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“No need to look at your cards to know,” she says, clicking through to my blouses category. “When your girl tells you she’s about to have your baby, you’ll hurry to put a ring on her finger. And I know that because I know these boys, and they’re good men.” She hesitates, then says it. “Ocean, too, Kay. He’s a good guy.”
“Maybe to other people.” I stab the needle into the fabric and bite the inside of my cheek, because anger is starting to give way to numbness, and I’m not ready to give up on the anger yet. “Now gimme more gossip. Who’s having babies?”
“I’ll tell you if you promise to calm down and not murder Ocean in his sleep.”
I shrug, because I can’t make any promises.
“Oh, before I forget!” Amber’s eyes brighten. “Rafe and Zane are organizing a tattoo convention at Damage Control. A small one. More like a sleepover.”
“Sleepover?”
“Yeah. Well, sort of. They invited the tattoo artists from a hot new tattoo stop in Chicago, Soul Stain, and it will be a walk-in weekend. There will be lines, and people entering and going, and we totally need to set up a stand with my jewelry and your clothes. Have you got any of those nifty fingerless gloves you make? And the headbands? They’ll sell like hot cakes.”
“Look at you, all businesswoman-like.” It’d be nice to make some extra money. This could be fun. “It sounds good.”
“It does.” Amber winks at me.
I frown. “Why are you winking at me? Something wrong with your eye?”
“Nothing’s wrong with my eye. The tattoo artists? They’re hot. Kade is to die for. They have a picture from a party on their website.”
“I see,” I say absently.
“Mancandy, girl. Maybe they’ll let you touch. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Not sure, to be honest. I know I said many times that I’d love to touch this or that guy’s ripped chest, and I wasn’t kidding. What’s wrong with some fun, right? Especially if you’re not interested in a relationship.
But now I don’t know if I want to touch anyone but Ocean. Scratch that: I know I don’t want to touch anyone but Ocean.
Sick. I’m sick. Definitely coming down with something. Especially since I’m still pissed as hell at him.
But I remember his kiss, and it’s a bitter-sweet sting to my mind, a wave of heat unfurling in my body, in my heart.
Maybe touching a hot inker at this tattoo convention/sleepover can cure me. One can only hope.
***
Babies, huh? Amber wasn’t kidding. Three babies, to be precise. Not bad at all. Looks like the Inked Brotherhood kept busy. Looks like everyone kept busy while I pined for Ocean.
Hold up, not pined. Considered him. Checked him out. Entertained vague hopes of dancing, kissing, getting hot and sweaty with him.
And almost did. No, I definitely did. I mean, we kissed. And got sort of hot and sweaty together. Good God, that boy knows how to use his mouth and hand, and…
I shouldn’t be remembering that. At all.
Screw him.
But anyway, we kissed, and that’s off my list now, right? A list I don’t have, but maybe it’s about time I made one, too.
Ocean Storm, check.
Next.
Besides, why not? Was I going to wait for Ocean to date me and woo me and marry me or something? That’s exactly what my family would want, and that’s bull crap. Except they wouldn’t want Ocean as my husband to be. He’s too… colorful. Has too much of a bad vibe going. Blue hair, tattoos. No college education. A blue-collar job.
Is being an artist a blue-collar job?
Probably.
