Page 50 of PS: I Hate You
I let out a strangled shriek. After raising his eyes for a quick scan of my body, Dom goes back to reading.
You’ve wanted a tattoo since you were sixteen. It’s time to commit, Magpie. Your life is only so long.
Dom clears his throat, and the hint of emotion on his part slows my descent into complete panic. He continues.
Dom, I know you think tattoos are a permanent, often unsightly mistake…
I choke on a surprised laugh because, damn, I’ve heard the man say exactly that.
Josh knows us both. Too well.
…but you’re going to get one. Because I’m asking you to. Hear that, Maddie? Dom’s getting one.
Are you going to let him show you up?
“Fuck you, Josh!” I shout at the paper in Dom’s hands.
And I swear I spy a twitch at the corner of my companion’s mouth. Like the bastard wants to smirk at me.
Does he think I’ll back out, too?
Once you have your ink, take a pic for me. Then ask Reggie where to spread my ashes.
Oh yeah. That’s the other thing. He’s sworn not to reveal the location until his needle has touched your skin.
You kids have fun! Take lots of pictures!
Love,
Josh
“I honestly didn’t think he could piss me off anymore,” I growl. “But this?” I wave a frantic hand across the street at the waiting tattoo shop with its green neonOPENsign bright even in the midday light.
Dom carefully folds the letter, tucks it into his back pocket, and steps up to the curb, ready to cross the street.
“You’re doing it. You’re getting a tattoo.” They aren’t questions, merely snarled accusations I lob at him.
He glances over his shoulder, one black brow curving upward. “Gonna let me show you up?”
Then the devil smiles before glancing both ways and jogging across the empty street.
Anger seethes in my chest as I follow him.
Of course I follow.
Josh knows me.
Despite hurrying on ahead, Dom waits for me outside the shop, and he holds the door open when I reach his side. With another glare, I stalk into the space and bite down on my gasp.
It’s just so…cool.
The floor is a dark polished wood covered in intricately patterned rugs. The walls are a collage of colorful art pieces, framed and hung in an attractive disarray. A waiting area full of wingback chairs sits off to the left, beside two floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with worn books.
A slim white man with ink designs crawling up his neck sits behind a high counter, and over his shoulder I spy a Black woman with just as many illustrations on her skin bent over a buff bearded man’s shoulder. Her hands hold a buzzing tattoo gun as she sketches a flaming skull into the man’s tan skin.
“Welcome to Ink Ever After,” the guy at the desk says with an easy smile. “How can I help you?”
All my righteous fury fizzles in the face of reality, and I glance to Dom for guidance. Then immediately chide myself for relying on him in any way.