Page 31 of Dark & Deceitful

“Twelve sessions, I think,” Pix answers. “That’s somewhere between fifty to seventy-five hours.”

Leaning back in her chair and crossing both arms under her ample breasts, Marge sniffs. “And men think women are weak.”

“Women do sit better for tattoos. Though I’ve done most of Dark’s ink, and he’s taken it well,” Pixie explains.

“Even the throat?” Marge touches her neck.

Pix nods. “Yep. Even the throat.”

“Shee-it,” Marge whistles, impressed. That makes two of us. I was with him when he got the tattoo—one session and one touch-up a month later, that’s all it took.

“Don’t let him fool ya, Marge. Dark whined for three days when his throat swelled, and he had trouble sleeping.” He was miserable, hating life. We went through a dozen ice packs, and he refused to shower in anything other than water cold enough to shrivel his balls.

“That shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does.” The wicked woman smiles.

Once Pixie’s gone over every inch of my tattoo, I drop my shirt back into place. Just as I do, Fog appears at our table. “Can I talk to you about something?” He touches my arm and jerks his chin toward the front door. I guess we need to talk outside.

Leaving the ladies to chat, I trail my son out the front. He doesn’t stop there but walks around the side of the building to the back, where he leans against the dilapidated siding beside a row of dumpsters, and I post in front of him.

“What’s up, kiddo?” I ask.

Fidgeting, refusing to make eye contact, Fog looks up to the sky. “What I’m about to tell you, Tarek already knows.”

That sounds… ominous.

“Okayyy?” I drawl.

“You can’t tell Dad.”

Oh, boy. This doesn’t sound promising.

“Okay. I won’t,” I vow and cross my heart so he knows I’m serious. I wouldn’t ever betray his trust.

Puffing up his shoulders like he’s pumping himself up to say whatever he brought me out here to say, Fog tugs at the edges of his cut. “Tarek said I need to stop lying.”

“Lying about what, exactly?”

My son expels a harsh breath and tips his head down to stare at the gravel beneath our feet, still refusing to make eye contact. He kicks a bigger rock with the toe of his boot, and it flies under one of the dumpsters. “I know this isn’t the best time.” He chews on his bottom lip.

“It’s always a good time to talk to your mother.” I speak softly, hoping to coax this kid out of his shell.

“What if I said I… Fuck…” Kicking another rock, Fog massages the nap of his neck. “What if I… said I… had a… partner?” He forces the words out as if they are scary to say.

“I’d ask if it was serious and when I could meet them?” I tread lightly because this seems to be a big deal.

Still staring at the ground like it’s the most fascinating thing, he bobs his head along with my words. “What if it wasn’t a…” he trails off, unable to form the words.

A ball of excitement ignites in my belly like a basket of caffeinated frogs.

“Oh.Ohhhh…” I clap loudly and bounce on the balls of my feet. This is it. It’s finally happening!

Fog looks up at me with the widest, most expressive eyes. “What are you doing, Mom?”

“You’re gonna say it,” I cheer, thrusting a hand in the air.

My son frowns, the lines in his forehead stressing as he looks at me as if I’ve been possessed. “I’m gonna say what?”

“Is this when you come out of the closet?” I squeak.

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