I should pull back. I should at least get vertical.
But I don't.
"When I'm working on someone's ink, I'm a part of something. I'm leaving a mark in the world. On their skin. That's forever. I get to help people channel all that shit in their guts onto their skin. There are a million reasons why people get ink. To look cool. To celebrate. To mourn. Being a part of that... it's fucking amazing."
She nods. "I wish I had that kind of passion."
"You do, Kay. The way you get when you're writing—" I nod to her purple notebook. "It's still your turn."
She lets out a soft groan. "Do I have to?"
"No. You could disappoint me."
"That's such a dad thing to say."
How about I bend you over my knee and spank you? Would that be daddy enough for you? "I'm not going to push you."
She nods as she climbs up the bed and presses her back against her pillow.
She pries open the notebook. Flips through the pages. Her eyes get dreamy. Like she's lost in her own world.
She turns the page. "Okay. This one. It's short."
"Perfect for my attention span," I offer.
Her laugh is nervous. "Maybe." Her eyes bore into mine. "Promise you won't make fun of it."
I nod.
She looks to the paper. Takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. "Another stitch.
Another time.
Another love that isn't mine.
And all the shiny people say
It's okay
You'll find another way.
But I always poke the bruise.
Spill a lie. Spin a ruse.
I could draw four aces, but, still, I'd lose."
She presses her lips together, staring at me, waiting for my response.
Something in me stirs. Something in my bones.
Fuck, I have no idea what it means.
I want to peel her open and pry her apart.
Where does she hide this ache in her heart?
How the fuck do I get my hands on it?