Skipping right over that one, I land on
Get a tattoo
The thought of someone else’s hands touching her skin and inking it makes my own skin crawl. I want to fucking body check someone.
My jaw clenches so hard I can hear my teeth grinding. Some fucking artist touching her for hours, needle to skin,watching her wince and breathe through the pain. Someone else creating something that will be on her body until the day she dies.
I think the fuck not.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up my regular guy. Well, the Blackwood regular guy. I have no idea how the fuck Penn got involved with him years ago, but Nico is fucking good. Fucking exceptional, actually. His shop has a year-long waiting list.
Need you at the house. It’s important.
Nico
This better be life or death, baby boy. I’ve got clients booked.
I’ll make it worth your time.
Yea yea yea, you fucking Blackwoods always do. I’ll be there in an hour. I gotta finish up here.
I toss my phone onto the couch and lean back, rubbing my hands over my face. If I do this, if I mark her skin myself, it crosses a line I've been trying to respect. It's one thing to help her with the other items on her list—things that are experiences, moments that fade. A tattoo is different. It's my mark on her, permanent and unchangeable.
If I put my art on her body, I won't be able to let her go. Ever.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I was never actually going tobe able to let her go. It’s just something I told myself over and over to keep me semi sane.
I already know I'm too far gone, have been since I first tasted her, but this would be different. This would be a claim, visible and lasting. A reminder every time she looks in the mirror that I was there, that I left my mark on her in the most literal fucking way possible.
An hour later, Nico is pulling up and getting out of his SUV, big ass case in hand from the trunk. He looks like he just rolled out of bed despite it being mid-afternoon.
"This better be good, Blackwood," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I had to reschedule a full back piece."
"Trust me, it's worth it." I lead him to the living room, gesturing for him to sit.
He drops his case on the coffee table and sprawls on the couch like he owns the place. His eyes catch on Reese's bucket list, and his eyebrows shoot up.
"What's this? 'Get a tattoo'?" He looks up at me with that knowing grin. "Ah, I get it now. You want me to ink your little dancer?"
My jaw tightens. "Reese wants a tattoo."
"And you called me." He nods, pulling out his iPad. "Smart move. I'm the best around. What's she thinking? Something small for her first time? Ankle? Hip? Maybe that sweet spot on the?—"
"You're not touching her," I cut him off, my voice dropping to a growl.
Nico freezes, then his face cracks into a wide grin. "Oh,this is fucking rich." He laughs, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You're really not gonna let me touch your girl, are you? After I've done every single one of your cousin's tattoos, half your fucking arm, and that entire galaxy on your chest?"
"She's not—" I start, but the lie dies in my throat. "Just fucking listen to me."
"I'm all ears, baby boy." He's still grinning like this is the most entertaining shit he's ever seen.
"I want you to teach me how to do it."
His laughter cuts off abruptly. "You want me to what now?"
"Teach me. Give me a crash fucking course in tattooing." I pace in front of him, hands clenching and unclenching. "I'll pay whatever you want."
Nico stares at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "Let me get this straight. You want me, a professional with fifteen years of experience, to teach you—a fucking hockey player with zero artistic training—how to permanently mark someone's skin? In what, an afternoon?"
