Mickie
“How late is Dave and Buster’s open?” I asked as Dawson and I stumbled down the sidewalk in search of drunk food.
And by that I mean greasy, calorie-heavy, soak-up-all-the-alcohol-we-drank, carb-loaded foods. Cheeseburgers. Tacos. Chili cheese fries. The usual.
“Pretty sure not this late,” he answered.
He wasn’t stumbling as much as me because he had a way higher tolerance than I did. But the goofy grin he’d had on his face for the past hour told me he was feeling pretty good.
Oh, and we’d won the tournament.
2006 Oktoberfest Beer Pong Champions, right here.
We even had the T-shirts to prove it.
So, that was the reason for the drunk food scavenger hunt.
“But I think I have an even better idea,” he announced and pointed to a storefront that had an “Open” sign in the window.
At first I thought it was some kind of diner or café.
Then I looked up at the sign on the building.
Pat’s Tats.
I shot him an Are you insane? look of panic and hurried away. “No way in hell. That’s where I draw the line.”
He grabbed my wrist and hauled me back, smashing me against his hard-as-steel chest. “I vote yes. You made me play beer pong all afternoon. Now, it’s my turn to choose.”
“This is different!” I shrieked. “This is permanent. You don’t leave this place with a T-shirt. The T-shirt is tattooed onto you!”
He pulled me closer to the door, his hand resting on the handle. “Where is your sense of adventure, Miss I Want to Experience New Things?”
I tried to pry his fingers from around my wrist. “Back in all the empty Solo cups where I stashed my sobriety.”
“What’s the big deal?” he asked, amusement in his voice. “We’ll get you a nice tramp stamp. Or maybe a playboy bunny on your hipbone. Those must be popular among college students.”
He was able to drag me through the door and place me in front of a giant board of designs. I felt my stomach churning. The alcohol must have been early for its appointment with my toilet. Then again, the awful nauseous feeling could have been attributed to my distaste for needles.
I mean, who really liked being stabbed over and over again with a sharp, pointy object?
The whole tattoo practice didn’t make any sense to me.
“I don’t know about this, Dawson.”
He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. “Mickie, I dare you to get a tattoo with me.”
Dammit.
He knew my kryptonite.
I was a sucker for a good dare.
Well, I didn’t used to be. But I’d made the vow when I got to college that I would take any challenge on, no matter how crazy or stupid.
I was suddenly regretting my decision to tell him that.
I pursed my lips. “Fine.”
“And you’ll let me choose it.”
Yeesh. “You’re pushing it, Cruz.”
He just raised an eyebrow without responding. I sighed. “All right. But if I end up with a tattoo of a penis for the rest of my life, I’ll make sure that yours is permanently detached from your body.”
I was pretty sure I saw his forehead break out in a sweat. “Noted.”
An hour later, after a bout of nausea and a few tears, I was finally able to look in the mirror to see the new ink on my shoulder blade.
I’d read somewhere that it was one of the least painful places for a tattoo.
They lied.
It had still hurt like a bitch.
“Chinese calligraphy?” I screeched. “Are you kidding me?”
Dawson burst into laughter. “People your age get clichéd tattoos they have to live with for the rest of their lives. I thought it was appropriate.”
“What does it even say?”
The skin around the tattoo was still red and swollen, of course. But they didn’t look like the ugliest Chinese characters I’d ever seen. And at least they were small. Thank God.
“It says, ‘No soup for you.’”
My head whipped around, my eyes narrowed. “That had better be a joke.”
His brow furrowed, as if he was hurt by my comment. “I thought you said you liked Seinfeld.”
Oh, my God. Was he serious? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but—
He laughed again, even harder. “Holy shit, Mickie, I’m just kidding. It doesn’t say that.”
He stepped closer and peeled off his shirt, revealing a white bandage over his breastbone. “I’ll give you a hint, though. Your tattoo goes hand-in-hand with mine.”
He stripped the bandage off where a similar-looking tattoo was etched onto his perfect olive skin, on his left pec. I traced my finger along the skin around the fresh ink, careful not to touch the sensitive area.
He sucked in a breath.
“What does yours say?” I whispered.
His eyes flicked back and forth between mine. “It says, ‘Always Mickie.’”
That was the moment I officially signed over the lease to my heart.
He owned it now. Free and clear.
And there was a no-return policy.
He was waiting for my reaction. “I thought it was just cliché enough, but it’s honestly how I feel. Hopefully it’s something you’re okay with?” It was a question, not a statement.
The corner of my mouth twitched. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“What does mine say?”
His eyes lowered to my mouth and he licked his lips. He raised his gaze back to mine when he replied, “It says, ‘Forever Dawson.’” He shrugged, grinning devilishly. “I took some liberties with that one—”
I grabbed him by the neck and pulled his mouth to mine.
He released a groan that started at the back of his throat and vibrated against my lips. I sucked on his tongue, his lips, tasting every part of him. Huh. Beer wasn’t so bad when it came from his lips.
He plunged his tongue into my mouth, which I met with fevered vigor. But I pried my mouth away before things got too hot and heavy in a smoke-filled tattoo parlor that could have doubled as a set from Pulp Fiction.
His eyes were glazed over with passion when he finally opened them.
I smiled. “Good choice.”