Heart Bones(59)

I’m completely out of breath as I fall against him, my arms limp and my legs sore. I sigh heavily.

“I want to get a tattoo,” Samson says.

I laugh against his chest. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“That was my second thought,” he says. “I didn’t say the first one out loud.”

“What was the first one?” I look up at him.

“I think it’s obvious.”

I shake my head. “It’s not. I’m afraid you’re going to have to say it out loud.”

He dips his head and brings his lips to my ear. “I can’t fucking wait for our first time,” he whispers. Then he turns off the water and walks out of the shower like that thought was never whispered aloud. “You want one?” he asks.

I’m kind of in shock, I think, so I take a few seconds to respond to him. “Want what?”

“A tattoo.”

I never thought I’d want one until this moment. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Samson peeks his head back into the shower and smiles. “Look at us, deciding to get spontaneous tattoos. We are definitely fun people, Beyah.”





TWENTY-ONE


“I have an idea,” Marcos says with a mouthful of food. “My friend Jackson.”

Tonight is Baptismal Dinner night. Breakfast again. We haven’t been talking about anything specific, so none of us knows what Marcos is referring to. He’s met with blank stares, so he points across the table toward Samson. “Jackson has dark blond hair. Blue eyes. Your face structures are different, but it’s a tattoo shop, I doubt they really look at your I.D. too hard.”

Oh. That. Samson can’t find his wallet and it’s been three days since he suggested getting a tattoo.

You can’t get a tattoo without identification, and even though he’s torn his house upside down for the better part of three days looking for it, he hasn’t had any luck. He thinks the last renters might have found it and taken it. He said it’s always in his backpack, but we both looked in the backpack and it wasn’t there. Everything else he owns was though. I don’t know how he carries it around so casually; the thing weighs fifty pounds.

Samson chews on Marcos’s suggestion, then shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

“Tattoo shop?” my father asks. “Who’s getting tattoos?”

Sara immediately points at me and Samson. “Those two. Not me.”

“Thank God,” Alana mutters.

Not that I’m much more than her husband’s daughter, but that comment stings. It doesn’t bother her if I get one, but she’s obviously relieved her daughter isn’t getting one.

My father looks at me and says, “What are you getting?”

I point to the inside of my wrist. “Something right here. I don’t know what yet.”

“And when are you going?”

“Tonight,” Marcos says, holding up his phone. “Jackson just said we could swing by and borrow his driver’s license.”

“Nice,” Samson says.

“Do you know what you’re getting, Samson?”

“Not yet,” he says, shoveling a fork full of eggs into his mouth.

My father shakes his head. “Both of you are getting something inked onto your bodies for the rest of your lives in a matter of hours, and neither of you know what you’re getting?”

“We have to take the ferry to get there,” Samson says. “That’s plenty of time to think about it.” Samson scoots his chair back and stands up. He’s got a slice of bacon in his hand as he walks his plate to the kitchen. “We should probably get going. Ferry line might be long with it being the end of the weekend.”

“Beyah,” my father says, his voice pleading. “Maybe you should think about this for a few weeks.”

What a parental thing to say. I think I like it. “Trust me, Dad. I’ll have much bigger regrets in life than a tattoo.”

His expression falters when I say that. I meant it as a joke, but he looks genuinely concerned about my decision-making abilities now.



The tattoo shop is empty, and I think that worked to our advantage. When the guy took Samson’s fake driver’s license, he looked at Samson, then back at the driver’s license. He shook his head, but said nothing. He just disappeared behind a door to make copies of our paperwork.

When Marcus returned to the car earlier with Jackson’s driver’s license, I couldn’t stop laughing. He’s a good fifty pounds lighter than Samson and at least five inches shorter. Marcos told Samson if the tattoo shop doesn’t believe it’s him, he should just say he’s been lifting.

They didn’t even question it. I’d be offended if I were Samson.

“They must be desperate for business,” I whisper. “He didn’t even question you.”

Samson slides a photo album in front of me full of ideas for tattoos. He grabs one for himself and we start flipping through the pages.

“I want something delicate,” I say, scrolling through pictures of hearts and flowers, but nothing tugs at me.

“I want the opposite of delicate,” Samson says.

What is the opposite of delicate? I flip toward the back of the book and come across tattoos that seem like they would be more up Samson’s alley than mine, but none of them seem like something he would like. When I get to the last page, I close the book and try to focus.