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"Your sister isn't so easy to write off, is she?"
"You're not a shrink," he tsks me as he shakes his head at me. "Stop analyzing me."
I laugh. "But it's so much fun."
"Come on," Wilder rolls his eyes. "We're going to be late."
The Tattoo Shop on Park Street is a little hole-in-the-wall place, but it's clean and sterile inside. Drawings and images fill the walls as I wander around, trying to figure out which tattoo I want permanently inked into my skin.
"You pick one yet, Blondie?"
"I'm not sure what to get," I exhale. "Or where to get it."
Wilder's hand touches my back before his palm slides down my backside. He squeezes lightly. "Maybe here?"
A heated spear soars from my heart straight to my manicured garden. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
His eyes dance with delight. "You know I would."
"I'm thinking I might get something here," I point to my wrist.
"Like?"
My eyes scan the pictures until I see it. A tiny drawing in the upper right-hand corner. I run my fingers over it. "This."
Wilder nods. "Good choice."
I sit in the chair first. My palms start sweating as soon as the tattoo gun's buzzing sound fills my ears. Wilder sits beside me and grabs my right hand, distracting me. He laces his fingers with mine, and I close my eyes, willing myself to relax.
A prickling sensation spreads across my skin as the needle does its work, but I don't pay it any attention. Instead, I hone in on the way Wilder's thumb rubs the back of my hand. The feel of his knee against my hip as he scoots the chair closer. The sound of his breathing barely audible over the ringing in my ears.
"All done," I hear the tattoo artist, Travis, announce.
I open my eyes and stare down at it. A tiny bolt of lightning. "It's perfect."
"You like it?" Wilder whispers.
"I do," I grin. "Are you ready for yours?"
We trade places, and I hold Wilder's hand the same way he held mine. He decided on a forearm tattoo. He wouldn't tell me what it was, but I have a feeling it's not an inconspicuous bolt of lightning.
Red ink splatters against his skin as my eyes slide from his forearm to his face.
"Does it hurt?" I ask him.
Wilder chuckles. "Didn't you just get a tattoo?"
"I did," I laugh nervously, "but it was much smaller than whatever you're getting."
"You're going to like it."
"You should have gotten one of those bicep I-heart-mom tattoos."
"My mom would have loved that," Wilder groans.
"Really?"
"No," he answers. "She's not a big tattoo fan."
