Page 46 of Fractured Frets

“Nah. You kids are still too young. Enjoy life—that’s what I say. Slip, I’m stoked you called. I’m always happy to see my VIPs at any time. So, what will it be? You got something in mind or need to browse?” Sol waved toward his computer on the counter and then over to the open folders full of tattoo designs on a table by the far wall.

“Mads has to choose it, but I want it to include her name.”

“Slip, I have no idea.” I wiped my clammy palms on the back of my dress. Such a gesture was overwhelming. But as long as I didn’t have to get one, I’d be okay.

Sol stroked his beard and chuckled. “This could take a while then. How about I grab us some beers while you look through the options?” He flicked a finger toward his desk. “You can draw anything you like on that tablet beside the laptop or I can sketch anything you may have in mind.”

“That’s cool.” I nodded. Anyone with artistic talent—drawing, painting, sculpting, music—won me over. I couldn’t even draw a stickman.

“Maddy, do you drink beer?” Sol asked. “Or something else, like a soda, whiskey or water? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Beer will be great, thanks.”

Sol disappeared into the office at the back of the store, while Slip and I flicked through some folders. I whispered to Slip, “You’re gonna have to help me out. Where do you want this tattoo?”

“Mads, anywhere.” He skimmed through pages of skull designs. “It can be anything. My only stipulation is no dicks, boobs, pussies or naked bodies. Our friends’ kids will no doubt see it, even if it’s on my ass. Ours will, too, if we ever change our minds about having a family of our own.”

I loved that he always thought about others.

I turned into him and crushed my breasts against his arm, then pressed my groin against his hip. The fire that flickered in his eyes warmed my blood. “So you don’t want me to take a photo of my pussy or tits and have them inked on your flesh?”

“Baby, the image of you naked from every angle is tattooed onto my brain. I don’t need that in ink. But you can send me more pictures to add to my private collection any time. I won’t complain.”

“Maybe I will.”

“God, I love you.” He kissed my cheek.

Over a beer, and laughs with Sol, we discussed designs. Slip and Sol made suggestions. Sol scribbled on his design pad. I flicked through folder after folder.

Why did this have to be so difficult?

I was about to hit the end of my fourth folder of artwork when the perfect image appeared. A sunflower. The night we’d met, I’d worn a yellow party dress covered in white outlines of sunflowers. Since that night, he’d called me sunflower. His girasole. I turned the folder to Slip. “What about this?”

“A sunflower?” He chuckled and nodded. “That’s perfect.”

“If you insist on including my name, it can go across the middle or underneath in a ribbon or something similar. Sol, is that possible?”

“Sure is. Subject to size. Where are we putting this?”

I scanned Slip from head to toe. “How about his right bicep?” One arm had the mermaid on it; the other was still blank. That spot would be cool.

“Done.” Slip stepped in and kissed me. He tucked my hair behind my shoulder. “Mmmm. Mio bel girasole.”

“Your beautiful sunflower?” Sol’s mouth quirked up at one side.

“Yep.” Slip’s eyes remained on me. “Mads is bright and cheery and loves yellow. She shines like the sun and makes me happy. Just like sunflowers.”

Sol placed his hand over his heart. “I love it when a tough man turns to marshmallow over his woman.”

A huge, unashamed grin slid across Slip’s face. “Shut the fuck up and ink me, Sol.”

“Gladly.” He walked over to the chair and patted the seat. “Sit here. Let’s get to it.”

As Sol got to work on Slip’s tattoo, I held Slip’s hand, playing with his wedding ring and the calluses on his fingertips. Despite his constant smile, I didn’t miss the ever-present tremble in his touch. Every now and then, his eyes would drift shut, a pained grin would curl across his gorgeous lips, and then he’d squeeze my hand tighter. So brave.

He was doing this for me. To prove that he was mine.

Total mind blow.

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