The Hookup Equation (Loveless Brothers 4)

“A constellation,” I tell her.

“A constellation of a kite?”

“A constellation of a sextant,” I say, even though she’s right and it does look a little like a kite, especially in the low light. “It’s a navigational instrument that measures latitude.”

“Can I touch it?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, though I want to scream it, shout it, beg her with that one single word: yes, yes, yes you can touch me.

Thalia reaches out with her other hand, sinks her four fingers into the four points of the constellation, one over each star, her touch just as heated .

“Is it a tattoo with a story?” she asks, taking all but one finger off, using that one to trace the lines.

“I got it when I turned eighteen,” I say. “All five of us went together. I forget whose idea it was. We all got constellations. My mom’s an astronomer.”

It’s not the whole story, but this is a first date and even though I find myself wanting to unveil myself to her completely, take off my skin and let her see inside, I stop myself.

I don’t say, my brothers wanted to get something for Dad, and I talked them out of it.

I don’t say, I’d just found out the truth.

It wasn’t hard. I pointed out that he was gone and she’d done the work of raising us all for the last nine years and that if we commemorated someone, it should be her.

If we did it again, I’d feel differently. Now, I’d get his tattoo. I’d ink him into the flesh that’s half his. But back then, I couldn’t. Not yet.

“Your mom who’s friends with Vivian?” she asks, still tracing.

“They went to college together, at the VSU satellite campus in Blythe, both in their thirties,” I say. “I think it was a real bonding experience.”

Finally she covers it with her palm, cool against my arm, and her touch sends a shiver through me. The fingers of her other hand are still intertwined with mine, and to an outside observer it probably looks like we’re in the middle of some strange mating dance or ancient ritual.

Maybe we are.

“Do you have any others?” she asks.

“Just this one,” I say, but for the first time ever, I wish I did. I wish fervently, desperately, that I had a reason for her to touch me somewhere else.

“You?” I ask.

Thalia laughs, shaking her head, black hair gleaming in the light of the moon and the neon of the Thai pavilion, swishing over her shoulders. She takes her palm from my forearm and the spot suddenly feels too cool, like something is missing.

“My parents would kill me,” she says.

“I thought your dad was in the Navy.”

We’re still holding hands and she turns toward me, fingers interlaced, bringing our hands to shoulder level, waving them slowly up and down like we’re half-dancing to a waltz that only we can hear.

“He is,” she says.

“He doesn’t even have a Navy tattoo? Most military guys I know have at least that.”

“He’s very traditional,” she says, raising her eyebrows, her eyes still on our interlocked hands. “Tattoos are for drug addicts, lowlifes, and whores, didn’t you know?”

“Which of those am I?” I tease, and she looks up at me, eyebrows still raised, mouth moving into a smile.

She’s close. So close I think I can feel her body heat, though it’s impossible for me to tell if that’s true or just my imagination.

“That’s a trick question and I’m not answering it,” she says. “They’ve only ever gotten me into trouble.”

“Good trouble or bad trouble?” I ask, shifting closer to her.

She’s looking up at me, dark eyes wide, laughing. I put two fingertips on her bare shoulder and slide them, gently, down her arm.

“All trouble is bad,” she says. “That’s what makes it trouble.”

“You’ve just never gotten into good trouble,” I say, still sliding. My heart feels like it’s in a marching band, blood crackling through my veins.

“But you’re about to offer to show me some?” she says, eyes dancing, head slightly tilted. “Is that your next line?”

“It’s not a line if you’re going to follow through,” I tell her, skating my fingers back up her arm. “But since you don’t seem to want trouble of any kind, I’ll insist we stay on the straight and narrow.”

“I didn’t know we’d gotten off it,” she says, and now her voice is quiet, melodious, musical over the hum of art patrons in the distance. “Unless I’m really wrong, we’re both consenting adults behaving themselves.”

I don’t want to behave myself. Thalia makes me feel wild and untamed in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before.

It’s lust, pure and simple, and I know it’s lust but the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to bear. It’s beating through my whole body like a timpani drum, vibrating my skin, reverberating through the air between us.