Page 37 of All Twerk, No Play

It’s always easier to start with truth, to set someone at ease … but I started brainstorming dares, depending on how long we were stuck.

Her pointy heels tapped. I lowered myself against the opposite wall, my straight legs mirroring hers.

“How does one begin a career as a …” she held up her fingers to count, “building superintendent, personal trainer, self-defense instructor … am I missing any?”

I chuckled. ‘Career’ might be a stretch.

I matched her three fingers then kept counting: “Back-up musician and reluctant tattoo model.” When I flipped my wrists in a half shrug, her gaze lingered on my forearm. “Say yes, then figure it out. When somebody sees your workout and asks for advice, say yes, then get your certification. When somebody who trained you as a nuclear mechanic offers you a job, say yes and apply it to a building. When your talented artist friend has a stroke of genius, say yes and take off your shirt.” Her gaze lingering on my neck, where a tattoo peaked above my collar. “And a friend's bandmate breaks his arm and asks you to fill in, say yes and practice their set list until your fingers bleed.” I held up the calloused fingertips of my left hand.

“So you actually play guitar? You're not a pretentious douchebag who uses it as decoration?”

She remembered that detail from my apartment. I tried not to let that mean something. “I learned to drum first, as a kid. Then Pike—I was out for his going away party at Donnelly's the night we met—on the boat he showed me the basic chords. I spent hours laying on my rack tinkering with his borrowed guitar. One of the only good things to come out of six years of misery.” I nudged her thigh with my toe. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

I tapped my chin dramatically. She reacted with a faint eye roll. “Do you play a musical instrument? Or sing?” After realizing she was the source of that raspy voice, I’d been hoping for an opportunity to hear her again … short of hanging out at Rodriguez’s with my ear to his vent like a total fucking creeper.

“Piano.”

“You any good?”

“I used to be incredible,” she said, her answer confident but wistful. Her fingers wriggled on her lap, playing the ghost of a keyboard.

“Why’d you stop?” I asked, matching her soft tone.

Her gaze held a hint of sadness, a silent request to drop it. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

“How do you choose your tattoos?”

“I don’t.”

Her eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You don’t choose how to permanently deface your body?”

I lifted my left leg, pointing to a humpback whale. “I got this in Seattle with a few guys from the boat after I saw one through the periscope. Fucking majestic. But most of them, I just trust Kate.”

I reached behind my back to grip my shirt and pull it over my head. Her lips parted and pupils dilated as her gaze traveled over my colorful skin. I held out my arms, twisting to show off the stained glass inspired designs that covered my forearms, biceps and pec.

“During one of Paul’s boring lectures during an incubator meeting, I convinced Kate that her doodles were too good to stay in a sketchbook. Rafael was there too—he owns the tattoo parlor over on West Ave. He was looking for a project to work on his shading, so …”

I pointed to a cross on my shoulder. “It started here. She said since I went by Cruz, I needed a cross like San Juan de la Cruz, some famous Catholic mystic.”

“John of the Cross,” she murmured. “He wrote 'Dark Night of the Soul.'”

I don’t know why I kept being surprised that she knew everything. I was raised Catholic, but it was more cultural than religious. Kate was always teaching me new shit about saints and prayers.

I tapped the dove on my right pec. “That reminded her of a stained glass window … and it sort of went from there. And then she worked in a bunch of musical ones—tattoos from my favorite bands,” I tapped the Led Zeppelin Zoso tattoo up my forearm, the Beatles silhouettes crossing Abbey Road on my ribs, the Foo Fighters symbol on my neck, "And a few for my family too." I tapped the three birds over my heart.

Her eyes scanned all of them, biting her lip … then she realized I’d stopped talking. “If you hated the Navy, why did you join?”

When I couldn’t hide a grimace, her nostrils flared like a shark scenting blood. “Didn’t have a choice. It was that or Juvie.”

Her reply was laced with unexpected concern. “What did you do?”

God, I didn’t want to tell that old sob story. I steadied my hand on the floor next to her ankle. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

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