Tyed

Don't think about him.

Don't...

I hear screaming and clapping, peppered with low whistles and some gasps. I raise my head and watch as an entourage of about ten men slices through the crowd. I recognize Jesse instantly. He is tall and muscular and enjoying the attention. Dawson is walking next to him, and between them and a few more men I don't recognize is Ty.

Fuck, I've missed him.

There's a lot of commotion around the group, and I'm rooted to the ground, completely mesmerized by my gorgeous ex, who is looking healthy and happy as freaking ever, by the way.

My eyes follow the entourage. Ty is chewing gum and not making eye contact with his fans or the reporters, his face partly hidden under a baseball cap. I may be imagining this, but seconds before he disappears, he clutches the left side of his shirt, where he tatted my name, with his fist.

Just then, a gloriously stupid idea pops into my mind. It's so stupid I can't afford to think about it, because I know I'll change my mind. I turn around and race outside to the street, and head in the direction of the spot where Shane and I drank our Coco Loco and talked about Ty.

This is going to be so gloriously stupid.

***

"Dude, I'm sorry, but I'm not doing it."

Her name is Nash, and she is seriously hot. She's got thick bangs, a septum piercing and the sweetest, most innocent face a twenty-something-year-old could have. And she refuses to take my money and just do what I tell her, which is driving me mad. This is America, woman.

"Listen, I'm not going to regret it," I say with conviction, pressing both my palms together as I beg her to tattoo me. I know that if she won't, others will, but for some reason, I really like her. Plus, the place is packed and if it weren't for the early hour, she probably wouldn't even have time for a walk-in customer like me.

"Dude, check out my ten commandments. I pinned them to my wall." Nash points at the wall behind her, chuckling to herself. Sure enough, she wrote ten rules she sticks by when she gives tattoos:

1. No drunk-tatting. Come sober or don't come at all.

2. A tattoo is not a pet. It lasts forever. I do not ink clichés. If you're into the shape of infinity or an anchor on your wrist, go somewhere else.

3. I am not a translator. If you want something in Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew or any other foreign language, check your spelling.

4. You will suffer for your art. Try not to fidget and move too much. I do not tattoo movers. Sorry.

5. No tattoos of the names of boyfriends/girlfriends. You will thank me for it some day.

I don't bother reading number six. Instead, I swivel back to Nash, smiling as I spot a loophole. "He is not my boyfriend. I just want to ink his name, regardless. So there you have it."

"Nope," she says.

"Yes," I respond. "Because I swear, even if I never get back with him, I’ll still love it."

"So let me get this straight." Nash folds her arms, leaning over the counter, squinting as she tries to read me. She is all sass, yet not a pretender. I'm pretty sure that if I were playing for the other team, I'd totally be crushing all over her. "You want me to tattoo the name of your ex-boyfriend. On your body."

"That's right," I nod.

"And you're not drunk?"

I shake my head, bouncing on my feet excitedly. "Please, Nash. I know what I'm doing."

Nash is laughing hard, trying to regulate her breathing. She looks at me like I'm the craziest person she’s ever come across, which is pretty worrying, considering the fact she works in a freaking Vegas tattoo parlor. She looks around her, checking that no other tattoo artist or co-worker is watching as she bends her own rules for me.

Damn, I knew our chemistry was on fire. Shane is about to get dumped in favor of a new BFF.

"This is sick, girl. But I'm totally on board with that if you let me pick the size and the place.”

I hesitate, because in my vision, Ty will be inked across my heart, just like he did for me. But when I actually lie beneath Nash, and she has her black elastic gloves on, she curls her finger in my direction, signaling for me to flip onto my stomach.

"Tie your hair up. Like, really up," she instructs.

I do as she tells me, my heart drumming wildly. Nash picks a place right underneath my left ear and applies the stencil transfer she's made for the tattoo.

"Chest tats are very in if you're a jailbird,” she says, turning on the machine, “but I think this spot makes far more sense."

The buzzing is making my head spin but I keep it together.