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“Us.”
She jammed her lips against mine and I gently pushed her back.
“What we have,” she whispered, “it’s special.”
“It’s really not.”
“And I won’t let your fear of commitment keep us from something special.”
“Love, we fucked once and it was average,” I said before trying and failing to guide Miss Last Night back toward the stairs.
“You’re afraid,” she gasped, pressing me back till my shoulders collided with the wall.
Looking down at her, I nodded side to side.
“Yeah,” I said. “A little.”
“You’ve been hurt. I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you.”
Downstairs I could make out amongst the voices that of an American. It was rare enough that we got clients in the shop, let alone foreigners, so it was enough to make my heart jump. Dublin Ink had been a way to find her. To call out to her wherever she was. But the time had long ago passed where I thought it was actually possible.
“Look,” I said to Miss Last Night, “today is a hard enough day for me. And you’re making it harder because you’re in the way of my whiskey. And now apparently an American is in the way of my whiskey. So if you don’t mind?”
I gestured toward the stairs. Miss Last Night listened as the American asked something I couldn’t quite make out. She sounded angry. Rian was my best guess, mostly by process of elimination. Conor already had a woman to make angry. Aurnia wasn’t American.
Miss Last Night’s face was indignant as she looked back at me.
“You’re fucking her too, huh?” she growled.
“What?”
Before I could stop her, Miss Last Night took off again toward the stairs.
“You think you can just sleep around on me?” she called back. “You think I’m just a piece of meat you can use up and then go on right to another piece of meat? You think I don’t know my worth as a woman?!”
I ran after Miss Last Night to try to avoid a scene.
“I don’t even know who she is,” I said as I jumped down two stairs at a time.
Miss Last Night snorted derisively.
“How many times have you fucked her?” she shouted.
I lost it. “I have no idea in bleedin’ hell who that bleedin’ woman—”
My words bit off when I saw who was there at the bottom of my stairs. The woman who looked up at me. The woman there at the bottom of my stairs, there in person, at Dublin Ink, there at the bottom of my fucking stairs glared at me.
The one who got away.
She glared at me. “You have no idea in bleedin’ hell who your wife is?”
