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"You just like that it doesn't cover my neck."
He smiles. "Can't complain about that."
I press my forehead to his chest. "I guess I should tell you what we're doing after this."
"Besides having dinner with your parents?"
"Yeah."
"I have an appointment to get a tattoo."
He slides his hand under my chin and tilts it so we're eye to eye. "No fucking way."
"Yeah, I asked Joel for a recommendation."
Ethan laughs. "That hurts, Vi. You like his ink better than mine?"
"No." I drag my fingers over the tattoo on Ethan's chest then I start tracing the sleeve on his right shoulder for good measure. "It's up in Los Angeles."
"Hate to say it but you better get dressed." He presses his palm to my lower back. "Getting Ethan with a few butterflies."
"In your dreams."
"You want it right here." He drags his fingertips over the swell of my breast.
I shake my head.
He drags his fingertips up my inner thigh. "If you lived here you'd be home now."
"Ew." I stick out my tongue. "Tacky."
He smiles. "Guitarists do it with their hands?"
Again, I shake my head. Admitting this makes me feel even more naked, but I'm running out of time for shyness.
I'm getting this tattoo in a few hours.
I lock eyes with Ethan. "An ash tree with the dates… an in memoriam for Asher. Is it stupid?"
He presses his forehead to mine. "No, Vi, it's perfect."
Chapter 31
Violet
My heart thuds against my chest as I pull the tattoo parlor's door open. The shop's bell sounds with a gentle ring. It's much too gentle for the location. Needles jamming into skin deserves a louder, angrier bell. It deserves cymbals clanging. It deserves noise.
I squeeze my cell phone between my palms. I can do this. I can absolutely do this. Brendon, the guy who owns the shop, has a great reputation and he comes highly recommended by Joel. As little as I wish to think about Joel's body—he feels like a brother or at least a cousin—I have to admit he has nice ink.
He knows his shit.
And Brendon seems to know his shit too, at least if our email chain is any indication. He squeezed me in last minute and he busted his ass doing this mock up.
He steps out of the back room with a nod. At least he looks like the photo on the shop's website. He's tall and broad enough that his presence is imposing. The short dark hair, dark eyes, and eyebrow piercings don't hurt. Nor does the fact that every inch of him—save above the neck and past the wrists—is covered in ink.
Ethan is one step behind me. He runs his calloused fingertips over the skin on the inside of my wrist. His touch calms me. Not enough to get my heartbeat back to double digits. Not enough to make breathing easy.
But enough to keep me from throwing up.
