Page 59 of The Butcher

ASS UP, CLAWS OUT

Indy

Sitting in the middle of my nest, surrounded by more pillows than I can count, and draped in the fuzziest blanket I’ve ever seen, I read over the note in my hands for the third time.

Indigo Rae,

It is with great pleasure that I, Clayton Whitlock Ambrose II, cordially invite you to join myself and Nashervan Bowmanpants Ambrose the First, for an exquisite Italian meal in the actual dining room of our humble abode.

This joyous event shall commence around 7 p.m. tomorrow, the tenth of February in this blessed year of the ram, and your presence is requested no less than thirty minutes prior so we may engage in cocktails before we conduct a proper tour of said abode.

Dress is casual. No need to bring anything but your beautiful smile, and an open mind.

To make us aware of your acceptance, or if you decline, please use the back of this invitation and slide it under the bedroom door for us to find in the wee hours of the morning.

Yours truly,

C. W. Ambrose II

P. S. Those aren’t our real names, mostly, cocktails means beer, and the Italian meal is pizza because neither of us can cook. Don’t want you to think this is something crazy fancy because Clayton is a dumbass, but we would like it if you had dinner with us.

- Nash

I grinas I trace their handwriting with my finger, both of them using tiny script but that’s where the similarities stop.

Clay’s reflects his artistic talent; the letters are scrawling and fluid, the uppercase larger than the lowercase, all of them containing some sort of loop or swirl. Nash writes in all capital letters, the movements of his pen succinct and deeply set against the paper. Both very true to their personalities—what I know of them, anyway—and while it makes me smile, I can’t help but stupidly wonder what this Bram’s handwriting would look like after that message I saw.

I set the note down with a sigh.

They were so worried about him.

Nash and Clayton were angry with him, but they were worried about Bram, and it didn’t sit very well with me that their relationships are in turmoil, especially since I seem to be the cause of it.

I had such a good day.

Seeing Clay’s shop, having him show me what flash is, watching as he masterfully inked a rose on Mona’s forearm. It was fascinating, the tattoo gun even more so, and after I took it apart to figure out how it worked, I was excited over the idea of letting him put a mark on my body somewhere.

One I chose on my own, not forced on me in order to keep track of where I fell in the massive inventory list at the ranch. It had nothing to do with my generation or designation. I gave my permission to have that heart permanently etched into my skin. I had a say from start to finish, and if I were braver and more comfortable with this new reality I’m still learning to navigate, I might have asked Clayton to cover up that five digit number on my hip with something beautiful.

Maybe I will one day, but for now, I’m thrilled with the tiny heart on my middle finger. I can definitely see the appeal in getting tattooed of your own free will, I didn’t before, but having choices makes such a difference, and I better understand why Nash and Clay are both covered in them.

It was pretty fun when I got to tattoo them, too.

I’m nowhere near artistic, not even in my handwriting, but Clay and Nash each let me tattoo something on them. A little, very basic, sort of silly, smiley face. Two dots, and a curved line. That’s it. They had to find space for it, somewhere that it would both be seen, and fit. While I’m pretty sure I’m more excited about it than they are, and even if it isn’t any bigger than the tip of my finger, I like the idea of them walking around with something from me on their skin.

I just have no idea why.

We went to the barn behind the farrier shop after that.

Even though I could almost feel the worry emanating from them, the anger that kept coming in waves once Nash returned from wherever he’d been, those two men took me to see the horses, and I was so incredibly happy, I could have cried.

Nash let me brush them, all four of them, and he showed me how he takes care of their teeth and hooves. He explained how he does it for everyone in town who has livestock that would need things like that done; horses, cows, goats, and donkeys, and he even said that the next time he makes a house call, I could tag along if I wanted to.

I really want to.

I find myself wanting to do more and more with the two of them, and it takes a lot for me to hide just how much it means for me to be included.

Both of which should scare me.

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