Page 50 of The Rogues

Josie’s eyes soften as her hand goes to my bicep where the flowers are painted. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jamie’s rose tattoo on his hip flashes behind my eyelids and I smile to myself.

“I’d like to get more,” I say. “I feel like I’m the type of person that would get more, but I want them to all be meaningful.”

“I know what you mean.”

My eyes trail over her arms, where I know all of her own ink is hiding. “Tell me about yours. Which one is your favorite?”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know where to start.” She bites her lip, looking ahead with a distant look before coming back. “Probably my ‘vicious’ tattoo. We all have them. You’ve probably seen Nicola’s on her neck.”

I laugh. “Yeah, it kind of stares you right in the face. I bet it hurt like a bitch.”

She shrugs, beaming. “She said it was fine. But my other favorite is probably my butterfly. It’s the first one I got.”

“When did you start? Eighteen?”

She nods. “I started getting them because my parents were really traditional. To them, people with tattoos don’t have respectable jobs or the ability to get anywhere in life. After I started getting them, my parents’ expectations became significantly less of a weight to carry. I loved feeling free, so I kept getting them. Now, they have to accept my career because they don’t think I’ll be able to do anything else.”

My stomach sinks. “Shit. That doesn’t sound like a fun time, Bubbles. I’m sorry they’re like that.”

She waves it off. “It’s okay. They’re my parents. I was dealt a weird hand, but I never wanted for anything growing up. The affection they showed me was through giving me stuff, opportunities. I played tennis, tried competitive swimming, had every tutor in the book. When they discovered I was good at the piano, everything stopped. That became my focus.”

Despite the nonchalance, there still seems to be a heaviness connected to her relationship with her parents. I scrunch my nose, trying not to poke at it. “You’re better suited for guitar, anyway.”

She looks up at me, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, you think so?”

“I know so.” I take her hand in mine and fiddle over the calluses I find on her fingertips. “And you work hard at it. Only people who are meant for it would go through this much work to get to where you are.”

She feels over my own fingers, feeling the indentions that match hers. “You’re left-handed?”

“I’m ambidextrous, but I prefer my left hand.”

“Oh, that must come in hand-y.”

“You did not just make that pun,” I say with a smile.

She shrugs as she laughs. “It’s true though.”

“It does come in handy. A lot more than you think.”

With my implication hanging in the air, Josie inhales sharply, her face flushing pink once more. “You’re naughty.”

“I’m a gentleman,” I toss back before turning to the door of the building we’ve come up to. “Now, are you ready to have some fun?”

“Bring it on, Fred Jones.”

For the better part of an hour, Josie and I discover that we have something in common.

We are both very competitive.

There’s barely any conversation, just taunts and attempts at psyching each other out as we do the rounds around the arcade. Air hockey, racecar driving, Pac-Man, Skee-Ball. For every win I secure, she’s right there behind me, catching up on our tally. At some point, we stop keeping score and just accept every win and defeat. It’s the most carefree I’ve felt in a long time.

After we exhaust our options, we order nachos and cheesy chips—pub food that makes me feel at home—and we sit at a high-top, belly laughing as we tell each other stories.

“One time, Lark and I went to this dark hole in a wall in downtown L.A. We thought it was a locally owned arcade, but it was actually a gambling ring with arcade games.”

“No fucking way,” I say, exasperated.