Page 14 of Savannah Royals
“Wily wench.”
After a few more laughs, we settle again. When Paul’s breathing evens out and my eyes grow heavy, I force myself to stir.
“I should get back.”
As I rise, I feel a lump weighing my skirt pocket. “Oh, I have something for you.” I pull out Ray’s payment. “I nearly forgot.”
The envelope smacks him in the chest as he sits up. He opens it and quickly counts.
“What did you sell, Paul?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he’s satisfied with the tally, he rolls over and rises.
“Paul?” I try again. “We haven’t worked a job for weeks. What did you ask Ray to move?”
“You know I don’t yank you outta here for every job we pull, Kitty-Kat.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I didn’t realize I have to answer to you.” He flicks his hair before stretching to brush stray grass out of mine.
“Hmm.” I reach up to snag his hand. I pull it down, straighten out his fingers, and trace the small king of diamonds symbol tattooed on his right ring finger. It’s done in black ink, just like his wolf.
“I forgot. You’re the king, right?” I raise my eyes to his.
He frowns, and I lift my own hand, sliding the thick, silver ring he gave me off my right ring finger. I’ve worn it every day since my sixteenth birthday. I flick my red queen of diamonds tattoo toward him.
“Maybe you forgot who you’re talking to.”
He smiles and kisses the mark on my finger. “I didn’t forget, Kat. Is it really that important to you?”
“Your behavior, like you’re hiding something, makes me think perchance it is.”
“I’m not. It wasn’t anything important, doll. Just some tribute I took from the Condor and Magpie gangs ages ago. Oil, gunpowder. The usual. Plus a few watches Tony lifted last week. You know he likes to have his fun.”
I slide the ring back on my finger. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He’s incredulous. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. You told me. That’s all I wanted.”
“Next time cut the theatrics, Kat.” He looks disgruntled.
“It got your attention.”
“It did, but I’d never forget.” He slides his ring up slightly and reaches for my hand, placing our paired tattoos side by side.
Everyone in the Wolfpack is marked. Paul has the wolf across his back and shoulder. Abe and Tony each have pawprints and swipes tracking up their sides. The three boys had them done when I was fifteen, then they badgered me for a year about getting inked too. I refused.
But on my sixteenth birthday, after bringing in a particularly successful haul of stolen diamonds, Paul brought me to the tattoo parlor himself. He went in first, and I watched him get the king of diamonds tattoo. Then he handed me his silver signet ring, the one I’d seen on his finger since before I could remember. It’s thick and old with an engraved crest weaving its way across the band. His only memento from the family who dropped him on the orphanage steps as an infant.
“I’m the king and you’re the queen,” he told me as he handed the ring over. “This is yours now. It’ll cover your finger. No one has to know but us.”
This was a very different ask than before, and I knew it. I carefully took the ring and sat down in the chair.
“Queen of diamonds, please,” I whispered, handing over my finger.
That night I realized, ink or not, Paul marked me years ago. I was his, his queen of diamonds.
