Tyed

"I may be out of line here...okay, I'm definitely way out of line here, but for whatever reason, I just can't seem to picture you and Wilder together? You don't seem to have a lot in common." Cam is filling the silence with his words.

"And why's that?" The assumption that we are too different to be together is pissing me off, and I'm not even sure why.

"Well, you don't have much in common. Like, you and I for instance, we share some cultural background I guess. We go to the same gigs, watch the same movies, go out to the same bars. You know, we're alike."

I send a sweet smile his way. "I don't want someone like me. I want someone who will drag me out of my comfort zone and introduce me to new things. Different things."

"I completely agree.” Cameron is not stupid. He knows he crossed a line and is now backpedaling his way into my good graces. “I also like a challenge.”

Ty is not a challenge, but I don't want to pick a fight with my boss in the middle of this trip, so I let it go and nod, looking out the window.

When the cab driver drops us off at the hotel, I'm literally shaking. Cam offers to do the checkin while I clutch my suitcase, looking around the lobby and trying to keep my emotions in check. The place is packed and buzzing with laughter and excitement. Judging by the amount of people who wear credentials around their necks, most sports journalists have already arrived and are now mingling with each other.

The lobby is spacious and dazzling, with ornate crystal and golden hand-carved marble chandeliers. Cam disappears somewhere between the masses of people waiting in line at the reception desk, and I mess with my phone, trying not to think about Ty.

Don't think about him.

Don't think about him.

Don't...

I hear screaming and clapping, peppered with low whistles and some gasps. I raise my head and watch as an entourage of about ten men slices through the crowd. I recognize Jesse instantly. He is tall and muscular and enjoying the attention. Dawson is walking next to him, and between them and a few more men I don't recognize is Ty.

Fuck, I've missed him.

There's a lot of commotion around the group, and I'm rooted to the ground, completely mesmerized by my gorgeous ex, who is looking healthy and happy as freaking ever, by the way.

My eyes follow the entourage. Ty is chewing gum and not making eye contact with his fans or the reporters, his face partly hidden under a baseball cap. I may be imagining this, but seconds before he disappears, he clutches the left side of his shirt, where he tatted my name, with his fist.

Just then, a gloriously stupid idea pops into my mind. It's so stupid I can't afford to think about it, because I know I'll change my mind. I turn around and race outside to the street, and head in the direction of the spot where Shane and I drank our Coco Loco and talked about Ty.

This is going to be so gloriously stupid.

***

"Dude, I'm sorry, but I'm not doing it."

Her name is Nash, and she is seriously hot. She's got thick bangs, a septum piercing and the sweetest, most innocent face a twenty-something-year-old could have. And she refuses to take my money and just do what I tell her, which is driving me mad. This is America, woman.

"Listen, I'm not going to regret it," I say with conviction, pressing both my palms together as I beg her to tattoo me. I know that if she won't, others will, but for some reason, I really like her. Plus, the place is packed and if it weren't for the early hour, she probably wouldn't even have time for a walk-in customer like me.

"Dude, check out my ten commandments. I pinned them to my wall." Nash points at the wall behind her, chuckling to herself. Sure enough, she wrote ten rules she sticks by when she gives tattoos:

No drunk-tatting. Come sober or don't come at all.

A tattoo is not a pet. It lasts forever. I do not ink clichés. If you're into the shape of infinity or an anchor on your wrist, go somewhere else.

I am not a translator. If you want something in Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew or any other foreign language, check your spelling.

You will suffer for your art. Try not to fidget and move too much. I do not tattoo movers. Sorry.

No tattoos of the names of boyfriends/girlfriends. You will thank me for it some day.

I don't bother reading number six. Instead, I swivel back to Nash, smiling as I spot a loophole. "He is not my boyfriend. I just want to ink his name, regardless. So there you have it."

"Nope," she says.

"Yes," I respond. "Because I swear, even if I never get back with him, I’ll still love it."

"So let me get this straight." Nash folds her arms, leaning over the counter, squinting as she tries to read me. She is all sass, yet not a pretender. I'm pretty sure that if I were playing for the other team, I'd totally be crushing all over her. "You want me to tattoo the name of your ex-boyfriend. On your body."

"That's right," I nod.

"And you're not drunk?"

I shake my head, bouncing on my feet excitedly. "Please, Nash. I know what I'm doing."

Nash is laughing hard, trying to regulate her breathing. She looks at me like I'm the craziest person she’s ever come across, which is pretty worrying, considering the fact she works in a freaking Vegas tattoo parlor. She looks around her, checking that no other tattoo artist or co-worker is watching as she bends her own rules for me.