Page 54 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I block out their arguing.
To anyone else, the pages look like chaotic doodles. A sharp heart split down the middle, ink-dripping lines that look like blood or paint, and a needle winding through a ribbon.
The insignia screamsink me.
But it’s the quieter symbols that matter—a pair of parted lines curves like thighs. Anyone who didn’t know would miss it. Beneath them, a small crescent shape and an upside-down keyhole spiral inward.
It’s not just secrecy. It’s intimacy.
Near the bottom, a barely drawn ribbon wraps like a waistband, and just above it, a whisper of an eye, half-closed, as though it only opened for someone close enough to kiss.
These aren’t just symbols. They are directions. And I know exactly where they lead and revealing it would force Jade into attending the rodeo: something she’s dead set against. It’s precisely the ammo the bad guy would use to keep his title.
“It’s getting a secret tattoo.” I watch my words sink into the others. “But if you really want to win—”
“We want to win.” Josie places her hands together like she’s pleading.
I shouldn’t.
I do.
“The tattoo has to be in a place only a lover can see.”
They all blink.
Dean’s mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “No way.”
Wheeler blinks. “It doesn’t mean that.” He grabs the edge of the book to look at the pages. “Does it?”
“I believe him.” Natalie’s admission goes unheard.
“I don’t see that.” Dean’s big hand presses the pages so he can look while I’m still holding it.
“You don’t see much past what is important to you,” Beck says.
I drop the book on the table and tap the page. “Pelvic region. Inner pelvic region. Secret tattoo where no one can see.”
“That’s oddly specific,” Levi remarks.
“Win or lose. I don’t care. You’ve got ten minutes.” I’m already turning. “Texted Sammy. He’s sober. Ride’s outside in ten.”
“Wait—” Dean starts.
But I’m already walking away.
Don’t look back.
Not at the book.
Not at her.
But I’m not that lucky. As I reach the opening between the two bars, Jade passes by me. Our eyes connect. We say nothing. We glare even.
I should keep walking straight out the front door, but I stop and glance back.
They’re slouched around the table like overgrown kids, cracking a secret code and deciding whether to believe me or not. Hands rise in what I assume is a vote. Heads shake, and another discussion ensues. Another set of hands rises, and they repeat their frustrated conversation.
“Looks like I owe you a thanks, too.” Bucky wipes down the bar with a white rag, nodding at my bloody hand. “Whatever you did to those guys cleared them out.”
