"Isn't it hard on your stomach?"
"Sometimes."
"And that's when you have cream?"
"Yeah." I tap out angry reply after angry reply.
I'll come home when I want.
Leave me the fuck alone.
Why don't I make like you and find some guy's bed for tonight? Does that make you proud?
I delete them all. Send a simple text to Divya instead.
Luna: Staying at Daisy's tonight. I'm sorry.
At least someone is apologizing to her.
Ugh.
I hate everything.
Since I was a kid, I watched a million families fall apart.
I always thought I was okay. That I'd never hear tales of a cheating spouse or a younger woman. Sure, that type of behavior is normal from men.
But women who went through hell to be together—
Who made a very conscious choice to have a child—
They're better than that, aren't they?
"You don't look okay." Oliver sets a mug on the table. One marked with the logo of the tattoo shop where he works. Inked Love. "If it's about earlier…" He almost blushes. "It's not a big deal."
Maybe I should give into my lust. Better than other considerations. And I have the okay to stay here. That's the deal, right?
Place to sleep.
Then lust.
Maybe I should go to the shower and fuck myself. It worked for him. He's different than usual.
Looser and stiffer at the same time.
Not that I'm thinking of him stiff.
It's just—
I haven't seen him much. With Daisy in school, I don't have reason to come here. And the last time I saw him was our trip to Mexico. A week in the sun, swimming, drinking, dancing.
Oliver in only his swimsuit, all tall and broad and tempting.
"Luna?" he asks again. "Tell me you're okay and I'll go."
"It's not about earlier." The mug is warm against my hands. That feels good. Safe. Comforting. I take a sip. Let out a soft groan. Mmm. Dark, rich, a little bitter. "This is good. Thank you."
"Do you need anything?"
"A drink." I stifle a laugh. "You got any bourbon?"
He looks at me funny.
Which is weird. Oliver carries a freaking flask. A twenty-one-year-old with a flask. Like he's in a noir flick. He's always drinking. And now he's looking at me funny for asking for booze.
"You don't like bourbon," he says.
"You have gin?"
He lets out an Oliver huff that means something between whatever and okay, sure. "Daisy wouldn't like it."
True, but—"Since when does that stop you?"
"Do you need anything else?"
Yes. Take off the jeans. Distract me. Please. Can you go again so soon? "Coffee is good. Thanks."
"Dad said you'll talk after dinner."
"Oh. Cool." I swallow another sip. Try to assess the situation.
Oliver only stays here for Daisy. He promised her he'd stay at home her first year of college. Even though she's five hundred miles away at Berkeley.
I guess he wanted her to know she could find him anytime.
It's sweet. They're close. He's protective of her. Too protective, but it's hard to blame him.
There's something about Daisy. This sweetness that demands protecting.
Oliver, on the other hand—
He's all hardness and rough edges.
Fuck, I'm losing track of my point.
My heart is still heavy. My blood is still surging. I need to do something to ease the fury racing through me.
I can booty call an ex. I can beg Oliver to distract me. I can march home, break glasses, call Mom all sorts of things I can't take back.
That isn't it.
Even pissed as hell I know better.
Which leaves Oliver.
No. I can't. That's going to ruin everything outside my house.
I have to think about something else.
Anything else.
Not his cock.
I am not thinking about Oliver Flynn's cock.
That's possible.
Totally and completely possible.
Chapter Three
Oliver
For a while, I give Luna space.
She sits on the couch, watching reality TV, her attention somewhere else.
Through my headphones, Kurt Cobain whines about his emptiness. The lithium or the heroin or some other drug of choice?
Why is it shrinks complain about self-medicating then prescribe something else to numb the pain? Is bourbon really so much worse than sertraline?
At least bourbon is fun.
As usual, my thoughts scatter. I try to pull them back with another mock-up. That Latin quote from The Handmaid's Tale—it's all the rage with smart women—surrounded by curving red fabric.
It's a nice idea. Applicable to any situation, really.
Don't let the bastards grind you down.
It's not glory fades or I came, I saw, I conquered. But it's solid.
I trace the lines on my forearm.
ex favilla nos resurgemus
From the ashes, we rise.
One of my first.
I still remember the day I got it. The rush of adrenaline. The one thought racing through my brain I can't believe I did this.
This job used to be everything. I used to sit outside Blacklist, waiting for one of the artists to take pity on me. Show me something, anything.
I've wanted to be a tattoo artist since I could remember.
I only graduated from apprenticing a year ago. I have so far to go. So much to learn.