He nods to the cup holders in the console. “A bullet.”
“Oh, my freaking God,” I groan.
Before even leaving the driveway, I already know Chad won’t be anything more than a friend. Why, you ask?
First, he ran out of my house like he was going to piss himself. Then he didn’t even open the door for me. The kicker was the pinched face. That pissed me off.
My family may not be “normal,” but they’re pretty amazing. I would never be with someone who didn’t at least find humor in them. And if I am being honest with myself, I only said yes to this date in order to open doors to dating, and if Chad didn’t run his mouth about Kiki’s shirt, Max’s tutu, or Cyrus’s bullet, I should have been fine.
But he did.
However, it didn’t detour others from asking. In fact, I had several boys ask me out. Some I even accepted their invitations.
Every time I had a date, which wasn’t often, Dad insisted on meeting them before said date. Nine times out of ten, my uncles would be there when said date showed up. And ten times out of ten, I realized they just weren’t, as Dad said, worthy.
I want a man who looks at me the way my father and uncles look at their wives. I want a man who doesn’t try to change me. I want a man who doesn’t cower at any of the warnings my father gives.
I held my V-card all the way through high school, and guess what? It doesn’t bother me one fucking bit.
Three
Eighteen To Life
When I turned eighteen, Dad told me, “You’re still not an adult.”
I countered with, “I’m eighteen, so the law says otherwise.”
He pointed up at the ceiling. “I make the laws in this house. You’re still under my roof, the rules still apply.”
The rules, you ask.
Let me introduce you to the four Ds.
“No drinking.” He scowled.
“So I’ll die of dehydration in what, a few days?”
“Don’t be a wiseass. I mean of the alcoholic persuasion.”
“It’s illegal, so we’re good.”
He arched an eyebrow. “No drugs.”
“Same response from the previous. Illegal.”
“No decorating your body. Meaning, no tattoos or piercings, other than your ears.”
Hypocrite much? I say yes.
“No serious dating.”
By serious, he means sex.
“V-card’s still intact, Dad. You can thank yourself for that.”
“Let’s be real here; none of those little pissants from the past even deserved so much as a kiss, Little Bell. So, as much as I’d like to take credit, that was all you making smart choices.”
Again, hypocrite, but he’s not wrong. I did make smart choices.
I don’t hate his rules, even though he was having sex with my mom long before he graduated from high school. I have heard stories that he drank when he was going through the loss of her, and me. And hello, tattoos and piercings? He was a freaking tattoo artist, and from what I’ve overheard, he’s got piercings in places I wouldn’t allow a needle to go near, let alone impale me.
Also, gross!
He met Carly when she wasn’t even out of college, so again, he’s being a hypocrite. But also, he’s being protective and, even though I’m supposed to rebel, I just feel it’s not my time yet.
I think back on all the horrible things my maternal grandfather said about him and about the stories my maternal grandmother told me in secret, the contradictions. Through those stories and pictures she shared with me when we met, I was able to see him for the man he really is. Through the stories he has shared with me over the years, I understood him not wanting me to go through what he and our family endured. I understood his hypocrisy came from a good place, a place of care and concern.
When I went to college, Dad told me he was still paying for the roof over my head, so his rules still applied, and he added more.
No going anywhere alone.
No going anywhere after dark.
No boys in my dorm.
No parties where some shitbag could slip a pill in my Kool-Aid, since I wasn’t allowed to drink.
And no sex ever.
I broke a few and got caught. Then I realized he was tracking my phone. I was livid, so I went to the source of all things Steel—Momma Joe—to find out how to negotiate with a terrorist—him.
She laughed and told me that he just didn’t want me to take the path he had.
I might have known that I was tugging on heartstrings when I reminded her of where his path led—to me. Then I added a smile and the words, “Look at him now. Look at us now. Forever Steel.”
“Bella, he’s tracking your cell phone because he worries about you.” She sighed. “As a parent, we don’t want our children to struggle like we did. His overprotective ways are out of love.”
“But …” I began.
She held up her hand, stopping me. “However”—she winked—“as long as someone knows you’re okay, I see no reason that you can’t let your hair down every once and awhile.”
“So …”—I tried to hold back my victory smile—“I can just leave my phone in the dorms when I decide to … let my hair down?”
“Absolutely not.” She laughed. “That’s folle.”
Momma Joe gave me a new escape system, via a new phone and a system where I checked in with her.
In that very short amount of time, between let your hair down and Momma Joe slapping me with Italian—folle meaning insane—I went to a hundred parties, walked in the dark … alone, went out past eleven at night … on a school night, had a boyfriend who wasn’t a complete douche, had sex without the threat of seeing my father around every corner, in every shadow, and no, I didn’t feel threatened by my dad in the least, but everyone else in a ten-block radius sure as hell did. He made damn sure of it.
Part Two
Present Day
Four
Tag Time
Tags
Standing inside Body Art, I see four girls outside of my buddy Sisco’s studio.
He smirks. “They’re fucked up.”
“The little blonde isn’t. She looks terrified.”
He chuckles. “She looks like that cartoon character.”
I nod. “Alice from Alice in Wonderland.”
“Wonderland would pass out quicker than the little badass.”
“Purple hair, dark skin?” I ask then take a sip of my coffee. “I think you’re wrong.”
“If I’m wrong, you get dibs on which one you ink. And the cash, too. I’m right, you get Wonderland and I get the cash.”
I reach out to shake his hand. “You’re on.”
Two seconds later, purple hair throws up and we laugh.
When the other one, the one with the long, thick, brown hair and perfect curves, turns and I see her face, my heart skips a beat, maybe two. She’s fucking gorgeous.
Living art.
Sparkling blue eyes, lightly tanned skin.
Tag, I think. “She’s it.”