“I get that a lot,” I say, hopping out of his beast of a car.
Last night, Christian helped me clean the entire house before informing me that we were having a sleepover. He ordered us a pizza, and we stayed up late talking about the mercurial men in our lives and how much they suck.
I didn’t want to go to school today for a couple of reasons. The first being that it’s my birthday. The second, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see Pierce, but the desire to punish him was stronger than my urge to see him today. Barely. When Christian fought me on skipping the entire day, I pulled the birthday card. He caved and took me to breakfast before wasting the whole day drinking Bloody Marys and playing video games at his house. I wanted to have a pool day, but the sky was dark and gloomy, the air uncharacteristically sticky. A storm is coming, and it’s the best gift I could’ve asked for. I love monsoon season.
Now, we’re a few drinks in, and I have a couple of hours to kill before my pops comes home.
“So, what now, birthday girl? Movie? Prank phone calls?” Christian waggles his brows.
“I turned eighteen today, not twelve.” I laugh. Even though prank calls never get old.
“Okay, tough girl. Let’s go buy you a pack of cigarettes. Better yet, get a tattoo, or go hit up a strip club,” he jokes.
“Oh my God, you’re a genius!” I say, suddenly excited about the idea.
“I was joking! I don’t wanna see floppy titties. Even if I wasn’t gay, it’s the day shift.” He shudders, and I laugh.
“Not the strip club. The tattoo!” I laugh. I still have the money Pierce stashed in my bag, and I’m feeling just childish enough to spend it.
“Fuck yeah, baby girl, let’s do it,” he says, grabbing his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling an Uber. I’m buzzed.” Oh. Right.
Thirty minutes later, I’m flashing my I.D., and then I’m lying half naked on a black leather tattoo table at some shop near the strip. We figured they’d be pretty lax on tattooing drunk people, but my nerves and the drive have sobered me right up.
The guy about to tattoo me is named Dylan. He’s tall, tattooed, and lean, but gorgeous.
“Is it going to hurt? That’s a stupid question. I bet people ask you that every time,” I babble nervously.
“Yup.”
“Yes, it’s going to hurt, or yes, you get that a lot?”
“Both.”
Okay then.
I take a deep breath and tell him what I want it to say.
“Easy enough.” He nods thoughtfully. “All right, beautiful. Roll over onto your left side and let’s get this party started.” He snaps his gloves, and I feel a little relieved when I see that his own ink looks legit. Not that he does his own tattoos, but at least he has good taste.
Christian grabs the hand that’s extended above my head from his stool next to me while I clutch my shirt to cover my chest with the other hand. I hear the buzz before I feel it and I try not to jump when the needle hits the thin skin underneath my boob and near my ribs. At first, it’s not bad, but try scratching yourself in the same spot over and over. It gets raw fairly quickly.
“Fuckballs, that hurts,” I hiss.
“Such a lady.” Christian chuckles next to me.
“How long has it been? Like an hour?” I whine. Christian rolls his eyes.
“Not even twenty minutes, drama queen. What’s that from, anyway?” He nods at the words being etched into my skin.
“It’s from one of my favorite songs. And, also, one of my dad’s nicknames for me.”
I feel Dylan swipe a cloth against my ribs, and then the buzzing stops. “Hop up and check yourself out,” he says, holding out a mirror.
It’s perfect. Two lines starting right underneath my right boob written across my ribs in the prettiest, daintiest script I’ve ever seen.