Final Play (Fake Boyfriend 6)

“You say that as if tattoos are able to come off with club soda.”

“Wait, that’s not how tattoos work?”

I try to hide my smile. “Are you sure you want it that big? First tattoo. It’s gonna hurt.”

“I can take it.”

We’ll see how long he lasts.

To give him credit, he lasts about an hour before he starts to complain. Which is basically when only the outline is done.

“Shading is gonna be worse,” I warn him.

Poor Lennon looks like he’s going to vomit.

“Need to take a break?” Adi asks.

My brave boyfriend shakes his head. “No, keep going. Just get it done or I’m worried I won’t get it finished.”

“Oh, Max would tie you to the chair back home to get it done.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lennon says.

When his eyes start to water another hour later, I stand by him and grip his hand.

Adi glances up from his work. “You’re almost done.”

Lennon turns his head toward me. “How have you done this”—he gestures to my tatted body—“that many times?”

“I was Ash and Max’s practice. All these pieces have evolved over a few years and many different sessions.”

“Your brother is super talented,” Adi says. “I didn’t believe he was him when he called.”

“My brother is famous?” I ask.

“In the world of tattooing? Hell, yeah, he is.” Adi takes his gaze off Lennon for a split second to eye my tats. “I can’t believe I get to ink his designs on you. Mostly all the requests we get here are touristy things. Cute little turtles and shit.”

I’m offended.

When Lennon’s finally done and his tattoo is covered with a protective breathable bandage, he gets out of the chair and slides his T-shirt back on with a wince.

Adi changes needles and gets set up for me while Lennon pulls a blindfold out of his back pocket.

“You’ve been sitting on that this whole time?”

“Uh-huh.” He’s positively giddy for a guy who’s supposedly in pain. “Shirt off.”

With a sigh, I take off my shirt and sit in the seat.

Lennon slips on the blindfold.

“Can I request something?” I ask.

“I’m under strict instructions from your brother on what to do and where to put it.”

I huff. “Of course. I was wondering if it’s a tattoo that could use some color?”

“But none of your tats have color,” Lennon says.

I blindly reach my hand out until he takes hold of it. “But this is your tattoo. I want color.”

“I can do color,” Adi says. “But if your brother asks, you forced me, yeah?”

I laugh. “Totally forced you. Twisted your arm.”

Lennon keeps hold of my hand while Adi places the stencil on my skin.

It’s on my left side, right under my pec along my ribs. It’s closer to my heart than where Lennon’s was, but it’s still in a similar area to his.

The buzz of the tattoo gun isn’t anything new to me; neither is the annoying stabbing pain of the needles. I could drift off in this chair.

My tattoo takes half the time of Lennon’s, unless I actually do fall asleep, or maybe the blindfold has warped all my sense of time.

Either way, when Adi says he’s done and wipes away the blood and cleans me up, nerves sit in the pit of my stomach.

Then I remind myself to trust Max and trust Lennon.

“Are you ready to see it?” my boyfriend asks.

“More than ready.” I may or may not be still faking my level of confidence.

You’d think after I got a tattoo with my ex that I’d be scared of going there again, but the thing with my tattoos is they all mean something. My tattoo with Ash represents the four years we had together—the good and the bad times. On one arm I have a Celtic knot tattoo that represents my family. My four brothers and my parents. I have a clock to represent patience and a dove to represent freedom. This new tattoo, Lennon’s representation in my life … it’s the most important tattoo I will ever wear.

That’s why I asked for it to be in color.

Lennon removes my blindfold, and Adi hands me a small mirror.

A laugh escapes me—a deep, hearty laugh that has a mind of its own.

Because what they chose is so … my family. I’m surprised I didn’t guess it.

It’s a Superman logo wearing Clark Kent glasses.

“I-is it … o-okay?” Lennon asks.

“Are you kidding me? It’s perfect.”

“I wasn’t so sure with the whole … Superman thing. The glasses, I get. Superman …”

“Lennon.” I take his hand. “You may look like Clark Kent, but you’re Superman to me. You’re selfless and strong. You may not be saving Gotham—”

“Metropolis. God, you can’t even nerd properly, jock.”

I laugh. “Well, you’re my nerd, my Clark … my Superman.” I look down at my side again. “This perfectly represents how I see you in my life.”

“Better than a wedding certificate and matching rings?”