“If I may say so, it sounds like your husband is a good influence. As long as you don’t actually hear or see things…I wouldn’t be worried. I mean,I wouldn’t tell other people about it, but I wouldn’t be worried,” she says, slightly less smirky this time. “Our loved ones want what is best for us, and someone who loves you as much as it sounds like your husband did would want you to be happy and to find love.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“But never from a kink therapist which, you have to admit, legitimizes it,” she says, smiling at her own joke.
I laugh at the absurdity of this session, annoyed at myself for putting it off so long. “I can see why Parker really likes you.”
She smiles and taps her notebook. “Thank you. I can see why she likes you, too.”
We finish out the hour with a couple of action items for me. On my way out I pass Jake in the waiting room, and….I’m not surprised to see him here. He’s wearing his usual black biker boots, skinny black jeans ripped at the knee, soft layers of black tunic, and several silver and leather pieces that set off his style. He stands up and gives me a hug, which is weird and unexpected and warm all at once.
“So, does everybody go to Riley?” I ask as I pull away, checking him out. Fuck, he’s tall.
Jake shrugs. “Only the cool kids.”
See? Therapy didn’t suck after all.
You’re not wrong, my love.
Maybe it’s time I show Everett what he’s missing.
12
Everett
I hate it when people ignore my sign. It’s very clearly worded in large font right on the front door.
Art + Pain
Owner: Everett Masterson
Things my queer ass will not tattoo:
Walk-ins
Assholes
Genitalia
Eyelids
Eyeballs
Palms
Soles of your feet
Bigoted symbols or slurs*
*I will happily tattoo a homophobic slur on your sorry ass, but I promise you will regret both the experience and the result.
At least once a day, like clockwork, some dumbass blows right by the sign and asks me to do one or more of those things.
And right now, I’m looking at another one. He’s tiny as fuck with delicate limbs and pretty, tan skin with thick Harry Styles–type hair. He’s wearing huge sunglasses, a pink hoodie cut into a crop top, white jean cutoffs so short you can see the little pocket liner past the frayed edge, and cute little white lace-up tennis shoes with no socks.
He also has Troye Sivan’s lips, but that doesn’t really matter because he’s tilting his head sideways to read my sign, sucking on a Blow Pop, about to break one of my rules. Sure enough, he pushes through the door into my small, well-ordered establishment, setting off the bell and acting like he owns the place.
Not today, tiny Satan.
