“Wait,” I said, coming closer. “Not ants.” I squinted. “Letters. B. F. Did Violet put marker on you again?” Sometimes when Violet got bored, she doodled, and she liked to do it on skin with permanent marker. Both letters were intricately done, in a fine script, and the ‘B’ had a small anchor flourishing out from the ending line. The ‘F’ had a rose. Violet had done a much finer job than usual. “Does that stand for Best Friend? It’s not coming off.”
Scarlett started laughing, her ass bouncing in my face, droplets of cool water dripping on me from her hair.
“This isn’t funny. This shit’s not coming off. What did she do? Tattoo—” I couldn’t finish. It was never going to come off, I realized belatedly. I finally saw what I had missed through the chlorine haze. She had gotten two tattoos, one on each heel.BandF. Small enough to be hidden by shoes, but not small enough not to be noticed. The socks suddenly made sense. She didn’t have cold feet. She had been hiding this from me.
“Tell me that you didn’t get the initials of Best Friend tattooed on your heels, Scarlett.”
“Brando Fausti.” She blew out a shaky breath. “Think about what you’re saying. You are my best friend, but that’s not why I got them. Your initials are symbolic—like the tattoo of the ribbon on your arm. You push my feet forward. You move me with your eyes. That’s why I got them on my heels. The anchor is because you keep me grounded when I get too wrapped up in the sea of stars. The rose is what we stand for, romantically. A reminder. The beauty in life comes at a price, but a price worth paying.”
In London, I had gotten something for my time in the Coast Guard—an anchor with a skull. The anchor connecting the B was close to it, only miniature sized. “When did this happen.” I couldn’t even snap. I was breathless. Her beautiful skin was forever branded. It was a sin, like inking over gossamer wings.
“Ireland,” she said. “I never wanted one before, not until I decided I wanted something of you permanently on my body. A brand—Brando. Get it? So, I got your initials, the anchor, the rose, and that was it. All of the women got them. Well, except for the single ones. The initials the married women got were for their husbands. Eva and Layla got one too. But I—I tricked Guido. It wasn’t his fault.”
I swallowed hard, tasting the chemicals from the pool in my throat. “This is it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not—” I rubbed my finger over the B “—You’re not getting anymore.”
“No,” she said, though it wasn’t a question I had asked her. I meant it. “This is it. This is all I’ll ever want.”
I was not a nervous person by nature, but to think of what could have happened to her if something went wrong—all that shit you read about, infection, blood poisoning, all of that. For what? Two initials and symbolism?
“What do you think?” she whispered after time had gone by.
“I think,” I said slowly. “I think I should put you over my knee, but at the same time my heart is floating in my chest.”
“You want to punish me?” She didn’t sound too afraid. More eager, excited almost.
“You did this to punish me.”
“No,” she breathed out. “I wanted your name on my body.Yours.”
We stood that way until the sun on my back burned hot enough to scar my skin. She stared in the opposite direction. I stared at my initials on her heels, and then a sigh escaped my lips. Unusual. I always had total control over those too.
“Things could’ve been worse,” I said, and not only for her benefit. “Given what happened after the fucking giants. You’re insane, Ballerina Girl. Absolutelypazza. But damn if I don’t love you even more for it.”
I bit her ass cheek hard enough that she sucked in a breath before she shivered. I swooped her up, carrying her toward the lounge chairs and my beer.
“Tell me what you said to Guido after. Gabriel and Michael too.”
She threw her head back and laughed, kicking her legs in the air. “Ire!”
“Hell,” I said, and went for the whiskey instead.
Chapter Fifteen
Brando
The buck moon was full and high over the sea. Its light was so bright that it came in through our windows, bleeding along the floors, a silver tint that set all that it touched to phantom pewter.
After a couple of days in Seville, we were en route to Tenerife, our last stop. The yacht cut through the black-glass water with a dignified ease, rising and falling with the swell of waves coming at her. The vessel was built with comfort in mind. Though I could feel the crescendo of the sea beneath my feet, the craft rode easy.
Outside of the window was a different story. I could see how rough the surges were, and how she harpooned them with her sharpened bow. It was nothing to worry over. The sea was being capricious.
I sighed and rested easy in our bed.
Scarlett had fallen asleep hours before. The breath coming in and out of her nose made a quiet humming, almost disappearing in the numerous noises from the inner workings of the yacht. She slept behind me, one arm around my shoulder, one leg around my waist. A monkey attached to a tree.
