A Betting Game

6. Cookies don't make up for Jesus watching you make out.

"Please don't make me do it,"

There was a prolonged silence, before the woman besides me sighed.

"Nat, knock on the bloody door,"

"But I don't want to,"

"Let me remind you who pays for all your rubbish,"

Groaning, I gave one final glare to my mother, before turning to the large wooden door and using my free hand to knock against the solid surface. My other arm cradled a Tupperware container, which was still slightly warm from the cookies that were inside it.

I can't believe mum was making me give the shitting cookies away; double chocolate chip were my favourite.

After nearly a minute of waiting, I turned to face my mum completely, rolling my eyes.

"Mum, they're probably busy with Jesus, lets go," My voice faltered slightly towards the end of the sentence, as the door opened almost silently.

Olivia stood at the door, a bemused expression on her face as she leant against the dark wood. If I'm being honest, at that moment, it took all my mental strength not to stare at the girl.

She wore a tight long sleeved black t-shirt, which had sections cut out down her sides which were replaced with intricately laced netting. On her bottom half, she wore a very modest pair of black jeans. However, the lace of the shirt revealed the slivers of skin down her side, along with a tiny image just to the side of her stomach, that was cut off by the block coloured shirt.

It was disappointing that I couldn't see the full design really.

I would definitely be asking her about it when my mum wasn't watching us.

Eyes raising up to my mother, she smiled, her green eyes sparkling with warmth. "Hello, Mrs Oslow,"

"Hello, Olivia," I didn't even have to look at my mum to know that she was pulling her 'I'm-only-being-nice-to-you-because-your-father-is-a-man-of-god' face. "Are either of your parent's in?"

The girls face flushed, and she nodded, before leaning back into the house, bracing herself on the thick door-frame.

Her nails were painted a dull shade of black.

Go figure.

"Daaaaaad?" Her voice was loud and musical, causing me to bite my tongue so that I didn't laugh. This was presumably the loudest that I had ever heard the girl speak, and the thought of here screaming at a man of God somewhat amused me. "Someone's here for you!"

A sliver of pale skin was visible just above her jeans, the damn tattoo still covered.

I swallowed.

"Who is it, Livv?" A short, squat man came from a door within the house, a grey apron tied around his wide waist. His head was covered in a wild mane of flame orange hair, and stuck out in all directions.

Bringing my hand up to my mouth, I bit down on my nail, feeling a chuckle vibrate from my stomach.

Don't you fucking dare laugh.

As his green eyes glanced across my mum, the slightest of colour flushed at his cheeks, and a smile lit up his face. He wiped a chubby hand on his apron, before extending it to my mother, taking hers with his.

"Hello there," His voice made a sound that reminded me of a dog being dragged across wet gravel. "And who might you be?"

How could a priest sound so sleazy?

Looking over at Olivia, I could tell that she was having similar thoughts, her lips tilted in a disgusted grimace as she watched her dad's eyes study my own mum.