Screwg'd by Willow Sanders

Author:Willow Sanders [Sanders, Willow]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-12-01T16:00:00+00:00

8

Of all nights for there to be a snowstorm it would be tonight. I’m cursed. I just know it. I checked my phone for the umpteenth time and of course not a single return call from anyone I had sent messages to. I bet the power is out, like Bear suggested.

“I’m sure Raven won’t mind if you wear these.”

He handed me a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt and used his foot to push open the door immediately to my right, revealing a bathroom. Once I was out of my dress and had entire conversation with myself in the mirror about what a terrible idea this was, but also arguing I had nowhere else to go while it still snowed, I met Bear in his kitchen, where he had a giant mug of hot chocolate waiting for me.

“I didn’t know if you liked tea and figured it’s too late for coffee.”

He too had changed, and leaned against the other side of his kitchen counter in a T-shirt and a pair of flannel pants. The short sleeves on his shirt revealed even more ink, and once again I was mesmerized. There was so much of it. They covered almost all of his arms on either side, plus one wrist and up onto the back of his hand. I noticed in this light that his sandy brown hair had some streaks of gray it in—especially at the temples, as did his scruff. Despite the rollercoaster of our acquaintanceship, he had me feeling all kind of delicious feelings in my lady parts.

Our eyes met over our mugs, and I know he caught me gawking. With a labored sigh, he set his coffee mug down and extended his arm across the countertop, palm up. He pointed to what I can only describe as a ninja star looking tattoo on the inside of his wrist, inked in all black.

“I got this one after losing a bet with James Hatfield, backstage at Metalland. James Hatfield is the front man for a band called Metallica.”

“What was the bet?” My fingers itched to trace the star, but that would be super weird so instead I just gawked from afar.

“It doesn’t matter. It was salacious, and probably not in the best taste.” He dragged his finger a bit further north, on his inner forearm to a picture of an angel leaning against a dilapidate brick wall, knees drawn up, with a cigarette in one hand a bottle of booze in the other. “When I had this one inked,” he began, tracing it with his fingernail, “I thought that it was symbolic that everyone had a vice—even people who appear to be good.”

“And now?” My focus shifted from the tattoo to his eyes, and I was ensnared—lost in their color—like caramel over coffee. “I think that there is so much shit in the world that even angels suffocate under the burden.”

I had no response. I couldn’t fathom coming from a place where I believed that the world had more shit than good.

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