Yes please.
I’m all for you filming your own ‘Guys Gone Wild’ type video.
Who needs a bucket when we’re friends with Wyatt James? Beth would totally ask her husband to spray them all down with one of those fire hoses.
Firemen—more men in uniform…
You might want to check your chin—you have some drool going on.
Not wanting Dex to think I’m checking him out—I mean I am, but I don’t need him knowing it—I shift my focus to the ink decorating his right arm.
The short sleeve of his shirt prevents me from seeing where enlarged stars of the American flag start, but I can see where they wrap around his arm to his elbow while the stripes of Old Glory continue down to his wrist.
The head of an eagle follows the contour of his shoulder, displayed proudly on the front of his bicep. With his arm bent to rest on his leg, I can see the frog skeleton climbing up the inside of his bicep on the other side, which he got in remembrance of a fallen teammate.
He rolls his wrist, the joint cracking from the movement. Whoever did his artwork in Virginia is extremely talented, the flag waving and rippling like it’s blowing in the wind with the sinew of his forearm.
Every time I’ve seen Dex—which hasn’t been a whole lot in the last few years except through a computer screen—he’s had more added.
I catch a flash of something inside the ink, and I reach out and grab his arm as if on instinct. Smoothing my thumbs over the area, I take in the pirate’s hook piercing the flag. My gaze snaps to his even as my thumbs trace the most notable feature of Captain Hook.
“What?” A devilish smirk quirks Dex’s lips when he meets my gaze. “You couldn’t be the only one to bear their nickname.”
I suck in a breath when he ghosts his thumb over the miniature silhouette of Tinker Bell at the top of my collarbone and the words She flies by her own wings trailing like fairy dust at an angle down the line of the bone.
My body is all Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba like it’s the beginning of The Lion King, and my heart is beating faster than fairy’s wings while my characters are screaming, He’s touching us, he’s touching us!
I’m in trouble here. Big, big trouble.
Neither one of us has removed our hands, both our touches lingering. The part of me that used to believe I loved Dexter Stone is belting out the words to “Part of Your World” better than Ariel.
But the older, cynical part of me shuts that side up as effectively as the sea witch who stole the mermaid’s voice.
All at once, Dex blinks away the glaze in his eyes, drops his hand as if burned, and clears his throat.
“Alright, Tink.” The change that comes over him as he straightens in his seat is staggering. “Tell me what’s been going on”—he holds up a finger, stopping the lie of ‘Nothing’ before I can utter it—“and don’t even think of leaving anything out.”
A puff of air escapes as I squish the pillow into me. I don’t want to have this conversation. I’ve avoided it with everyone else, but the steely look in his eyes tells me that ship has sailed like the Jolly Roger.
“Didn’t Justin tell you?” I hedge, avoiding the topic as long as possible.
“Yes.” He nods. “But I want to hear it from you. I have a feeling you haven’t admitted to everything.”
Damn him.
“Let’s hear it, Tink.”
I want to tell him about what has been going on as much as Merida wanted to get married—as in I don’t. Nobody likes to be confronted with their stupidity, and I can admit, at least to myself, that withholding information was dumb. In my defense, I spent my entire life having my brothers and Dex overprotect me, emphasis on the over. I didn’t want to let some creep make me lose the independence I’ve cultivated the last handful of years.
Even if it could cost you your life, Madz?
I hate when I have to admit Jiminy raises a valid point.
Slumping against the pillows behind me, I blow out a breath and pull on my big girl panties. This princess may not need Prince Charming to save her, but a swashbuckling pirate could come in handy.
“It started out innocently enough, little gifts sent to my PO box, and at first I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Why not?” Dex’s tone is hard, more command than question.
“I’ve gotten things from readers before. It’s one of the reasons I have the box.”
“What happened to make you think these…gifts”—he struggles with the word—“were different than the others?” The lack of judgment I hear makes it easy for me to continue.
“They started to get too personal, too Maddey McClain and not Belle Willis.”
“Tell me about the progression.”
Is it wrong that I think this whole detective vibe he has going on is hot?
“First it was about once a month. Then every few weeks. Eventually they stopped coming to the box, and instead something would show up at Espresso Patronum or The Steele Maker.” It was a little scary to receive packages when I was writing at Lyle and Kyle’s coffee house and the gym where the fighters train.
“What about the cops?”
“We filed a report.” See? I’m not a complete moron. “Dad called in a few favors since it’s technically not his jurisdiction, but all the packages turned out to be dead ends.”
“What about Justin and Paul?”
“Same thing. One, it’s not their jurisdiction, and two, neither of them are detectives.” It’s my turn to stop the next question. “I’m pretty sure Jamie has some of his security detail trying to find out what they can.”
“Sammy’s husband?”
I nod.
“Okay.” He inhales deeply, and I shamelessly watch the way his chest expands, the shadow of the Budweiser tattoo showing through the cotton.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Dex’s voice breaks me from my musings. “First, I want to see the one that got sent here.” He points down, indicating my home. Again, I should be focusing on the seriousness of the conversation, but instead I’m captivated by how realistic his tattoo is.
What? I have a thing for ink. Don’t judge me. Plus, remember, I told you it’s been a long time. And Dex? Well, he’s pretty much my OG fantasy.
Yes, lick that ink!
Lick it?
Why not? Wouldn’t you?
Well… *shrugs with a nod* Yeah, you’re probably right, I would.
It’s not even Thursday. It’s like a bonus.
Tattoo Thursday is my favorite day of the week.
“Tink.” There’s a hint of amusement bleeding into his tone. He may not know what I’m thinking about, but he’s well aware of how easily I squirrel-brain.
My cheeks puff out with a frustrated exhalation and I drop my head to the back of the couch, peering up at him through my lashes.
Listen up, universe—you and I are about to have some words, because this shit just isn’t funny anymore.
There is not a color-coded to-do list big enough to help me manage my fucked-up life.
Creepy stalker whose identity and actual end goal we cannot figure out? We’ll put him in red.
Irrational guilt that likes to creep in from time to time due to breaking a good man’s heart? Blue for that one.