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The distraction was working. I alternatively inked and wiped, Charlee’s tattoo looking perfect. “I tried out for the scout sniper section, eventually earning a spot in sniper school.”
“You were a sniper?”
The “were” part of that still got to me. Especially after all that went down after ten years.
“I was.”
“Holy shit. That’s. . .”
I paused. Looked up. Tried to think of her as I would any client, and forget that the wrist I held as I worked was Charlee’s. That didn’t work, of course.
“Cool.”
I couldn’t resist the smile. “That’s not what you were going to say, was it?”
“No.”
Mmmm. I certainly hadn’t become a sniper to turn on Miss Charlee Donovan, but there was no doubt that’s exactly what was happening. She was going to say “hot.” I still knew her.
“Then what?” she asked.
I went back to work. “Then Italy, two deployments, and lots of other places in between.”
“Deployments? As in, to fight?”
“As in, to active combat zones. Yeah.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
It was difficult to explain, but I’d try. “It’s not a thing we do. Some,” I admitted, “love to.” I paused, thinking of how to phrase it.
“You don’t have to measure your words with me, Lucas.”
Seemed like she still knew me too. I stopped tattooing. Tried to warn her. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to me, Charlee.”
“What do you mean?”
What did I mean? Guarding myself against Charlee and telling her exactly what I meant did not go hand in hand. But I was feeling reckless today.
“Let’s just say. . . there is a side to me that is very comfortable outside the limits of societal acceptance. One that goes well beyond telling you that lots of guys in the military like to measure dicks. Compare notes. But I’m not one of them.”
I went back to work, effectively having shocked the hell out of poor Charlee. I could see her mind spinning, wondering exactly what I meant. Not that I was deliberately trying to be coy. I meant every word. And was pretty sure Charlee was neither ready nor willing to learn the full effect of my words.
And if she is?
Best not to explore that possibility.
“There you have it,” I said. “What do you think?”
“You’re done already?”
“It’s a small tattoo,” I said. But it suited her perfectly.
Charlee lifted her wrist and twisted it around, looking at it from every angle. “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s awesome. I love it.”
She showed it to me as if I didn’t just put the thing there. “Look. Is that cool or what?”
That was the thing about Charlee. She had so few inhibitions. Said what she thought. Was open. Honest. Until the end, she’d been the perfect fucking girlfriend.
