She’s quiet for a while. I watch the wheels turning in her beautiful head. “We d-don’t have to rush.” Her dark red brows draw together. “Now that you m-mention it, I-I’d rather not rush. You know––so I have s-some time to p-ssych myself up.”
Smiling now as an idea percolates. “You want to knock off another item on your list?”
A slow smile grown of her face to match mine. “Depends…w-which one?”
“Number four.”
“The tattoo.” She thinks. She thinks some more. “O-Okay…You know s-somebody good?”
“The best. The artist who did mine.”
Five minutes later I’m strolling into my buddy Astrid’s shop with the girl I’m falling for.
Chapter Eighteen
Dora
I. Am. In freaking pain.
“It stings. T-This little thing s-stings,” I whimper as we amble down the Santa Cruz boardwalk. There’s a lot to take in. The rollercoaster, the eclectic mix of people, the gorgeous man walking next to me. The setting sun casts a romantic glow on everything. Lit by the late-afternoon sun, he looks like a gilded angel. A fallen one, of course.
So much for the mark of courage written in cursive letters on the side of my ribcage. Beauty in Bravery. If words have power, then I want those to be mine.
“Y-You d-didn’t warn me it would sting this badly.”
“You want me to kiss it better?”
The mere thought of Dallas’s mouth anywhere on my body makes me hot all over. And the babe thing again…it does not go unnoticed and untallied. My face flames for the millionth time, and he grins wickedly. Despite the self-inflicted pain of the tattoo, I can honestly say this is the most fun I have ever had. He’s the most fun I’ve ever had.
A homeless guy pushing a loaded shopping cart strolls past us and tips his head at Dallas in greeting. Dallas greets him back. Since we left the shop, it’s happened a number of times with some random people.
“How c-could you s-sit t-through all that pain? It m-must’ve taken hours to do that.” I point to his left arm, the one covered in the intricate black, white, and gray detailed work that apparently Astrid is known for throughout the world.
Did I mention that Astrid is beautiful as well as talented? Yeah, if she didn’t treat him like a pesky little brother I’d be seriously burning with jealousy right now.
“I didn’t do it all at once. I sat for her…” he looks off, squinting, “about four times. Countless hours.”
“I like it…w-why the chain m-mail?”
“To protect my heart,” he says, smirking. But I see past the smirk, past the pain. I see him––the lonely boy always left behind. The one under the beautiful veneer that no one bothers to look past. I don’t think he’s kidding.
He tips his chin at a bar we’re currently standing in front of. Santa Cruz Mountain Brewing. “You want to put another check on that list? It’ll take the sting away almost as well as my mouth.”
Red. I’m very red again. He misreads the blank look on my face as reluctance when in truth I’m in middle of a very graphic fantasy.
“I’ll take care of you, Kitten,” he murmurs. “I’m not drinking.”
Which surprises me. “For real?”
“Wingman––remember? Besides, I’m laying off the sauce for a while. I haven’t had anything to drink since the funeral…even longer before that.”
I’m curious as to why, but I don’t pursue it. The heavy conversation in the car was enough for one day. The bar is cute and quaint, with a rustic hipster vibe. Tiny Christmas lights strung up on the ceiling give it a cozy appeal.
We take a seat at the bar topped with copper and the bartender, a big burly guy in a plaid shirt with a really long beard that’s tied into a ponytail, comes over. I guess you could call it a ponytail. It’s got colorful rubber bands running down the length of it.
“IDs please,” he asks us. Dallas and I had them over and he nods. “What’ll you have? The IPAs are on the board.”
Behind him is a chalkboard full of colorful names. “I’ll h-have U-Unicorn Tears please,” I tell him.
“You?” the burly bartender says to Dallas.
“Just a Coke for me. Gotta watch out for my girl tonight.”
My girl. Lord have mercy on my fragile heart. If he’s trying to get me to not fall for him, he’s failing. I glance over with a tight smile and find him as cool and casual as the flip side of the pillow. I can play it cool too. I can be super cool. Because hell will freeze over before I embarrass myself again.
The bartender sets the tall frosty glass in front of me. Then Dallas’s Coke. Raising my glass, I say, “To…” I take a deep breath, “to friendship and tattoos and…and to r-road trips.”
“To us,” he says, watching me closely, the ghost of amusement hanging around his mouth.