Page 8 of Sire

“Adding to the tattoos on his face.” Mr. Muscle leans against the doorjamb. “Hopefully, not with Sharpies this time. That shit was too funny, literally. He had a poop emoji on his forehead for a week.”

A giggle erupts from my throat, imagining it.

Before the hell of this past year, I was a happy person. It was a conscious choice. When you have nothing and no one, you can at least own a positive attitude.

And whenever my joy would waver, I’d ask myself, “WWDD?”

What Would Dolly Do?

Sorry, Jesus. You and I are tight, but Dolly Parton is the mother I never had. She’s taught me that smiles and kindness open doors if not hearts, and it’s how I’ve survived so far. Smiling and praying someone will open their door to me.

And here I am, doing it again.

The Pastor sits on a red plastic children’s chair. With asoulful voice and slight Southern twang, he sings a song about a bullfrog and “Joy to the World.”

He’s enchanting the kids who laugh with markers in their little hands, scribbling over the flesh I admire, too. Innocent, colorful doodles over black, ominous ink. On his face. His neck. His arms.

“So those markers will wash off?” I worry.

“He wouldn’t care if it didn’t.” I glance up at Mr. Muscle. He beams at the sight, revealing, “He’ll do anything for kids.”

Meeting my stare, Mr. Muscle’s blue eyes sparkle. They ease the threat of his menacing form. Otherwise, this guy is a snow-covered volcano—peaceful, beautiful, and huge until he blows.

“Like he did for you, little one.” He sounds worried, too. “But I’m not sure about this; me, bringing you to him. He has a good soul but an evil temper. Be warned.”

“Well,” I shrug, “I’m sure about him.”

Defiance edges my voice. The sound of it makes The Pastor turn his head. In an instant, his indigo eyes widen, surprised, before they narrow with fuming recognition.

“It’s me! Hi!” I sing out, yes, sounding like the Taylor Swift song, so I add to the awkwardness.WWDD?

I smile.

I wave.

Mr. Muscle huffs a chuckle, “Thisshould be interesting.”

Fluent Spanish rolls off the tongue of The Pastor, slowly rising, tension rippling the muscles under his T-shirt. Pointing to an older woman, holding a book and sitting in a rocking chair, he must be telling the kids it’s story time. Eagerly, they circle her, but one little boy won’t leave his side.

The boy is two or so.

It’s my informed guess. Foster siblings surrounded me for the first sixteen years of my life.

The Pastor glances at the crying boy, tugging at his jeans,so he gently scoops him up in his inked arms … and … there go my ovaries. Content, the toddler rests his head on The Pastor’s chest.

But his sexy face, aimed at me?

It’s not giving Content.

No, common sense tells me to run from a man with tattoos on his face; he got them for a reason. They’re givingFuck off or Dievibes. Even on a hot face like his.

But how can I be afraid of a dangerous man with rainbows doodled on his forehead?

He stares at me, and I stare at him. New, sparkling sensations plunge my depths, and I don’t know what to name them.

Even as he storms our way, his voice growling low at both of us, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“She told me to bring her to you.” Mr. Muscle folds his beefy arms across his chest. “And she’s like a cute mosquito. Tiny and light. Biting and the most dangerous insect in the world. The fuck if I’ll say no to her.”