I cross my arms over my chest and study him, taking note of how his ink is healing.
“What game?”
His eyebrows arch up, like he’s surprised that I asked. “Speed Demons,” he says. “You drive a race car through hell, and all these little red demons with pitchforks try to get you.”
I grunt out a laugh, but I’m not sure what to say.
Drew scrunches his face up and kind of turns it to the side. “Do you want to play?” he asks, then shakes his head quickly. “Naw. Never mind.”
Fuck, he’s adorable. There’s just something about his smile that gets to me.
“You’re good at pinball,” I say.
He stares at me, then realizes that I mean that as a question. “Yeah, I am. I’m not amazing, but I’m pretty good.”
I nod toward the machine I’m at. “I’ll play you at this.”
Drew’s smile lights up, which gives me a warm sense of satisfaction. I stretch my arms up over my shoulders, sore, and then slam a few quarters into the machine.
“You first,” I tell him as I lean back against the brick wall.
Drew glances at me. “Do you have a high score on this machine?”
I cock up half a smile. “Not yet. They just got this. The owners change the games out pretty regularly.”
Drew jerks his head, searching around the open space. “Damn it,” he whispers. “They don’t have Speed Demons. Must have gotten rid of it already.”
“Sorry, kid.” I’m not sure what to say, so I nod toward the bar in the back. “Let me buy you a shot.”
He’s come all this way, after all. But when I start to walk back, Drew holds up his hands. “No, I’m good,” he says. “It’s okay, just disappointing.”
I nod, then watch silently as he takes his turn at the game. The kid’s quick, and he drags the turn out, making good work of it and racking up points.
His butt wiggles while he plays, the round curve bouncing back and forth, and he lets out these little surprised noises sometimes.
Fucking adorable.
I wonder, like I have been this past week, what his life is like. He’s always a little hesitant when he approaches me, but he’s persistent, too, and not shy. I think he’s just trying to be respectful, and I appreciate that.
Hell, I don’t even know where he lives. Mack could have left a kid anywhere, the way he got around. I’ll probably never see Drew again, not after I finish that ink, but it still feels wrong somehow that I don’t know the first thing about him.
The ball finally sinks, ending his turn. Drew steps back, smiling. “Actually,” he says, “can I get you a shot?” He gestures to his ink. “To say thanks. This tattoo looks brilliant. It makes me happy every time I look at it.”
I stare at him without answering. I make a fist, squeeze it as I think, and then sigh as I accept what I’m about to do.
“I live a couple of blocks from here,” I tell him. “If I dig, I imagine I’ll find some old photos of Mack. You interested?”
Drew straightens up. “Yeah, definitely,” he says, nodding rapidly. “Wow. That’s really nice of you.”
I grind my jaw. “Sure.” Then I nod for him to step aside.
The kid might want to get soft, but I’d rather just kick his ass at pinball and get it over with.
* * *
After twenty minutes and losing a hell of a game of pinball, I let Drew into my house, Grace growling and rolling at our feet. “I don’t have people over very often,” I grumble, then gesture vaguely to the living room. It’s a mess, with books and beer bottles on the old wooden coffee table, both the lampshades crooked, and Grace’s shredded toys scattered about.
A mess, but at least it’s not a fucking mess.
