Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (7)

Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, then she stood up, as gangly as a colt. She held out her hand to help me up. “He can’t do it, but I can.”

“Can what?”

“You want a tat, I can give you a tat.” She shrugged, as if tattooing someone was the kind of thing every teenage girl knew how to do.

“Bullshit.”

“Suit yourself.” She started to walk away.

I pushed myself up so that I was kneeling in the sand and watched her leave, never once looking back to see if I’d changed my mind.

I had. “Wait!”

She stopped. A moment passed, then another, then she turned. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Sixteen. How old are you?”

“I just turned fifteen. You can really do it?”

She came toward me, then stuck her leg out so that there was no missing the black rose on her ankle. “I can do it.”

“Will it hurt?”

She snorted. “Duh, yeah. But not any more than it would if he did it.”

I assume she was right about that, but I’ll never know for sure. Because Cass is the only one who has ever given me a tattoo, and she’s given me several. That first day we’d hung out on the beach until her dad had locked the shop. Then we’d snuck back in, and she’d adorned my pubic bone with a beautiful golden lock, sealed tight and bound with chains.

She asked me why I wanted that design, and I hadn’t told her. Not then. And even later, I didn’t tell her everything. Just the surface, but not the deep-down truth. And even though she’s my best friend, I don’t think I ever will.

That tat—and the ones that followed—are for me alone. They are secrets and triumphs, weaknesses and strengths. They are a map, and they are memories.

Most of all, they are mine.

“So who’s going to be there?” Cass asks after a while. “There’s a red carpet, right?”

“That’s what I hear. But don’t get too excited. It’s a documentary, not a blockbuster. I’m guessing a few studio execs, some agents, maybe a few C-listers.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’re gonna walk down a red fucking carpet. I guess I can knock that one off my bucket list.”

“I guess you can. The dress rocks, by the way. Where did you get it?”

“That Goodwill near Beverly Hills. It’s my favorite hunting ground.” Cass owns Totally Tattoo now and makes a good living, but it wasn’t always that way, and I don’t think I’ve ever once seen her buy retail.

“Usually I only score a ten-dollar pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans and some kick-ass tees,” she continues. “But this time there was an entire rack of evening clothes. I swear, I don’t get those women. Wear it once and then donate it.” She shrugs philosophically. “But whatever. I’m happy to take advantage of their economic idiocy.”

“And look incredibly hot in your frugality.”

“Damn skippy. You look pretty amazing yourself,” she adds.

“I should. I spent two hours getting a trim and having my makeup done.” I’ve worn my hair short since I was fifteen. That’s when I cut off my long, loose waves in favor of a cut that’s a cross between a pixie and a bob. At the time, all I’d wanted was a change, and as dramatic a one as I thought I could get away with. Since shaving my head was a bit too radical even for my mood, I’d dialed it back.

Now, though, I genuinely like the cut. According to Kelly, the girl who does my hair, it suits my oval-shaped face and highlights my cheekbones. Honestly, I don’t care about the reason. I just want to like what I see in the mirror.

“The red tips are especially awesome,” Cass says.

“I know, right? Isn’t it fun?” My hair is dark brown with natural golden highlights. Frankly, I like it that way, so I’ve never been tempted to follow Cass’s lead and dye my hair temporarily pink or purple or even just plain red.

Tonight, however, I thought I’d have a little fun, and I’d asked Kelly to see about giving me some colored highlights. She went a step further, focusing on the tips of a few chunks of hair in a way that seems not only fun but elegant.

“It’s awesome, yes, but what I meant was that the color matches your dress. Which is fabulous, by the way.”

“It should be. It cost a freaking fortune.”

I may not spend my life trolling consignment stores like Cass, but I rarely spend as much on a dress as I did on this one. It’s fire-engine red, and though I decided to go with cocktail length, I think it’s as elegant and sexy as Cass’s floor-skimming evening gown. And, yes, as I did a turn in front of the dressing room mirror, I’d tried to see myself through Jackson’s eyes. Not because I wanted to look hot—or, not entirely—but because I wanted to look successful. Competent.

Powerful.

“It works?” I ask Cass. “Not too slutty? Or worse, too corporate?”

“It’s perfect. You look like a confident, professional businesswoman. And clearly you took my advice and invested in a padded push-up bra, because you even have cleavage.”

“Bitch,” I say, but with the utmost affection. I’ve got an athletic build, slim and lean. Which is great when it comes to finding clothes, but not so great when I’m trying to fill out a dress.