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Tat Brat.
I’ve sat in on Hunter’s sessions, but I never wanted ink.
Probably would’ve liked the pain, just that nothing spoke to me.
I like my scars. The memories.
Didn’t want them covered with stupid shit.
Now I know what I want.
Ernie is a middle-aged goth pixie, and she quakes in her pleather stilettos when my entrance dings the shop bell. “You got an empty chair?”
“Where’s Hunter?”
“Busy. I want a chest piece. Big. Lots of colors. Probably a few sessions.”
“Seriously? What kind of design?” She clack-walks to the counter, pulling binders as I describe my dream tat.
“Lilah in huge letters. With stars and butterflies and caramel syrup.”
“Syrup?” Her pierced eyebrows pinch.
“I’ll start the sketch.”
Ernie hands me stencil paper and goes to clear her station.
I draw LILAH in big, big letters. Galaxies of stars, flowers, and balisong knives with butterfly wings.
All the deadly sweet and beautiful things.
Prove I can be a good alpha?
I can’t wait to headshot every asshole who looks at Lilah, even thinks of Lilah, but that doesn’t make me good for her.
I’m empty except for a borrowed thread of starlight that I have to figure out how to lock down and keep in a pretty jar.
With air holes.
And, like, purple Easter grass and little cookie snacks in there.
What I offer is a shittton of nothing.
So Lilah can have me.
The whole fucking nightmare package.
I’ll put her name on my chest so she knows she owns me. Then I’ll dig in so far, she can’t breathe without sniffing oranges.
Gonna keep my Star forever.
And she’s gonna have to keep me.
FOURTEEN
LILAH
It was torture falling asleep with the ghost of Finn’s citrus and cream clinging to my sheets, but I didn’t spike another heat.
