Page 85 of Fallen Crown

“I’ve always found marking an occasion with a tattoo to be therapeutic,” I say.

She reaches out and draws a line across one of my tattoos on my bicep that peeks out of the edge of my sleeve. “What occasion did this one mark?”

“One tequila shot too many in Vegas with Nick. You’ll find quite a few of them mark the same occasion.”

“Shouldn’t a tattoo mean something? You have to burn it off or cover it over if you make a mistake.”

“Some of mine mean something.” I raise my shirt and I point to an inscription near my hip. “Nick and I both got this one when our gran died.”

“Alex didn’t get one?” She traces the tattoo with light fingers.

The contact undoes the little willpower I’ve managed to maintain around her since we left the cabin. She’s so close the scent of peaches surrounds me, and I slide my hand into her hair to draw her lips to mine. When she doesn’t pull away, I shift closer to her to deepen the kiss. That I can get turned on so quickly from one kiss is a testament to how into her I am. Any time I touch her, I can’t help wanting more.

“What does it say?” she asks against my lips.

“Love hard. Love well,” I murmur as I find the spot on her neck that makes her squeeze my biceps. “From the last speech she made to the country before she retired. She was speaking about our fellow Bellerivians, but it struck a chord with Nick.”

“Because of Julia?”

“Because he’s Nick, and he’s a soft, soft boy.”

“Oh, and you’re so tough, are you?” She cups my cheek, and there’s a playful tilt to her lips.

“Used to be.” I take her hand and lay it over my heart. “Used to be a lot of things that I’m not anymore.”

A heavy silence settles between us, and I’m not sure what else I should say or what I want her to say. Somehow I need to figure out a way to tether her to me. Another race or something else. She lets me into her head, and then she pushes me back out. Once we return to the island, I fear it’ll be far too easy for her to keep me out.

“If you got another tattoo right now, what would you get?” she asks.

“That’s easy. Something for my dad. It just—I wasn’t sure I could do it. With the race, and I didn’t want more questions.” I lie on my back to stare up at the stars, and Tucker peers at me from above before laying her hands on my chest and resting her chin on top of them.

“We could get one tonight,” she says.

“We?” If she offers to share a bottle of tequila with me while we get them, my heart may never recover.

“I could go with you.”

“Are you going to get one?”

“I might,” she says. “Do you think anything is open?”

“Without a doubt, I can get us a tattoo.” I dig my phone out of my pocket, trying not to dislodge her off my chest. With my free hand, I tug her around so she’s flush against my side with her head on my chest, and it’s easier for me to use two hands while I search for somewhere to go. As a bonus, she’s snuggled in tight. I love the weight of her against my side.

Ten kilometers away there’s a place with good reviews. I call them to confirm they take walk-ins, and when I’m off the phone I say, “Are we doing this?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s get tattoos.”

I help her to her feet, and I wonder what’s weighing on Tucker’s mind with such heft that she wants to remember it forever.

The tattoo artist is finishing up my sands of time with purple sand near my hip, next to the tattoo Nick and I got for my gran. Tucker is in a different area with another tattoo artist. When I suggested she might want to think about whether she really wanted to do this, she held my gaze and said that too much thinking leads to inaction. Fairly certain that’s a racing philosophy she’s poorly applying to this experience, but I wasn’t going to contradict her. After all the impulse tattoos I’ve gotten, who was I to criticize?

In the SUV on the way over, she was the one who suggested the purple for the sand in honor of the Alzheimer’s Society after I mentioned my initial idea. A reminder for me to seize every memory, every moment, every grain of sand while I’ve got the chance. The urge to ask what she planned to get hovered at the edges of our conversation the whole time, but she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. Part of me is afraid it’ll have something to do with Enzo or her divorce, and although it’s none of my business, it would gut me for her to have a permanent reminder of him.

In the lobby, she’s already paid for both our tattoos by the time I’m done. At the edge of her collarbone, just under her shirt, I catch the shine of the protective tape covering whatever design she got. It’ll be visible more often than not, and I’m surprised she didn’t go with somewhere more discreet. My curiosity is piqued, and I curse the fact that Riker is my roommate and not Tucker.

“Get what you want?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, but her response is subdued.