Down to the Bone by Thirteen Page B

drove to his father’s house for the annual Labor Day barbecue. He’d spent the last four days thinking about that damn tattoo on the girl’s arm. He ought to have asked her about it, but he’d been so pissed by her dismissive attitude that he’d just stomped away.
    The skull had stuck with him, however, haunting him. Why a worn, broken down skull? What did it signify? Even during practice it had occupied his thoughts, making it difficult for him to concentrate on taking down the quarterback.
    “God-damn it, Evans! Pay attention!” the defensive coordinator had barked. But in his head Jarrett kept seeing that skull, and the girl’s eyes. He’d never seen eyes that color, dark brown, almost black, and clear, like obsidian. Magnified behind Clark Kent glasses.
    “What’s wrong?” Crissy had demanded the other night. She’d been working away at his cock, giving it loving attention with her wet, pouty lips. Up one side and gliding down the other. That had always made him stiff as an arrow, especially when she wiggled her ripe-peach ass while doing it. His eyes had been following the crack of that ass, his breath coming short as she lapped up a trickle of pre-cum; then he’d suddenly fixed on her tramp stamp: a pair of frilly pink birds forming a heart shape.
    Dinosaurs had evolved into birds he’d found himself thinking. He’d already known that but he’d just re-read it in the library book, which reminded him of the girl with the skull on her shoulder. Suddenly, to his acute embarrassment, his boner had flagged. Crissy had redoubled her efforts, slurping and sucking, but it was as if someone had doused the fire. The embers in his groin still smoldered, but he couldn’t bring them back to life.
    “What’s wrong?” Crissy had finally demanded, as if he’d just insulted her. Which, he supposed, he had.
    “I got hurt during practice,” he’d lied to her. “I thought I could get past it but I guess I’m too bruised.”
    That had appeased Crissy, and he’d gone down on her to help her forget about it. But the whole episode was branded on his mind. A few months ago he’d have thought nothing could cool his lust for Crissy, but the way she’d acted in the library had shifted his perception. She no longer seemed sexy, just obnoxious.
    He parked his used Toyota in his father’s driveway and got out of the car still thinking about it. What had that geek girl thought of Crissy, leaning suggestively across the table, talking of parties and keggers? And, by proxy, what had she thought of Jarrett for being with such a tease?
    “There’s the Great Defender!” His father threw open the front door.
    “Hey, Dad.” Jarrett exchanged a bear hug and some back-slaps. He topped his father by a few inches, both in height and width, but the old man still had an iron grip. Over his father’s shoulder, he saw his gawky, fifteen-year old brother. Frankie was skinny and had reddish-brown hair like their mother. The kid had shot up another few inches over the summer, but nothing else had changed in his beanstalk physique. He still looked emaciated, as if their father didn’t feed him, which, Jarrett knew wasn’t true. If anything, Mr. Evans always overfed his sons, never skimping on prime cuts of meat no matter how lean the budget.
    “Gotta be big and strong to make it in this world,” his father always quipped before forking thick grilled steaks onto their plates.
    “Hey, bro.” Jarrett broke from his dad to hug his sibling and ruffle the kid’s hair.
    “Hey, Jet.”
    “How’s school?”
    A shrug of hunched shoulders. “Doin’ okay.”
    “He’s a friggin’ wash-out at sports,” his father complained. “As always. Can’t shoot hoops or throw pigskin, can’t wrestle, can’t even golf.”
    Jarrett felt his muscles tensing at the tone. “Lay off dad.”
    “Getting A’s in all his other classes,” his father added as if this meant Frankie couldn’t be trusted. “Says he wants to study ancient history.