“What the heck happened?” she asked again.
I was about to invent some bullshit excuse when the auburn-haired guy spoke up.
“Your friend couldn’t keep her eyes off me, and then she clocked that sign,” he said with a wry grin.
“I, I was not,” I snapped back. “I just can’t believe someone would have such blatant disregard for the rules. You were smoking.” I gestured toward the sign. “It clearly says no smoking.”
Not bad for a lie pulled straight out of my ass, all to spare myself a little humiliation.
“So you read the sign and then decided to run into it?” he taunted.
Shit. He saw straight through my lie. He had dismantled my logic in seconds, all while looking at me with that stupid, smug, beautiful face.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, scrambling for a way out, when he leaned in. He closed the space between us and gently placed my jar of pickles into my hand. In a smooth, breathy voice I could feel against my ear, he said, “See you around, Pickles.”
My body shuddered. My breath hitched, and I am pretty sure an audible gasp escaped me.
His voice lingered, the sensation rippling through my entire body. He flashed a wicked smile, winked, lit another cigarette, and then casually disappeared from view.
“That was the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen,” Hannah blurted out.
Right. Hannah. I had almost forgotten she was there. I was still in a daze.
“No way. He’s a jerk,” I said, rubbing my cheek.
“So does that mean I can call dibs?” she asked, flashing her signature mischievous grin.
“Too bad. I’m already talking to someone,” she continued. “Looks like Saint Maria’s bad boy is all you, Boo.”
Later, I would learn that Saint Maria’s bad boy had a name.
Danny.
Long before I met Jared, Danny drunkenly convinced me to get a matching tattoo with him after bar hopping on my twenty first birthday. We were all completely shitfaced. I do not even remember how many drinks I had, or how I got home.
We danced, took shots, laughed, and I vaguely remember some truly awful karaoke. After saying our goodbyes to Hannah and her boyfriend, Danny and I headed down the main street. Well, he walked. I was draped over his back because my feet hurt too much to function.
I should have known better than to wear heels. The bounce of his heavy steps made me feel like my bladder was about to give out. I had drunk way too much, though still not nearly as much as Danny.
“I really need to pee, Danny. I can’t hold it any longer,” I pleaded.
“There’s an alley over there,” he said, nodding across the street.
“I am not peeing in an alley. I will pee all over myself,” I said, horrified.
He huffed, “well, it’s 2 a.m., pee-pee-princess, and nothing’s open."
As I scanned the dimly lit shops lining the street. I noticed a shabby old building at the far end with fluorescent lights still glowing inside.
“Look over there. They look open. Their lights are still on,” I shouted, pointing toward the tattoo shop on the corner.
He picked up the pace, continuing my piggyback ride straight toward it.
The bald, cranky man covered in ink, who I assumed was the owner, reluctantly agreed to let me use the bathroom. After narrowly avoiding disaster, I came back out to find Danny studying the tattoo posters lining the walls.
“Come here,” he said, waving me over, that familiar chaos dancing in his eyes.
“I have an idea,” he continued. “You close your eyes and move your finger over the poster. When I say stop, that’s the one you’ll get.”
