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She smiled.
“Dinner’s on you,” she said.
6
FLASH TOOK A last swallow of her stout and put the beer glass down on the table with a definitive thunk.
“I’m done,” she said.
“After two?” Ian shook his head in playful disgust.
“You want me to spread for you later, two is my limit. I need to be awake for that.”
He shrugged. “You don’t need to be awake for it. Technically.”
Flash laughed so hard she snorted, which made her laugh even harder. The way Ian had said “technically” had hit her funny bone. She would blame the beer. Yeah, probably the beer. He handed her a napkin since she was clearly in danger of something weird coming out of her nose and she muttered a nasal “Thank you” as she pulled herself together.
“That was a horrible thing to say, wasn’t it?” he said, grinning and clearly proud of himself for making her snort-laugh. “Please don’t tell HR I said that.”
“Never.”
“I had a girlfriend once tell me during sex, ‘If I fall asleep you can keep going. I don’t mind.’ We broke up shortly after that. You okay?”
“Fine. Sorry,” she said, putting the beer glass far away from her reach. “Had a little dork moment there.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Ian said, smiling. “It’s good to see you being a dork. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Of course I have it in me.”
“You’re so much cooler than I am, it’s depressing,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and sat back in their booth at the pub. They’d both eaten so much greasy pub food there was a very good chance that the next round of sex would need to be delayed an hour or two. Sex was like swimming, Ian had said. You have to wait at least twenty minutes after eating before you get back in the pool—or the pussy—as the case may be.
“How am I cool?” she demanded. “And in what way am I cooler than you? You have money, a ski chalet, and you’re, you know, acceptable looking.”
“Acceptable? Thank you. My cock has never been harder in its life.”
“You’re welcome. Now answer the question.”
Ian looked at her over the top of his pint glass. He was an IPA man, which she could respect, although she found IPAs too hoppy for her taste.
“You have tattoos of sexy women on your biceps like a fucking sailor. And you have the punk hair. And you drive the little punk truck. And you’re a welder. Not just an artist welder, but like an actual welder. That’s cool.”
“I think you’re confusing ‘cool’ with ‘poor.’ The truck was the only truck I could afford. I weld for a living—or did—because it was the only job I could find that paid better than minimum wage. I have short hair because it’s less likely to get caught in my helmet. As for the tattoos...well, okay, those are co
ol. You got me there.”
“They are. I used to want to get tattooed but Dad would have killed me. By the time I was old enough to do it without Dad flipping his shit, I’d grown out of the desire to have one.”
“Your body is perfect. It doesn’t need ink.”
“Your body is perfect. Why did you get ink?”
“I wanted it.” She shrugged. “No other reason. Love Bettie Page. Love Rosie the Riveter. They’re my wing-women. Rosie reminds me to work hard. Bettie reminds me to play hard. They were badass before women were allowed to be badass. And that’s badass.”
“Cute team—Bettie and Veronica.”
“That’s who I was named after.”
