Page 31 of Sinful Like Us
We go over a few technicalities in the next five minutes and screech to a halt on glaring problems.
“Your tattoo,” I whisper to Thatcher.
“It’s on his ass,” Banks says.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right—my boyfriend has a tattoo on his ass. SFO, namely Paul Donnelly, inked script on Thatcher recently, and I wasn’t present. It happened under the cloak ofOmega Brotherhoodand I just saw the result.
They didn’t write “hypocrite” on his butt like I thought they would. Like Thatcher said theycould.Instead, SFO decided on something that “better fit” Thatcher.
And so they tattooed the word,Cinderella.
The cursive lettering and placement is actually quite beautiful. When I first saw the tattoo in bed, I was overwhelmed. Thatcher has always been the one living the rags to riches story. He’s been the one with everything to lose.
Banks finishes off his beer. “Just don’t get buck-naked, Cinderella.”
Thatcher glares and motions to him. “You also have a fucking tattoo.”
My brows jump. “You do?”
Banks pats his right thigh. “The ink is blown out. If I could kick my fourteen-year-old self in the ass, I would.”
Thatcher explains to me, “Free tattoo in a friend’s basement.”
“Is it a design or script?” I ask.
“Roman numerals.” Banks places his empty beer on the bar. “Which should’ve been tattooed over years ago.”
Thatcher hones in on his brother. Banks stares directly back. Neither one blinking.
Tension pulls uncomfortably, and I look between them, something unsaid gripping them and the air.
“You want me to tell her?” Banks asks.
I freeze.
Thatcher is dead-set on Banks. “She already knows.”
“Yeah? She knows that everyone in our family blames each other for his death, but no one thought to point a finger at him?”
A chill slips down my spine, and I realize this is about their older brother.
“Fuck him,” Banks says with bite.
Thatcher’s nose flares. “Don’t.”
“I love him, but Mary Mother of God, Ihatehim like a thousand pounds in his direction, and my dumb ass has to live with his death on my thigh.”
My stomach flips.
Roman numerals. A date.
The day Skylar died.
His words drop heavy. Like a small implosion. Banks looks everywhere but at us, and Thatcher drills a pained expression on the wall. I canfeelhow infrequent they discuss Skylar, and my big mouth might lead all three of us in a sinkhole, but I just speak.
“It could be worse.” I offer my beer to Banks.
He takes the glass, his brows knitting. “How?”
