Page 8 of Daisy Chain
“Why? I trust you.” I don’t give a fuck about the designs anymore. It’s about the buzz the process gives me.
“Just take a look,” she insists.
“You better not have tattooed another cute puppy.” She’s done that shit before. I have a picture of a Pomeranian on my lower back. Punishment for getting her out of bed early one morning to do a tattoo for me.
She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip to stop from smiling. Amusement flashes in her eyes. What the hell has she done? My body stiffens. A cold wave washes over me. She wouldn’t, would she? “Did you tattoo her name?”
Not able to hold back laughter, she says, “Not quite.”
Marching to the mirror, I turn and look over my shoulder.
“Do you love it?” Tricia grins.
Years ago, Tricia tattooed a series of chains on my back. Each one linking together, attached to other designs until they covered most of my body.
On the back of my shoulder, threaded through each link, are tiny white and pink daisies.
Not her name.
But now I have a fucking daisy chain on my back.
three
DAISY
Openingtheovendoor,I reach inside with oven mitts and pull out a cake tin. The aroma of chocolate, vanilla, and sugar fills the small kitchen.
Sally sits on a stool at the faux-marble counter and grabs a fork to dig into the spongy cake. I slap her hand away. “Sorry, this one isn’t for you. It’s for my dad. He’s having guests at his house tomorrow after Sunday service.”
The fork clatters on the counter. “You could’ve at least baked two.”
Smiling at her disgruntled expression, I turn back to the oven, pull out another tin, and slide it in front of her. “Would I let you miss out?”
“You’re the best.” She claps with glee. I pick up a fork, and we both dig in, even though we should wait until it’s cooled.
“Mmm.” Decadence bursts into my mouth. Chocolate cake, the richer the better, is my weakness. “So good.”
“I would have sex with it if I could.” Sally’s eyes roll back as she forks a still-steaming piece into her mouth.
Laughing, I point my fork at her. “Are you going all American Pie on me?”
“No, I’d rather the real thing. Are you sure you don’t want to go out dancing instead of doing a class on how to grow herbs? Your monthly pick soundsboring. We could be dancing with some hotties in a club and maybe get a little action afterwards.” She playfully wiggles her eyebrows.
I shake my head. “We’ve gone dancing before, so it’s not ‘trying something new’. You’ll love learning how to grow herbs.”
Sally pulls a face like she’s not convinced. “What use do we have learning how to grow basil?”
“Just think how great our food will taste when we cook with fresh herbs.”
“And where will we put these plants?” She waves her arm around. “Our apartment is as big as a shoebox.”
“The windowsill?” I suggest.
We both glance over to the window where we already have cereal boxes stored. Sally turns back and raises an eyebrow.
“I’ll think of something.”
Sally groans and bumps her head up and down on the counter. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought we were friends.”
