I laugh. “Actually…it’s the truth.”
“What? I don’t believe you. I’ve never seen a tattoo.”
“It’s on the back of my neck, but it’s so small I doubt you would have seen it.”
“What is it of?” I ask.
“It was supposed to be of a wave, but all the tattoo artist got was a thin line before I couldn’t take the pain anymore and jumped out of his chair.”
“You couldn’t handle the pain? Really? You expect me to believe that?”
“I was fourteen and didn’t like needles.”
This cracks him up. His laughs carry throughout the entire dungeon. “Well, hopefully, your father didn’t include an activity involving needles.”
I laugh, even though now the thought of getting a tattoo doesn’t even register on my pain scale. Maybe someday, I’ll go back and finish that tattoo. “Your turn.”
His chuckles slowly drift away, and I realize how much I wish our life was so different. I wish we could just live on his yacht, and I could come up with funny stories to make him laugh.
“Truth or lie: I’ve never had ice cream,” he says.
“You’ve never had ice cream?!”
He chuckles. “Truth or lie?”
“That has to be a lie.”
“Truth—my father didn’t believe in letting me enjoy any pleasures in life that weren’t good for me. And I never thought to try the stuff as an adult.”
“When this is all over, we are getting you some freaking ice cream.”
I can feel his grin reach his eyes at that. He doesn’t say there is a good chance we will never get out of here together. And that makes me happy. Maybe he has more hope than I thought.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I punched a boy when I was five.”
“Truth.”
“Yep, Mason, my only friend. He tried to kiss me, and I punched him.”
“That’s my girl.”
I smile.
“But I win. I punched a boy when I was three?” he asks.
“Truth. I can just see toddler you going around and punching people.” I pause. “I’ve never paid for a drink.”
“Truth, you always stole your drinks.”
“Or had unsuspecting men pay for them.”
We continue on back and forth, saying things we’ve never done or experienced that should have been part of a normal childhood. We laugh and forget about what the next round is most likely going to bring. We don’t formulate a plan of how we are going to beat the game. Or how we are going to take down Milo. We don’t discuss if Enzo has a better plan other than turning over everything to him.
But after a few hours, I can tell Enzo is done with the games.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.