Free Made in America by Jamie Deschain

Babe, you haven’t heard anything yet.
     
    GRANT: Yet, implies that I will.
     
    RAVEN: I’m not going to fuck you, remember?
     
    GRANT: But you’re perfectly fine teasing me?
     
    RAVEN: Absolutely. Now about that party…
     
    Sitting there with my cock hanging out of my pants, and cum slowly drying on my leg, it’s hard to say no after admitting what I’ve just done. I flick a glance at my computer and see her tits still staring back at me. I twitch once more, and think it best to end this conversation so I can get changed and head home.
     
    GRANT: I’ll go, on one condition.
     
    RAVEN: What’s that?
     
    GRANT: You come to an event of my choosing when I ask.
     
    RAVEN: As long as you buy the clothes, I’ll come wherever you want me to.
     
    GRANT: Be careful what you wish for.
     
    RAVEN: You know what I mean, perv.
     
    GRANT: You like it.
     
    RAVEN: ;-)
     
    GRANT: Haven fun shopping.
     
    RAVEN: TTFN
     
    I throw the phone on my desk and grab some tissues to wipe up my mess. Closing my laptop, I shake my head at the absurdity of all of this. Her first day on the job and already we’re so much more than just boss/employee. I’ve never done that with a woman before. All of my sexual encounters have always been face to face. Just knowing she knew what I was doing—and didn’t shy away from it—tells me Raven is unlike any other woman I’ve known.
    But it’s more than just the physical.
    She was right when she said I felt protective of her. I can’t explain it, but I do. Maybe it’s just infatuation, but it doesn’t feel like that.
    It feels like something more.
    And I can’t wait to see where this leads.
     

- 9 -
     
    Raven
     
     
    “What are all those tattoos for?” Grant asks.
    I look up from my roasted turkey and avocado BLT, taking the opportunity to grab a napkin and wipe the crumbs from my lips.
    Sitting across from Grant in his office while we eat lunch has become common occurrence. Monday he said he doesn’t usually let anybody in here when he eats, but by Thursday he said the thought of eating lunch without me just doesn’t seem right, so here I am.
    Trust me, I don’t mind one bit.
    Grant takes a bite of his Mediterranean Veggie and eyeballs my arms with a penetrating stare.
    God, he’s even sexy when he eats his Panera Bread.
    I thought for sure when I started working here he was going to ask me to keep my tattoos covered, but all the blouses I bought on Monday at Barney’s are sleeveless, and he hasn’t said a word. The one I’m wearing now is an eye-lashed fringe top that cost nearly $400.
    I still can’t believe he let me spend as much as I did.
    “They’re symbolic of my life,” I say.
    “How so?”
    I gaze at the different images inked onto my arms. Trying to explain to someone what your tattoos mean when they’ve never had the desire to get one can sometimes be a challenge.
    I point to the Statue of Liberty on my right forearm and say, “Got this one when I first moved to New York.”
    “But why? I mean, what purpose does it serve?”
    I purse my lips, thinking best how to describe what he’s asking. “You know how some people keep a journal, right? Like, a diary of their experiences and thoughts. That’s what my tattoos are. They’re a journal of my life, only instead of putting my experiences away on some shelf, I put them on my body so I’m always reminded of where I’ve been, and where I’m going.”
    He nods, though I can see the wheels spinning in his brain. He’s trying to understand, but not quite there yet.
    “When I was a little girl, I always wanted to live in New York,” I tell him. “So when I got here, I had this ink done to remind myself of that accomplishment. When I’m feeling down, or having second thoughts about my life, I can look at it as a reminder there’s nothing I can’t do if I set my mind to it.”
    “And this one?” he asks, pointing to a new school squirrel tattoo on my left arm. “What could that possibly