My right eye twitches. I recenter myself.
“Sunscreen?” Tom asks.
“I’ll take some,” I say, so very kindly, because really, I’m not going to deny myself the opportunity to watch my worst enemy’s tortured face while I rub cream over my legs and tits.
Tom tosses the bottle over.
“Pete, my ex, always said the best form of tattoo care was sunscreen.” And most of my hands and arms and legs are covered in them, so I’m constantly reapplying.
“Pete,” Tom snarks in his weasel voice, “was he the prison tattoo artist or the junkie coke dealer or both?”
And there it is. There is an immediate activation of the fight response, especially because he never tries this shit in front of May, and I suddenly have a newfound understanding of why people are moved to extreme acts of violence.
Nico even glances over at Tom, the picture-perfect image ofconcern, thick eyebrows furrowed, full mouth pursed.
“Fuck you, Tom,” I mutter under my breath. I say it quietly and don’t scream it because I am behaving and being nice even if Tom’s adickand I’m embarrassed as hell that perfect, apparently rich and successful Nico just heard all of that.
And you know what? Petewasa coke dealer, but he is also a world-famous tattoo artist, and these are actually all really beautiful tattoos that people would pay thousands of dollars for, and I got them all for free, but Tom doesn’t deserve to know that.
Pete is also in prison now, but no one here deserves to know that, either.
“Aw, don’t be embarrassed, sis,” Tom starts.
“I’m not your sis,” I mutter a little louder.
“Everyone has trashy tattoos,” Tom continues, as if I haven’t spoken.
“They’re really nice tattoos, actually, fucker,” I answer, at the decibel right below ‘shouting,’ because he istrying me now.
“I have a Marge Simpson on my ass—” Tom tries.
“You’re comparing my work to aMarge Simpson ass tattoo?!”
“Even Nico has a bad tattoo,” he says.
“Tom—” Nico interrupts, and this isn’t okay because the last person I need standing up for me is perfect, handsomeNico, of all people, and now I’m in fight mode.
“Tell me all about yourbad tattoo, then, Nico,” I sneer.It’s on, let’s go.
“No,” he says, and the tips of his ears are turning red, which only activates me more because now it’s his turn to get embarrassed.
“It’s hilarious,” Tom says, as if no one is talking except for him, which is his default.
“It’s not—” Nico attempts a little louder.
Then we are all shouting.
“Does it say ‘Gym, Tan, Laundry’ across your ass?” I scoff.
“Oh,real original, Annie,” Nico snarls.
“‘Property of Snooki’?”
“Keep ‘em comin’, honey.” Nico’s whole body is turned towards me now, stiff and tight with anger.
“Robert DeNiro, then,” I shoot back.
“Tony Soprano, actually,” Nico jeers.
