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"Yeah?"
She nods yeah. "And he sits, pulls me into his lap. He's wearing jeans and I'm in a cute dress. No bra. No panties. He peels the dress down my chest. Asks if I want someone to see. If I want to get caught. If I—"
"Yeah. Right." Fuck, I'm going to come right here.
She snaps out of her trance. Blushes, suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah… you get the idea."
Fuck, do I get the idea.
She turns away from me. Stares at her cup of coffee as she takes a timid sip. "So, uh…"
"Silver."
"Silver?"
"Your hair. You changed it so—"
"Yeah." She stays at that one-hundred-thirty-five degree angle. "I was going to a lot of parties. Drinking a little too much. Flirting a little too much. Hooking up a little too much."
"You were fucking guys?"
"Not fucking them, but…"
"Working on your mission."
She blushes. "No. More… making out. Or hand stuff. When I drank too much. I thought it would make me feel wanted. But it didn't. It made me feel used."
"Did anyone push you?"
"No. It was more… it was supposed to be fun, right? But it wasn't. So I stopped telling myself it was. But when I looked in the mirror, I saw this girl everyone thought was a dumb, drunk slut."
"Yeah."
"So I cut it. To something more stylish."
"And went silver?"
"Yeah. Guys don't get it."
Maybe I don't get it, but I like it. "It's hot. In a more classy way."
Her blush deepens. "Thanks."
"It does suit you. More than the platinum."
"You're treading dangerous ground." She shakes her head. "You should know better."
I chuckle. "Probably should."
She turns so we're parallel. Then toward me. "Did you ever feel like that?"
"Like what?"
"Empty? Used? Like you were supposed to get more out of a fuck than you did?"
"I don't know," I say. "I've never… got more out of it."
She nods with understanding. "Isn't that lonely?"
"Sometimes."
"How long has it been?" She refills our cups. "Since you…"
Last time was the night of the incident. "About five weeks."
"That's awhile," she says.
"For you?"
"There were two guys after Sean. The last was July."
It's been awhile for her. Or maybe that's normal. Maybe she prefers not to let random guys stroke her to orgasm.
Fuck knows I don't want random guys touching her.
Which is some hypocritical bullshit, sure, but I don't care. I don't want anyone else touching her.
My cock refuses to quiet.
I try to reason with the fucker. Remind him Luna is Daisy's best friend. My current roomie.
The only person who doesn't see me as a piece of shit.
I need that.
Not that my cock cares.
My thoughts keep slipping back to her.
As we finish our coffee, bus our tables, walk the rest of the way to the shop, dance around what we're both thinking—
She's actually talking about makeup.
And I'm actually nodding like it's interesting.
Like I'm not thinking fuck, I want that lipstick on my neck.
Fuck, I want those nails on my back.
Fuck, I want my name on your lips.
Fucking cock.
No matter what I offer the damn thing—another woman, a threesome, any sick, twisted porn out there—it stays on Luna.
The other woman in my fantasy becomes her.
Two third disappears.
The gang bang loving school girl is Luna in a plaid skirt, begging me to come on her tits. No sign of the gang.
Just a schoolgirl awaiting the professor's punishment.
Or a secretary begging to serve her boss.
Or a tough as nails lady cop ready to interrogate a suspect by any means necessary.
By the time we get to the shop, I'm on fire. The air conditioning fails to help. Even that miserable music Forest likes warms me further.
I motion for Luna to wait. Move into the office, alone. Copy the mock-up.
Try, hard, to focus on the details.
Her favorite lyrics. Some song about a girl who's a wildfire, who people love at first, then get tired of.
Along with a forest set ablaze.
I mocked it up the day she asked for it. Even though she was sixteen and Daisy would kill me if I gave her a tattoo.
It was perfect for her.
It needed to come to life.
I guess that's a hazard of the job. I see someone; I wonder if they have ink, wonder if it suits them or someone else or who they want to be.
Like Holden with danger is sweet.
Or Dad with the lyrics he thinks I don't know about.
Or my Latin quote.
ex favilla nos resurgemus
From the ashes we rise.
Shit, that fits. That reminds people of who they are.
There are plenty of people who get something because it's cool. Because it's who they wish they were.
Like the guy yesterday with the dragon backpiece. He wants to be a tough guy, but he's not, and the ink only makes it more obvious.
It's his life, his body, his business.
Sure, I tried to convince him to soften it, to twist it into something that better fit his look and disposition, but that wasn't what he wanted.
Whereas this…
