Iris blinks twice.

Her blue eyes fill with surprise.

A blush spreads over her cheeks.

She wraps her fingers around her cup, brings it to her lips, sucks coffee from the straw until she's slurping ice.

"You want another?" I take my last sip.

"I have to study."

"I have a one o'clock. I'm not gonna take up your afternoon." I push my empty cup aside. "I don't bullshit. Or play games. If you're not interested, say no. It won't hurt my feelings."

"Not at all?" Her lips curl into a smile. "That doesn't make me feel special."

"I'll be devastated. Spend the entire week wondering if I'm a lousy fuck."

"You're not."

"Yeah?" I lean back.

"Yeah." She copies my posture, leaning back, spreading her legs.

"I know you're mocking me, but you're gonna make me hard if you keep copying poses from last night."

She presses her knees together. "Okay. I'll take another coffee. The same one. Thanks." Her gaze goes to her new ink. She's transfixed.

You are not your mistakes.

I've done a lot of tattoos the last five years. Thousands. Plenty of them were similar sentiments.

But I've never wanted to pry one apart before.

I've never been hungry for the story behind the words.

I don't dig into this kind of shit.

I don't do late-night conversations or heartfelt promises or teary confessions.

I don't let anyone that close.

Anyone but Bree.

And Bree's the only person who hurts me.

Math has never been my strong suit, but it doesn't take a genius to add that up.

I move to the counter. Order another round of coffees. The guy at the register gives me a look. Really, more already?

I hand him a ten and stuff the change in the tip jar. He's an asshole yeah, but I know working shit jobs. I moved out of my parents' house the second I could and I refused to take a dime. Pride or self-reliance, I don't know. Or care.

It was what I wanted.

So I did it.

I waited a lot of fucking tables while I was apprenticing.

I never skimp on the tip.

Or associate with anyone who does.

Iris is looking at her cell. Whatever she's staring at must be important. Her brow is furrowing. Her blue eyes are focused.

I meant what I said.

I'm not going to hog her afternoon.

Dean is right. I like her. But I don't want her carving out space for me.

I want easy.

Casual.

There. I grab our coffees, move back to the table, hand hers over, take my seat.

"You like making me wait." She slides her cell into her backpack.

I let my voice drop. "Yeah. I do."

She takes her straw between her lips. Looks me in the eyes as she sucks coffee into her mouth. "I'll get you back for that."

"Good."

She moans as she takes another sip.

Fuck, I want that moan again.

She drops her cup on the table. Looks me in the eyes. Raises her brows. "Something you want to say?"

"You moan like that again and I'm gonna be late for my one o'clock."

Her teeth sink into her lip. "Here?"

I nod to the bathroom in the back corner.

"Really? A bathroom?"

"You've never wanted it that badly?"

"Well…" She pulls her arm—the now tattooed one—over her chest. Wraps her fingers around her other arm. "For a guy who doesn't play games you're taking your time explaining this."

I take another sip. "I've never done the fuck buddy thing before."

She cocks her head to one side. "Really?"

"Is it that surprising?"

She holds up her thumb and forefinger in the a little gesture. "Okay. Well. I do like you, Walker. I already know you're… skilled."

My smile spreads to my ears. "That's it?"

"Not that you brag?"

"Never."

"That was…" She takes a long sip. "It was the best sex I've had in a long time. I'd like to do it again."

"That's it. We meet up. Do it again."

"Then?"

"Whatever we want."

"But is it this—" She motions to the table and the coffee. "Or is it—" She puts her hand in the shape of a phone and brings it to her ear. "Hey, Iris, babe, want to come over? I've got an appointment at three, but I can squeeze in a few orgasms. We do our thing, then I go home, and I call you the next time I'm in need of satisfaction?"

"Like this."

"Sounds like dating."

I shake my head.

"Okay. We can make that a rule. No dates."

"A rule?"

"Rules are good. They help you outline your boundaries."

I can't help but smile.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I sound like a shrink, don't I?"

"It suits you."

She sticks her tongue out no thanks. "Fine. We won't call them rules. We'll call them—"

"Call it what it is."

"Okay. It's a rule." She stirs her drink with her straw. "No one else."

I nod. "Of course."

"And we… we can hang out as friends. But no dates. No roses or moonlit walks on the beach. No romance."

"I don't do romance."

She must believe me, because she nods. "We can call it off whenever. No questions asked. No explanation required."

"Sounds fair."

"Okay. I, um. I'm not sure how you seal this kind of agreement."

I nod to the bathroom.

She laughs. "Let's stick with this." She offers her hand.

I shake.

Her eyes go to the clock on the wall. "You're gonna be late."

"I know." I pull my cell from my pocket and slide it to her.

She picks it up, punches in her number, sends a text to herself.

Her phone buzzes in her backpack.

She hands my cell back to me.

Walker: Hey, babe, this is Walker, your booty call. I want some of that sugar, but first I need to brag about how great I was the other night.

Her lips curl into a smile. "I think I nailed you."

"I'm flattered."

She pushes herself to her feet and slings her backpack over her shoulder. "I'll see you soon, Walker Williams."

"And I'll see you soon, Iris—"

"Iris Avery."

* * *

My last appointment takes forever. We go for broke, finish the back piece. When I'm done, I'm tired and achy and ready to crash.

But it's chest and triceps day.

I head to the gym down the street with Dean. It's our thing. We're on the same routine. I spot his chest presses. Then he spots mine. Then we devolve into bragging about who has the bigger biceps.

Amongst other things.

It's as fun as working out gets.

And it feels good. Like I'm accomplishing something. Getting bigger. Better. Stronger.

We spend the hour teasing each other.

I drive home. Park in the underground lot. Get lost in the familiarity of moving along the walkway, unlocking the door, tossing my keys on the table.

"Hey." A woman's voice grabs my attention.

Not a woman.

My sister.

She's on the couch in all black. Her palms are pressed into her thighs. Her expression is soft. Apologetic. "Is this okay?"

"What the fuck, Bree?"

She looks at me with tired eyes. "I need a place to crash tonight."

"I took your key."

Her expression gets sheepish. "I had an extra." She turns toward me. "Please, Walker."

"Beverly Hills too far for your Uber driver?" Our parents keep threatening to cut her off and failing to pull the trigger. But, hey, they'll use those purse strings to convince her to check into rehab stint six. And she'll guilt them into paying her rent when she bails on that one too.

"Just for one night. I promise."

"Why aren't you staying with Mom and Dad?"

"You know how they are."

They're a lot more understanding than I am.

"Walker." She folds and unfolds her legs. "It's been a while, huh?"

No. I dragged her to rehab two fucking weeks ago.

"I know you're pissed I checked out early. But I couldn't take any more group therapy. Those people have problems. I just…"

"Show me your arms."

She pushes her sleeve up her left arm. Then the right.

She has bad scars on her left arm, right in her elbow crook. From injecting at the same place over and over again.

But her arms are clean.

No track marks.

"I stopped shooting up a long time ago." She says it like it's an accomplishment.

Is it?

I don't have a fucking compass when it comes to my sister. Sabrina. Bree. I never know what to call her. Bree was my nickname for her as a kid. It feels too much like she's someone I can trust. But calling her Sabrina… that's too much the other way.

She's been putting me through the ringer forever. She started using in high school. It was bad for a few years. Then our parents threatened to kick her out and cut her off.

She went through her first rehab stint. She tried to stay clean for a while.

She slipped.

I get that. Life is hard. Temptation is everywhere.

But when she bailed on her second rehab stint?

Got back with her lowlife dealer ex?

Refused to go to her weekly therapy sessions?

Got in the driver's seat wasted and landed a DUI?

Addiction is one thing.

Telling everyone offering you help to go fuck themselves is another.

"Walker." Her voice gets soft. That same tone she used when we were kids. To reassure me when Mom and Dad were fighting.

She's my big sister.

She's supposed to protect me from this shit.

Not show up at my place with more excuses.

I run my hand through my hair. "You can stay."

Her eyes light up. She claps her hands together. "Thank you. I love you. I'll make dinner. You don't have anything in your fridge. But you're close to that market. Is it a Safeway or something else?"

"You can stay if you tell me why you checked yourself out."

"Do you have any idea what it's like being locked away from the world?"

No.

"Not having your cell? Or email? Or any way to talk to the people you care about?"

"Who do you care about?"

"You." Her expression is earnest. Soft.

But is it bullshit?

I don't know.

"I do, Walker. I love you. You're my best friend. I hate that I'm disappointing you. But I couldn't take it. I couldn't spend any more time wandering around the grass, listening to everyone talk about how beautiful the ocean is from the hill. I couldn't take any more hippie counselors telling me how lucky I am to be alive."

"You are lucky to be alive."

"Yeah. But…"

But landing in the ER from an OD wasn't enough of a wakeup call the first time.

Or the second.

Is anything going to get through to her?

Her voice stays soft. "The group therapy counselor asked me what I was grateful for and I had nothing. He gave me all this shit. I snapped. I had to leave."

"You can go back."

She shakes her head. "Being there makes me want to drink."

I believe that, but it's not like drinking is her problem. One of them, maybe, but not the one that's landed her in the ER twice. "And being here doesn't?"

"No." She looks at me with puppy dog eyes. "You always make me feel like we're kids again. Like the only thing I'll ever want to abuse is sugar."

"Are you sober?"

"It's been twenty-four hours."

"The question stands."

"Yeah. Of course."

It's far from an of course. "You can stay. For one night. That's it. I have someone coming over tomorrow." Well, I plan to.

"Oh." Her voice perks. "You're seeing someone? Tell me all about her."

"It's not like that."

"What's it like?"

"We're friends."

"Oh. Well, that's good. Friends help." Loneliness creeps into her voice. All her friends are other addicts. If she really is trying to stay sober, she doesn't have anyone but me.

And I'm being an asshole.

I force my voice to soften. "Yeah. She's cool. Iris. You'd like her." Before everything, Bree was the picture of friendly. She liked everyone. "Emma crashes here sometimes. When she's pissed at Brendon."

"Emma." She smiles as she recalls my friend slash coworkers' spitfire little sister. "She's probably pissed at him a lot, huh?"

"Yeah." Resenting your sibling is something I understand well. "Less now that she's accepted Brendon and Kaylee."

She nods with understanding. A million years ago, she dated Brendon. Slept with him. Whatever.

I doubt she remembers his sister's best friend. Even if she remembers Emma well.

Fuck. That really was a mess.

At least it's out in the open now.

"She doesn't stay with the other guys?" she asks.

"I don't think so." Dean's older brother, Ryan, is the fourth and final shop co-owner. They don't exactly get along, but they do love each other. And they manage to work together. They don't get this level of frustration.

Not that I discuss it.

"Hmm." She moves into the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. "You think maybe Emma has a thing for you?"

"Emma would tell me."

"Maybe."

"I'm gonna shower. I'll order in dinner. What do you want?"

"I don't mind cooking."

"No. You're staying here until you leave in the morning." Safeway sells every kind of booze. I don't trust Bree to—the sentence ends there. I don't trust Bree. "Pick out a movie. We'll watch something."

"Anything in particular?"

"Anything." I move into my bedroom and drop my cell on my desk, next to my sketchbook.

I'm not artsy, really. I got into tattooing more for the thrill of holding a gun than the thrill of my art on someone's body.

But I take pride in my shit.

I work hard to hone my skills. Figure drawing classes. Sketches. Jumping on trends Ryan abhors. He's still scoffing at watercolor tattoos.

I flip my sketchbook open to the latest page. Pick up my pen. Draw Am I A Sucker or Am I Doing the Right Thing? in big bold letters.

It's right next to my mockup for Iris's tattoo.

She wanted simple text, but I wanted to try adorning it. There's one with hearts. One with flowers. One dripping blood.

She loved them all.

But, still, she wanted simple text.

She thought she was breaking my heart rejecting my mock-ups.

But I don't let my ego get wrapped up in this shit.

There's only one thing that breaks my heart.

And I really am fucking done.

I move into the shower. Strip. Run the faucet hot.

The water washes away the day.

But that voice is still echoing around my head.

Fuck, I'm never getting close to an addict again.

To anyone.