfully, glaring daggers at the television.

Gina had left with her mother to go get food for an upcoming cook-off that they were involved in and it was just her and Wayne.

It was irritating the crap out of her.

She strode over and switched off the TV. “Why do you keep doing that?” She stood over his outstretched leg and crossed her arms.

He looked up as if startled. “Doing what?”

She pointed to his arm.

He looked to where her finger was pointing then back at her face. He hesitated and she thought he might not answer.

Then, as if unsure, he stripped off his white t-shirt.

There was a white bandage, about four inches by six inches, taped to the top of his arm.

She kneeled down in front of him. “Are you hurt?” she asked, her fingers going to the bandage.

He was watching her, causing her to look up.

She frowned slightly. “What is it?”

He peeled away the gauze.

She gasped, scrambling backwards, falling on her behind and nearly landing in his lap. It was a perfect sketch of her face, inked into the epidermis of his firm, muscular bicep. “How did-”

“That night.” He covered it back up, wadding up his shirt and tossing it across the room absentmindedly.

“Wayne, we can’t keep this a secret with that as evidence.”

He turned away from her. “We’re not even sure that we did anything wrong.”

She was. She got the proof in her shower that night in the form of soreness and some blood on her inner thighs. “We did, Wayne. I’m sure.”

He crossed his arms. “You can’t be. You don’t remember anymore than I do about that night.”

“There was proof.” She could feel her face heat at the very thought of giving it to him.

He looked at her, fear in his chocolate eyes. “Tell me, Chevelle.”

She looked away. “I-I can’t.”

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “We don’t have time for the blushing violet routine, Chevelle,” he said. His voice softened a little. “Please, sweetheart, I need to know.” There was a note of desperation in the deep baritone of his voice. “Please.”

He was so noble and she was about to seal his fate. Sighing, she averted her eyes, unable to stop the blush creeping over her face. “I took my shower that night and I was really sore,” she spared him a look before returning her gaze to her lap, “down there.” She hadn’t imagined it would be so mortifying to speak it out loud, but the flush to her cheeks and neck was there. “There was blood, too.”

He rested his forehead on his bent knee.

“Didn’t you check your sheets?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t slept there.” His head jerked up suddenly. “Did we use protection?”

He jumped up and ran toward the stairs.

Chevelle stood on shaky legs and followed.

He didn’t stop until he was in his room. He was searching for something, under the bed, then in the drawer of the bedside table. He stood at last, looking defeated.

He went back downstairs to the living room and sank to the couch.

He dragged a hand through his below shoulder length hair as she sat beside him.

“Wayne?”

He sighed dismally and let his head drop against the back of the plush couch. “I’m sorry.”

He was tearing himself up over this and she felt bad. She took his hand. “No one is at fault. We’re in this together.”

He looked over at her. “What if- What if you’re pregnant?”

The very thought made her want to run and hide. She wasn’t ready for a child.

She put up false bravado. “No what ifs. I’ll get my period in a few days and then you’ll see, all this worry was for nothing.” The corners of her mouth turned up in what she prayed was a reassuring smile, for her sake if not for his.

-

He could feel the soft skin on her breasts against his cheek as he nuzzled her stiffened nipple.

She whimpered in the back of her throat, setting his blood aflame.

His hand trailed lower over her belly to the edge of the scrap of lace covering her femininity.

-

Wayne sat up in bed, his breathing heavy.

He was as hard as iron, his manhood throbbing with every beat of his heart.

Where had that come from?

There was no doubt about who he had been so intimately entwined with and the mere thought of her made his flesh leap longingly.

He scraped a hand over his face, his insides tightening with guilt.

He got up, pulling on his jeans and going to the kitchen. He dug through the cabinet, finding his father’s stash of whisky. The stuff was older than the hills but it would do.

He got a scotch glass out and poured the amber liquid. He was on his fourth glass when he heard someone behind him.

Gina was standing in the din, scratching her stomach under her t-shirt and yawning. Her sun-kissed waist-length hair was in a tangle around her face. “What are you doing up?”

He leaned over his shot of whisky, hoping she wouldn’t notice it. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh?” She pulled a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator, tipping it back and taking a healthy swallow. “Anything I can help with?”

If only she knew. “Not really.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Mmm-kay. Goodnight.” He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when she added, “Tylenol PMs work a lot better than liquor.”

He downed his last shot and put the liquor away. He knew sleep wouldn’t come this night, but he fell onto the couch with a sigh.

Crossing his arms behind his head, he contemplated things.

What if Chevelle was pregnant?

His relationship with Gina would be history. Up in smoke.

Gina and Chevelle were like sisters and Gina would never forgive him. She’d probably disown him.

And Chevelle… He’d marry her in a heartbeat if that’s what it took.

But he didn’t want her stuck with someone nearly twice her age, someone who couldn’t give her what she deserved, a burnt out musician-turned-carpenter.

And what about the baby?

The thought made him smile, even as his stomach twisted up into a knot of apprehension.

A son, maybe, with his own blonde hair and Chevelle’s clear blue eyes.

Wayne fell asleep with that thought in mind.

He awoke suddenly to someone sitting on his middle.

He batted at them angrily, mumbling to himself.

The person poked at his ribs, making him jerk spasmodically.

“Get up!”

“Gina,” he warned.

She just giggled like a little girl. “I’ll tickle you. Come on, Chevy, we’ll tickle him.”

He pulled the covers over his head, grumbling, “I’ll bust your ass like Dad should’ve before he died.”

She climbed off of his midsection, then ripped the cover from his body.

He just covered his eyes with his forearm. “Go away, Gina.”

He peeked out from under his arm to find her standing with her hands on her hips and Chevelle watching the exchange with amusement.

Gina glared at him, then looked to Chevelle for help, who put in, “You could always paint his toenails.”

“I’m up.” He got up off the couch, checking the bandage over his tattoo. Gina didn’t need to see that. Hell, he didn’t want to see it. “Is there a reason you got me up?”

Gina must’ve had her daily dose of caffeine. She was nearly shimmering with energy. “We need a ride to Victoria’s Secret.” She gave him a winning smile.

Letting out a sigh, he closed his eyes. “God save me.”

She hugged his arm. “Is that a yes?”

“No, that’s an ‘if I have to’ and you owe me, little sister.” He gave a fleeting look in Chevelle’s direction.

Her gaze quickly averted and she looked distinctly uncomfortable.

He prayed for this mess to end.