Page 105 of Ghost

He moved the phone closer. “My followers.”

The number of followers listed on his Instagram page was changing right before our eyes. In the time that he held it in front of us, the number changed from five thousand to seven thousand, and was steadily climbing.

“You did an awesome job. Tagging you in that post was the least I could do,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get some business out of it.”

He flashed the peace sign. “Thanks, Abby.”

She returned the gesture and stepped to my side. “Do you like it?”

I gave the artist a wave and turned toward the door. “I love it.”

“Me, too.”

“That other guy was a dip-shit,” I said. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t tattoo you.”

She chuckled. “Since when is Benadryl a narcotic?”

The first tattoo studio we’d gone to asked that she fill out a questionnaire. One of the questions asked if she had taken any medication in the last twenty-four hours. She listed Benadryl, which she’d been taking for the rash on her arm, and Pepto-Bismol, which she’d been taking for her upset stomach. The artist refused to tattoo her because of her recent use of Benadryl.

I shrugged. “I think he just didn’t want to do it and used that as an excuse.”

“There’s a reason for everything,” she said. “It brought us here, and Steve was awesome.”

I didn’t agree with the everything happens for a reason remark, but I did agree that Steve did an awesome job.

“Agreed,” I said. “Want to grab something to eat?”

“I’m exhausted,” she murmured, yawning as she spoke. “I think the whole tattoo thing wore me out. Can we just go home, and eat something there? I’m scared to eat restaurant food, anyway.”

Her stomach had been a disaster for the last ten days. If she didn’t take Pepto-Bismol regularly, she was miserable. A light meal, relaxing, and getting some sleep was probably in her best interest, anyway.

“Sounds good,” I replied.

An hour later, we were laying in her bed watching television. Six months prior, I didn’t give a shit about what was on TV and hadn’t so much as turned mine on in years. Now, Abby and I had no less than half a dozen shows we enjoyed regularly. I looked forward to the time that we watched television together, as most of it was done from the comfort of her bed.

“I guess I ought to change my address,” I said. “I’m never at home.”

She nestled against me, resting her head against my chest. “You should just move in.”

“You’d get sick of me,” I replied.

She swung her hand toward me in a joking manner. I flinched, and when I did, her hand smacked me dead in the nuts.

I folded up like a cheap suit as pain shot from my groin to my stomach. I writhed in pain from side-to-side, eventually coming to a rest with my eyes fixed on hers.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I howled.

“I’m so F-ing sorry,” she huffed. “Oh my God.”

She nodded toward my crotch, which was currently being protected by my hands. “Get your dick out, please. I want to apologize to him.”

“He’s broken.”

“I want to fix him.”

With slight reluctance, I pushed my shorts past my knees, exposing my shriveled, and very sore, manhood.

She looked at my shorts and let out a sigh. “Toss ‘em on the floor.”