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“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you. But I’m good with being alone. I mean, I don’t mean you’re not welcome to sit with me, just that being alone is kinda my default.”
“Right.” She rubs her hand over her bump. “I thought that too—until I met Fee.”
I stare resolutely at my hands, palms flat against the table. If I let her see my face, I’ve got a feeling she’ll figure out exactly where my thoughts are heading. Sonnie.
Her grin says everything she thankfully doesn’t. “You have anything planned today?”
“I was just about to swing by Sonnie’s, I mean the tattoo shop.” I don’t mention that sitting in Clua Coffees is my second detour of the morning. I’m not even comfortable admitting that little truth to myself. I’m not sure where we go from this morning. How it would even work. There was no mention of ... well, anything. My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek. Maybe I imagined the connection.
“You gonna get a new tattoo?”
I blink away my mess of thoughts and refocus on her pretty face and the curl that’s escaped the knot on the top of her head.
Her gaze drops to my tattooed arm then shifts to the minimalist triangle between my boobs just visible above the slouchy neckline of my black tank. “Needles. Permanent marks.” Her laugh is light, her face devoid of the sadness from before. “I’ve never been brave enough.”
I blow air into my cheeks and nod as I let them deflate. Too late—Sonnie’s already marked me in more ways than one it appears.
I can’t decide if it’s Flynn’s Clua luck, or a serious case of Clua bad luck. There’s no way this can work.
Yeah, thanks for that, Flynn.
Giggling children.
Not the sound you’d expect to hear through the door of a tattoo parlor. I double check the sign above the door. Clua Ink. The old school painting on the window of a giant tattoo gun cements it. Maybe I’m hearing things.
I’d be lying to myself if I claimed that the breath I just took wasn’t a nervous one as I reach for the polished bronze handle. He told me to swing by when he left me this morning. I need to get this tattoo finished regardless of what may or may not have changed between us this morning.
A bell tinkles above my head when I step through the glossy black door and a gaggle of paint splattered faces snap around to check me out from where they’re camped out on the black and white checkered floor.
I knew I wasn’t hearing things.
“Hey, guys.” I wave lamely.
“Sonnie!” A little girl with long, jet-black pigtails yells at the top of her lungs. “He’s on diaper duty.” Her little upturned nose wrinkles. The other kids snicker but return their attention to the massive sheet of card they’re painting.
I recognize the stylized swirls and dotted patterns immediately. Sonnie’s ab tattoo.
“What are you guys painting?” I drop into a squat beside a boy who can’t be more than five years old. “It’s beautiful.”
“Sonnie drew it for the festival. He’s Miss Desandre’s friend.” Round and innocent, the little boy’s chocolate brown eyes crease proudly. “They’re in the back.”
Something heavy and ugly gnarls it’s way vice-like around my insides. It takes a whole lot of effort not to let it show on my face. I shouldn’t do it. I suck my lips in to stop the words tipping my tongue from escaping. “Friend friend? Or girlfriend friend?”
I did it. I’m an awful human being.
“Friends. Definitely just friend friends.”
Already cringing at the unexpected female voice with a strong Cluan lilt, I glance in the direction it came from. Busted. I’ve so been busted interrogating a kid.
I’ve never sucked more.
“Oh. Hey.” I straighten from my crouch and tug down at the frayed edges of my denim cutoffs. Unlucky. Clua is definitely unlucky. “I—erm. Sonnie. I was looking for—I can see you guys are busy.” I take a step backwards towards the door. “I just—”
Black hair pulled into a half-assed braid over her shoulder, the woman gives me a contemplative once over before her feline blue eyes finally scrunch with her wide smile. “I’m Rylie. Sonnies friend friend. And you must be Stan, Sonnie’s told me all about—”
“What the fu—frick do you feed this little guy? I just about—” Sonnie stops in his tracks on the other side of the small reception area, the double doors behind him swinging closed against his back. Want. Need. And finally, confusion flashes in his surprised stare. “Stan, hey.”
Want. Need. More want—and a whole shock-full of ... broodiness? steal my ability to string any sort of sentence together.
