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“Has she never heard of black? Gray? Dark blue?” I mutter, finally settling on a basic white one and yank it off the hanger. Shrugging it over my shoulders I see my sister is still waiting for an answer.

“How many?” my sister repeats, eyes sweeping over my torso.

“I don’t know. Ten? Fifteen?”

She shakes her head, but I see the way she looks at the tattoos. She’s both curious and judgmental. Not of the tattoos, exactly, but of the life that allows such freedom.

“What’s the most recent one?”

It’s the ‘T’ on my hip. Every time I catch a glance at the dark ink, it feels like a punch to the gut. I hold out my forearm instead. “This sun. I got it after seeing this amazing sunrise down at the river. I didn’t want to forget it.”

“Other people take photos, Ax.”

“Well,” I start, securing the last button and shoving the hem of my shirt into my pants, “I’m not other people.”

“Maybe out there you aren’t, but here you’re still part of the flock. Hurry up or Mom’s going to send someone else up here to get you.”

Someone else: my father.

I already spent an hour with him this morning going over my part of the holiday sermon that I’ll be doing next month. It’s a family affair, a tradition that started when we were barely old enough to read. The congregation loved it though, and Father knows how to deliver. This time it’s different. There’s more pressure on me taking a bit more of a leadership role.

He hadn’t been overly impressed, not that he’d tell me if he was, but I think he was just glad I’d actually started. He assured me that we’d go over it again once the guests leave. Yay.

The doorbell rings again downstairs and Shelby huffs. “Ax, seriously. They’re waiting and unless you’re willing to shave off that ridiculous mustache, I’m not going to cover for you.”

“The ‘stashe stays,” I tell her. Still undefeated.

My eyes dart to the bottom drawer of my dresser where I’ve kept a bottle of Jack hidden for the last five years. Every other holiday party we’ve had here for the last three years I’ve taken a shot before heading down. Not so much liquid courage, but liquid sanity.

I can taste the spicy heat right now. I could send Shelby ahead, grab the bottle, and take a fast swig. Cut the edge. I don’t think it would even count as an epic fuck-up.

Shit. That just makes me think of Nadia for the millionth time since getting home. Not just when I see the tattoo, but the second before I fall asleep and the instant I wake up. Like habit, I grab my phone and check her social media one more time, seeing if she posted any other photos since her last update. It was a single image of blue skies and palm trees. I’m glad to see she made it home, but just want to see her face–determine if I can get an inkling of her state of mind. Does she hate me?

What am I asking? Of course she does.

“Oh, who’s that?” Shelby leans close. I shut off the phone and shove it in my pocket.

“No one.”

“Are you stalking someone?”

“No,” I snap, a little too quickly, and direct her out of my room. From the hallway, I can hear the loud voices echoing from the foyer. I reconsider the whiskey one more time.

“Oh gosh, you like someone.” Her eyes are wide, gleeful as she races after me to keep up. “Is it serious? What’s her name? Can I see her picture?”

“There’s no girl, Shel.” There’s not, right? “You know I don’t date.”

She gives me a disappointed look. No one is happy about the fact that I’ve never brought a serious girlfriend home. At the top of the stairs, I ask, “What about you? Anyone special?”

The hint of a smile plays on her mouth. “I’ve been talking to David Jones.”

“The music minister’s son?” I snort. “That skinny kid that’s been trying to grow a mustache since he was fourteen?”

“Yes.” Her chin lifts defiantly. “And he can grow a full beard now.”

“I bet.” I roll my eyes and add, “I’m assuming Dad set this up?”

What better way to keep Shelby under his thumb than to have her marry another minister’s kid.