One
Brady
“So... hot,”I groaned as sweat rolled down my forehead.
Despite the roasting ninety-degree temperature outside, I was stuck in a long-sleeved shirt.
Maybe stuck wasn’t the right word. I could technically roll up my sleeve at any time, or even wear a T-shirt.
But that meant revealing a heinous, cringe-worthy, permanent ink blob that took up a decent chunk of real estate on my forearm.
Yeah, it was a blob. I didn’t even want to call that abomination “art.”
“It’s not that hot, Daddy,” Kiara pointed out. My young daughter bounced along the street beside me in an airy blue sundress. She was clearly handling the temperature better.
“You’re right. Should I change into a dress right now, too?” I asked with a grin.
She giggled. “No! Not in the middle of the street!”
I mimed taking off the bottom of my shirt. “Nope, I’m ready to put on a dress right now. You got one for me, Kiara?”
That sent her into hysterics. The idea of her dad disrobing in public was peak humor to a six-year-old.
“I guess not,” I said, leaving my shirt on when she didn’t manifest a dress out of thin air. “I’ll keep walking around like this, then.”
Kiara gazed at my covered arm curiously. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but her attention was stolen by a toy store. She nearly pushed me into the street as she ran over to the window, ogling the huge stuffed animals and figurine sets.
I let out a mild sigh of relief. The hideous tattoo on my arm existed before Kiara was born, so she’d known about it her whole life. But now that I wanted to get it covered up, I didn’t know how to field her potential questions.
It was a permanent reminder of her alpha father, Corey. My ex.
My lying, cheating, dirtbag ex.
It was a problem of my own making. The tattoo was an ugly reminder of a drunken night six and a half years ago when Corey and I thought it was an amazing decision to get matching tattoos. We were young and dumb, as most twenty-year-olds who think they’re in love are. It seemed like a good plan at the time.
In hindsight, it was one of the worst decisions I’d ever made... second to dating Corey.
The tattoo studio had been seedy. It had reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol—or maybe that was the memory of myown drunkenness. The shop clearly cared more about money than safety. I’d signed a quick waiver, then the “artist” went ahead and started on my arm even though I clearly wasn’t sober. I counted myself lucky it didn’t get infected.
Corey pressured me to go first. Back then I was so eager to please him, I would’ve done anything he asked.
So after submitting to the pain for two hours, I was left with a shaky-handed, awful tattoo... of Corey’s name in a bright red heart.
Yeah. It wasthatbad.
To add insult to injury, Corey chickened out the second the needle touched his skin. Despite the whole thing being his idea, he weaseled out of his matching tattoo. So I was left with a permanent blob on my skin while Corey got away scot-free.
At the time, I felt sympathy for him. I figured he was a sensitive alpha, so of course he didn’t like the pain.
“Omegas are better at tolerating pain, right? Childbirth and all?” Corey had said to me with a snarky grin.
I laughed back then. But now that I knew how he treated omegas, it wasn’t funny.
As Kiara gushed over the giant stuffed animals, I rubbed my arm self-consciously, making sure it was still covered. The heat was bad, but the ugly tattoo was worse. Since my chaotic break-up with Corey two weeks ago, I’d searched desperately for an artist to cover it up.
But I was nervous. I obviously didn’t have a good track record at finding a reputable tattoo studio. None of my friends had tattoos, so asking them was out. So I took matters into my own hands. I spent hours poring over online reviews of any shops in a fifty-mile radius, and all of them were booked up for months. Who knew people were so desperate for tattoos?
I sighed, pulling down my sleeve. It felt hopeless. It wasn’tjusta tattoo to me—it represented a rocky past, and everything I wanted to leave behind. When I broke up with Corey, I wanted a fresh start. A cover-up tattoo would finally let me move on.
