Page 169 of The Comedown

“Gems?” Julian echoes, and I drop my head back on the tattoo chair, squeezing my eyes shut.

What part of “surprise” do these men not understand?

“Don’t tell me you’re getting a string of pearls in the palm of your hand,” Julian jokes.

The tattoo artist answers him, saying, “Nope. On her wrist.”

“Christ’s sake. Do you mind?” I mock-scold them both, smothering a grin as my body continues to hum with something that has nothing to do with the alcohol my system’s still burning off the last remnants of.

Aside from those two little shots he took in front of me on his bus, Julian’s been sober the whole night, but everything about his body language screams the same thing as mine—he’s intoxicated, too.

We’re drunk on each other right now.

“Sorry, miss,” Finley mumbles, his concentration briefly flicking from my wrist to my face.

Julian had to wake him up just to tattoo us at three o’clock in the morning—eight hours before his shop even opens—and while he’s been polite and accommodating beyond belief, he has yet to grasp the concept of keeping mine a secret.

“But since Mr. Julez is paying—”

“He’s not paying. I am.”

“With what?” Julian asks, wielding the credit card he confiscated from me back at the diner.

“I’ll get that back one way or another.”

I glare at the plastic card before he tucks it back into his pocket, saying, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“Did you decide what you’re getting yet?” I ask, and he simply nods, smirking.

“And…what are you getting?”

He parrots back, “It won’t be a surprise,” making me groan.

With Julian, it could be anything. On the car ride here, he was talking about getting a radar machine, the automatic kind that tells drivers the speed they’re going, and the only explanation he gave for it was that it means something to him.

Finley finally finishes, wiping the smear of ink and blood away with a vicious excuse of a paper towel before inspecting his work. I hold my breath, hoping there’re no issues that need fixing because my wrist is on fire. I just paid—Julian just paid—to have a needle prick the thin, tender skin probably thousands of times, if not more. It doesn’t help that I got the tattoo directly over the veins, tendons, and arteries there either.

After getting the okay, I hide the irritated skin from Julian on my way to the bathroom, and when I return, he’s the one on the chair, his shirt balled up under his head as he reclines lazily.

Mine was easy to keep hidden thanks to Finley’s body largely shielding it from view, but Julian’s torso is completely exposed.

“Do you want me to wait out there?” I ask, pointing out of the private back room we’ve been in the last couple hours.

With his lids at half-mast, Julian shakes his head so quickly I almost miss it.

“You want me in here?”

“I want you with me.” His rough whisper tickles my spine even from where I’m standing, then one handed, he helps me on to the table to straddle his thighs just above his knees.

Thankfully, the tattoo artist pretends not to notice as he prepares everything.

Julian pulls out the marker he always keeps in his pocket, asking me, “Would you?”

“Would I…what?” I counter, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Would you give me your autograph?”

I start to laugh only to stop when he doesn’t so much as crack a smile.