“—right, right,” she says. “We’ll be leaving here around six tonight. I’ll lay out your dress while you clean up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense.” She swats her hand. “I was at Saks just yesterday and found you the most beautiful Oscar de la Renta number. You’re going to look ravishing.”
I hide my annoyance with softened eyes. “Thank you. I appreciate that. But tonight is about Eben and Laurel, and I’d hate to steal the show in an Oscar piece.”
I haven’t seen the dress of course, but knowing my mother, it’s a dress meant to upstage. Sequins. Feathers. Lace. Tulle.
It doesn’t matter to her that I’m twenty-two and a college graduate, she’ll find any excuse she can to dress me up like the young, helpless daughter she still sees when she looks at me.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her brows meet as she saunters off to her room. “This piece is to die for, Brighton, and it’s absolutely perfect for tonight. Now run along. When you’re finished getting ready, you can come with me to pick up Laurel’s parents from the airport. They land around noon. I thought about sending a car service for them, but given the special occasion and the fact that our families are joining, I thought that might be a bit too impersonal.”
She disappears into her bedroom, still rambling, and I return to my room to finish my bath and figure out how I’m going to tell her that I can’t go with her to the airport.
Just the other day, I made an appointment with the local Boys and Girls Club. The last several summers, I’ve gone with my oldest brother to Third World countries under the Doctors Without Borders program. This summer, however, his wife begged him not to go since they’d just opened a new practice and were still getting it off the ground.
Rather than sit around the house all summer like a spoiled housecat, I figured I should find some local ways to give back.
Surely my mother will understand. Volunteerism and philanthropy are her biggest passions.
That and me.
I ensure the pad of gauze is still intact over my butterfly before stepping into the half-filled tub. The tattoo is not quite a day old, but already it’s healing nicely. Any pain is mild at best, hardly noticeable.
Letting the water enclose around my tense body, I reach for the soap and lather up, thinking of this morning—of Madden, specifically. And how I caught him checking me out earlier.
I’d always thought when people said they could feel someone staring at them, they were just exaggerating, but this morning I felt his eyes on me, everywhere. And when I stole a peek from my periphery, it only confirmed what I was feeling.
There’s a tightness, an electric burning in my chest that radiates up my neck and down between my thighs. My nipples harden. A molten sensation travels through me, liquid desire, wanton desperation, and I lean back, closing my eyes and imagining Madden’s steady, strong hands on my body.
And then his mouth, his tongue.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, letting my fingers slide between my thighs, rubbing where it aches as I imagine him having his way with me, doing all the things I’ve never done with anyone else.
The only sex I’ve ever known has consisted of missionary quickies on twin-sized dorm room mattresses while my roommate was at class.
And the occasional oral sex, which has never been anything to write home about in my experience as both giver and receiver.
But something tells me one romp in Madden’s bed and I’d never want to leave.
The sound of my bedroom door opening pulls me out of my moment in record time. I’m guessing it’s my mother, coming in to lay my new dress across my bed. If I know her, and I do, she’ll help herself to my closet next, selecting the perfect heels and clutch to accessorize the look.
I finish my bath unfulfilled, the moment ruined.
And maybe it’s pointless to torture myself with these little reveries anyway when there’s no chance on earth they’ll ever come true.
Six
Madden
* * *
Friday nights at Madd Inkk are usually insane. There are almost always drunks who wander in from the bars down the street, some of which become combative when we have to turn them away. There’s always at least one person nursing a broken heart, pleading with tear-filled eyes for us to squeeze them in and cover up the initials on their back, wrist, chest, ass, whatever. And on the flip side, there are usually at least two couples who come in wanting his-and-hers tattoos, permanent wedding bands, or the like.
A group of eighteen-year-old girls giggle from the back room, where Pierce is currently doing their tongues. They all wanted matching piercings for graduation, and they all decided on tongues.
Two of my guys are working on clients now and Missy is snapping her gum at the front desk. I check the time. 9:07. My nine o’clock is late. Fifteen more minutes and I’m going to have to make them reschedule.
One of the girls in back screams. Her friends laugh.
“Missy, we need more ice,” Pierce yells.
The bells on the front door jingle as Missy scampers to the back with a fresh cup of pebble ice. And when she returns, she greets a long-legged woman with icy blonde hair who makes me do a double take.
From this angle, I’m almost certain it’s Brighton. And for some reason, the mere idea of her standing in my shop again sends my heart into overdrive.
But Missy points at me.
And the woman turns my way.
She is abso-fucking-lutely not Brighton.
Not even close.
The blonde smiles at me and even from across the room, I spot the black between her teeth.
Stay away from meth, my friends.
She gives me a wave, the bottom of her cropped, vintage Van Halen top rising to expose a doughy midriff. And when she walks toward me, her mini-skirt rides up, barely covering her ass.
I need to get a fucking grip.
The woman had blonde hair. That’s it. And instantly my mind chose to believe she was Brighton.
“Madd, your nine o’clock is here,” Missy says.
“I’ll be with you in a sec,” I say to the woman. Her smile fades and Missy hands her a clipboard with paperwork. I head back and prep my station, waiting a few minutes to give her time to fill out her forms. When I return, it’s a quarter past nine. Anything we don’t finish by ten-thirty is going to require a second appointment. Returning to the front, I rub my hands together. “You ready?”
The woman hands me her clipboard and I go over everything as I walk her back.
“I’ve heard good things about this place,” she says in a raspy voice that instantly ages her. “Been waiting a long time to get in with you.”
“You have your design picked out?” I ask.
She pulls out her phone and taps her fake nails against the screen a few times before turning it toward me.
“It’s the Sanskrit symbol for faith,” she says.
I try not to act as surprised as I am. Would’ve pegged her for more of a red-rose-on-the-ankle or Tasmanian-devil-on-the-shoulder type.
“All right.” I take her phone and place it on my tray before grabbing my stencil gear. “Just going to trace this, make a stencil, and we’ll try it out before we ink you. You have a location in mind?”