Tattoo.
“Lennon …”
My first thought is Max and Ash would kill me if I got ink from anyone but them. My second thought is that Lennon is buying me a tattoo, and that warms my heart enough to forget about Max and Ash and whatever they might say.
“Before you tell me you can’t cheat on your brother and get ink from someone else, I called Max.”
My brow scrunches. “You. Called my brother. The brother who’s married to my ex-boyfriend. While you are my current boyfriend.”
Things between Max, Ash, me, and Lennon have been getting better. We’re always civil, but it’s still so damn awkward. There’s no resentment on any of our parts, but seeing each other only a few times a year helps.
Lennon laughs. “Yes. I called Max. He recommended this place. So …” He gestures for me to go in.
The place looks clean—bonus—and the walls are covered in intricate and difficult designs.
“What are you buying me?” I ask as I look over some Fijian tribal patterns.
“Oh, we’re totally using your credit card, Mr. Money Bags.”
I smile. “I’m cool with that, but what design? Ooh, a turtle.” I run my finger over it.
“No. We have our own designs to get.”
My hand drops. “Wait, we?”
The grin that lights up Lennon’s face makes my breath catch.
A big guy covered in tribal tattoos appears from a back room. “Ah, you must be Ollie and Lennon. I’m Adi. Who’s first?”
“That would be me,” Lennon says. “Before I lose my nerve.” His chuckle gives away how nervous he is.
“Wait. You’re getting a tattoo for me?”
Lennon glances at the guy. “Umm …”
The guy smiles. “After talking with you about the designs, I figured you two are together. Love is love. Simple as that. You can talk freely. But if you need a minute …”
“Thanks,” Lennon says.
“No worries. Just give me a shout when you’re ready.”
Lennon slowly approaches, and his face does that thing where he’s trying to find the right words. He has it almost constantly while he’s writing his articles. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to show you how grateful I am to have you in my life. We both agreed the other night about what we don’t need, but we didn’t say what we do need. A symbol.”
“Matching dildo tattoos?” I joke, because I get the feeling he’s freaking out that I won’t like this. But I love it.
Lennon laughs. “Not dildos. But you’ll see. Your brother designed something for us.”
“And you’re doing this just for me? Even though you’ve refused to get a tattoo in all the time I’ve known you.”
Knowing he’s willing to do this for me—and only me—it’s better than anything I could’ve asked for.
“Nope. I’m doing it for us. We may not be wedding people or family people, but this … It’s a piece of each other we do have to give.”
“You giving me a patch of your virgin skin is the weirdest and most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound like the big romantic gesture I thought it was.”
I pull him against me. “No, it’s perfect.”
“You haven’t seen the designs yet.” He smirks. “Oh, and I forgot to add you won’t until they’re done.”
Minor panic tries to take over, but logically, I know my brother. Ink is his life, and there’s no way he’d let someone tattoo something that wouldn’t fit his canvas that he and Ash have painted since I was eighteen years old.
So I put on a brave face and pretend I’m not even a tiny bit worried. Which I’m not.
Nope.
Not even a little bit.
Okay, totally a little, but I can handle it.
“Do I get to see yours first?” I ask.
“Maybe after the stencil’s applied.” He turns and calls out to Adi. “Okay, we’re ready.”
The big Fijian guy reappears and takes Lennon back, while I wait an excruciatingly long time for a stencil to be put in place.
I end up pacing the small reception area, trying to distract myself by looking at this guy’s portfolio.
When they do finally call me in, I walk into the room to find Lennon shirtless on the chair with his left arm above his head.
I round the chair and let out a little laugh, not only at what he’s getting but how big it is.
“Go big or go home, right?” Lennon says, his voice shaky.
There on his rib cage is a hockey stick, skate, puck, and the number eighteen. My jersey number. The entire piece is about the size of my hand.
“It’ll suck if I ever switch teams and get a new number.” That’s probably not the first thing I should say when given something this awesome. Oops.
Lennon looks at me through those nerdy glasses of his. “This was your number when we met and when we first got together. I’m keeping it.”