“No,” she breathes. Then louder, sharper, “No fucking way.”
She shoves up from her stool so fast it scrapes back against the floor. Hands on her hips, chest heaving, she stares daggers at the screen, then whips around to glare at me, then Riot, then the whole damn table.
“You cheated,” she declares, jabbing a finger straight at my chest. “There is no universe where The Reaper-cussions beat Quiztopher Nolan by three points in the final round. None.”
I lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed, letting her see exactly how much I’m savoring this. “We earned it, firecracker. You said trivia was your domain. Never said we couldn’t do homework.”
“Homework?” She’s practically vibrating with righteous fury now, cheeks flushed crimson, eyes blazing under the bar lights. “You mean Riot had his phone out under the table the whole lightning round. Isawhim scrolling Wikipedia like a goddamn scholar!”
Riot throws his head back and cackles. “Guilty, Savvy. But hey...winner’s rules. No crying on trivia night.”
She spins on him like a tornado. “You’re dead to me, Riot. Dead. To. Me. No more free beers. No more invites to my house. You’re banned from my birthday forever.”
He clutches his chest in mock agony. “You wound me, darlin’. Truly.”
Savannah whirls back to me, stepping right into my space until her breasts brush my chest and her finger’s poking my sternum again. “This is unacceptable. We were up by seven going into the last round. Seven! And you,” poke “you swooped in like some smug, tattooed trivia assassin and stole it from Quiztopher Nolan.”
“Smug?” I raise a brow, catching her wrist gently and tugging her closer until her body’s flush against mine. “Baby, I’m just happy. My team won. Means I get to put my ink on you tonight.”
Her breath hitches, the competitive fire in her eyes flickering into something darker, hungrier. But she’s nowhere near done, she’s too stubborn, too fierce for that.
She leans up on her toes, voice dropping to a venomous whisper only I can hear. “Enjoy your little victory lap, Lucky. Because next Thursday? Quiztopher Nolan is coming for blood. I’m bringing color-coded flashcards. I’m bringing a goddamn PowerPoint. And when we win, that tattoo you’re so excited about? It’s going to be something *humiliating*. Like a glittery unicorn. On your forehead.”
I laugh, low, rough, the sound rumbling between us, and slide my hand to the small of her back, fingers splaying wide over the curve of her ass through her jeans. “Bring it, firecracker. I’ll wear whatever you slap on me. Long as it’s you marking your territory.”
She huffs, but the fight’s starting to bleed out of her shoulders. Her hands slide up my chest, fisting the leather of my cut, and she presses her forehead to mine for a heartbeat, just breathing hard, letting the loss sink in like a punch she didn’t see coming.
“You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters, voice still edged with frustration.
“I know.”
She pulls back, eyes still narrowed to slits, but there’s a reluctant grin tugging at the corner of her mouth now. “Fine. The Reaper-cussions can have this one. But don’t get cocky. Next week I’m ending you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Riot’s voice booms across the table again, gleeful and obnoxious. “Yo, Savvy! You gonna pay up or keep sulking? Lucky has a date with a tattoo gun and your fine ass!”
She flips him off without breaking eye contact with me. “Shut up, Riot. I’m in mourning.”
Then she turns back to me, competitive fire still smoldering but softened by that heat I know too well. “Shop. Now. Let’s get this over with before I challenge you to a sudden-death rematch right here on the bar top.”
I grin, already steering her toward the door with my hand low on her back. “Lead the way, loser.”
She elbows me in the ribs, hard, but she’s laughing through it now, the sound bright and wild and all mine, even in defeat.
We push out into the cool night air, her still muttering about “unfair advantages” and “next week’s vengeance,” me already picturing her stretched out on my table at the shop, skin bare under the bright lights, my needle steady as I mark her as mine forever.
She lost tonight. But the way she’s gripping my hand like she’s ready to drag me there herself, the way she keeps shooting me those fierce, competitive glances over her shoulder? She’s not done fighting. And fuck if that doesn’t make winning feel even sweeter.
SIXTEEN
SAVANNAH
We pullup to Black Iron Tattoo on the edge of Jackson just as the last of the streetlights slice through the early winter dusk. The small northern town is dead quiet this time of night, snow flurries drifting slow under the orange glow, the main drag mostly dark except for the diner’s neon and the faint red pulse of the tattoo shop’s sign. Lucky kills the engine.
I slide off behind him, legs still shaky from the cold ride and the sting of defeat. My cheeks burn, not just from the wind, but from the way I’m still replaying Quiztopher Nolan’s perfect streak getting snapped by The Reaper-cussions in that final lightning round. Riot’s victory yell is still echoing in my skull. Cheaters.
Lucky swings his leg over, stands, and immediately reaches for me, big, gloved hand curling around my waist, tugging me against his side to shield me from the February bite. His thumb finds the bare strip of skin where my jacket’s ridden up, warm even through the layers, and that small touch sends heat curling low in my belly despite the chill. “You still mad?” he asks, voicelow and amused, breath fogging between us as he presses his lips to my temple through my knit hat.
