“No ink?” Tripp glanced over the work, eerily reminiscent of that solo cup pattern from the eighties.
“Blacklight ink. It’s usually invisible.” Rick clicked the button on the flashlight, and a painful-looking light made everything go high contrast save for a half-formed design glowing over the skin.
A fleeting memory of scales on a hand, drunken dancing, the club… An email sitting in his inbox he didn’t want to watch. He had Dray. That memory would go away. He’d stop pining, wondering what became of him.
“Oh, do a lot of those?”
“On club-scene kids. Yeah.” Rick continued doodling, distracted by the art. He clicked it off and continued his work. “Also good for stealth tattoos.”
Tripp nodded slowly, mind still stuck on those gorgeous scales. And before he could ask further, he shook his head and Dray stepped out, hoodie bunched up and eyes narrowed. “Great for doodling, too.”
“Doodling?” Tripp offered his arm, and Dray frowned at it and huffed before reservedly taking it.
“Scribbling all over your body like a damn bathroom stall.” Rick grumbled, and Dray gave him the finger.
They waved goodbye as Tripp envisioned a particular bathroom stall, an omega in the throes of lust. He shook the thought from his head again. “Where to?”
“I don’t have a car, so you’ll have to drive.” Dray flashed his phone, and they headed for his car to the shittiest little putt-putt golf place ever.
“Golf, huh?”
“They never change the oil in the fryers. The corn dogs taste like heaven.” Dray tilted his head back and made a gargling, drooling noise.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Tripp shook his head, and they made it to his car, slid in, and were off into the wild beyond.
Chapter Eight
Dray
“Important email?” Dray glanced over his food.
Tripp had bought him so many corn dogs. He really did have an alpha’s protective instinct, the good kind. And he was sweet, thoughtful, and despite him staring at his email like a nervous college kid waiting for his grades, attentive. He listened, and that was a lot.
“S-something like that. Apologies.” Tripp pushed his phone back into his pocket before handing Dray a wristband for a round of golf. They stuck the Tyvek paper bracelet on, a dull white thing with no markings. “So, golf? Are you any good at it?”
“No, but that’s not the point.” Dray chomped down on a crispy bullet of meat, bread, and calories with a hum of delight. The oil had history, and all of the flavors overwhelmed the mediocre chicken-meat frozen corn dog.
Tripp bit into his. “I haven’t played it since I was a kid.”
“What was that like?”
“I caught the putter on the fake grass, and the owner made my dad pay for the damage when it ripped up, and when we went back months later, they’d still not fixed it.” Tripp huffed. “Milked my parents for over a hundred bucks and scarred me for life.”
“You seem to have gotten over it. Both parents in the picture?” They’d never really talked about family, aside from Tripp and his father having a complicated relationship.
“Yeah. Dad’s a rattler, Mom is an emerald tree snake. They do the whole country club bullshit. I have four siblings. I’m the youngest.” Tripp shrugged and took another bite of his corn dog. He seemed to not hate it, so there was that. “You?”
“My omega father comes around from Florida once or twice a year. He’s an indie. Dunno what my dad was… Runs in thefamily, I guess.” Dray shrugged and took another bite, freezing when Tripp reached out with a napkin to wipe a smear of mustard away from his lip. “Thanks.”
“Everyone has it differently.” Tripp didn’t seem to mind the backstory.
“Lots of stepdads. I won’t repeat the cycle.” Dray kept himself quiet and didn’t look at Tripp after the admission.
“Makes sense.” Tripp took another bite. “I went to UCF for college, computer sciences, startups, and all that. How’d you get into tattooing?”
“I was an artist growing up and signed up for an apprenticeship when I turned eighteen. Kirk took me in and showed me the ropes. I had real potential. Worked as a piercer for a while. That was three years ago.”
“Oh, so you’re three years younger. You just turned twenty-one when that happened, didn’t you? Finally got the right to drink and then wham.” Tripp huffed and shook his head. “Sorry.”
