Out of Play

That’s not the kind of thing I want to be proud of.

Maybe my talk with Pe

“This is a serious decision, Ripe. You want to see me get inked, you’re going to have to learn some patience.” She turns around, which makes my hands fall off her.

“Don’t call me that,” tumbles out of my mouth. She looks at me like she’s trying to figure me out, and I move my head, hoping she can’t. It makes me feel like an asshole, but I’m not sure she’ll like what she sees. Suddenly, I’m not sure I like what I see.

“It’s your name.” She nudges me.

“My name is Bishop.” And then, because I want to kiss her, or because I need a little space because the way I’m acting is actually starting to freak me out, I step around her. “What about a flower? Girls are supposed to like flowers, right?” Like I knew she would, she gives me a dirty look.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” She crosses her arms and clips me with her hip, and even though I thought I wanted space, I reach out and grab her waist. She sucks in a gasping breath before saying, “You’re getting awfully touchy-feely there, Bishop. I don’t remember saying you could put your hands on me.”

Another weight drops free and sinks away. Leaning forward, my cheek touches hers. “If you don’t want me to, tell me to stop.” She still smells like vanilla and like her car, too. Who would have thought that could smell so hot? And I love how even though she’s tall, even though she’s a fucking hockey player, her body still feels fragile under my hands.

“You’re cocky.” She slips away from me and starts looking at the walls again. Looking at the same designs over and over again. “I don’t see anything. I’m not marking my skin unless it’s something really incredible.”

“Wussing out?” This time, it’s me who smirks at her.

“No, I have standards.”

Ouch. I’m not sure if that’s directed at me or not, so I ignore it. “I get it. That’s why I only have one so far. I love ink, but I’m not putting something on my body that I’m not sure I’ll want there forever. Like my drumsticks, no matter what happens, I know music will always be a part of me…so far, that’s the only thing I’m sure of.” I shrug. Maybe I’m being obvious and said too much, but it’s true.

“You have trust issues, don’t you?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “How did you get that out of what I just said?” But she’s right. I don’t have to answer her because both of us know it’s true. “Now hurry up. If you don’t decide, we’re not going to have time to do this, and then I’m going to start thinking you did it on purpose because you’re…” Again, I lean forward so my mouth is right next to her ear. “Scared.”

She shoves me away and I almost trip over a chair, but I’m laughing too hard to care.

…

“Are you sure you want one there?” I ask. “It hurts like hell.”

She’s picked this feather design that breaks apart and will spread small birds across her ribs.

Pe

“Cool. I’ll shrink it down so it’s only a few inches.” He does and comes back to show her. She has to lift her shirt while they place in on her ribs. “Like this?” he asks her.

I think I’m going to like the view.

“If you sneak a touch, I break your finger.”

Hell yeah. That’s my girl. I look over at her tattoo guy and give him a cocky grin. He just rolls his eyes. She’s lying down now on her left side and facing me. Her shirt tucked beneath her breasts. I’ve seen her stomach before—seen a lot of them, but I can’t help myself from admiring the dip in her waist. The flatness of her stomach. And yeah… I want to touch. Want to touch so bad my fingers hurt. “You ready for this? For a needle to poke into your skin thousands of times, over each of your ribs?”

“Wow. You sound super traumatized over this. Did you cry when you got yours, Bishop?” The needle makes its first contact with her skin as she taunts me, but I’m pretty sure she’s too busy talking crap to me to notice. It’s what I wanted. There’s only one little flinch before she adds, “I bet you did. Bet you cried like a baby.”

“Always talking shit. You can’t think a girl is tougher than I am, can you?” It’s so fun pissing her off. And I wasn’t kidding when I said tats on your side hurt. It’s not that I don’t think she can handle it, because I’m pretty sure she can handle anything, but I’m hoping the distraction helps.

I’m sitting in a chair, eye level with her as she lies on the table. Her skin is puffy and red as the needle stabs into her, but she’s doing awesome. Keeping still and not flinching at all. “So, tell me about this hockey stuff. How’d you get into it?”

“My dad played. Just local teams, pick-up games. ‘Old-man hockey’ is what they call it here. He’s been on the ice since high school. It was the thing we did together. That, and all the guys said I’d never make it. So, you know. I had to then. And when I was out there proving them wrong, I fell in love with it.” She pulls in a deep breath as the guy takes a short break, leaning back and stretching his shoulders and neck. “So, what about you? What started you with music?”

I check out tattoo guy. He’s not paying attention to us. I’m almost 100 percent sure he doesn’t recognize me, and if he does, he’s not talking. I screw with my lip ring for a minute, trying to figure out how to reply. This is dangerous territory to navigate. Trying to decide what to say and it sucks because I actually want to talk to her about it. It means bringing up my asshole father, but I can deal with that.

“Touchy question?” There’s a little accusation in her voice. Pe

“We moved around a lot when I was a kid. My dad was a real prick. Abused my mom and shit.”

Her brows pull together as she processes. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, sort of surprised I’m even telling her this. “It was a long time ago. She was smart, though. She left him and didn’t look back, but he was also a bastard and he’d follow her. We’d move somewhere. She’d get a job, and a few months later, he’d show up. Restraining orders don’t do shit, by the way.” The only thing that worked was money, but the piece of paper keeps it legal. “So yeah, we moved around a lot. Never had much…”

Guilt starts surging inside of me again—that weight that fell off trying to hook me. Mom always took care of me. No matter how hard it was, she took care of me, and I’m doing a shitty job of returning the favor.

“Did I lose you, Drummer Boy?”

Her words pull me back to the surface. “Drummer Man.” I wink. “So yeah, one of the waitressing jobs she had was right next to this music store. I was like, ten. When she worked, I would go next door and hang out with the owner. He was cool to me. Played the drums, and he taught me stuff. I’d trade hours illegally working for him for lessons. We were there six months. I was fucking pissed when we moved, but like I said, dude was cool and he gave me an old kit. After that, I always played. I’ve learned guitar, too, but I’ll always be a drummer.” Shrugging, I attempt to play it off like this isn’t the big deal it is. I don’t do the whole baring-of-the-soul thing.

Her ink is coming along nicely. It’s a contrast, the black ink and the red skin against what’s usually such a pale white. I never knew how sexy it would be to see a girl get tatted. Or maybe it’s just sexy to watch her. I’m not sure.

She’s been quiet for a minute, so I watch her, wondering if the pain is getting to her or what, but it’s not. She’s looking at me, too. No, into me, and I’m actually scared of the answers she’ll find. Nothing scares me. Not my asshole dad, not waking up in the hospital, but crazily this does.