Page 11 of It Should Have Been You

“When I got home after my shift late last night, but I guess it was early this morning. He wanted to see my tattoo.”

“Did you tattoo your vagina while I was passed out?” We’re both stuttering in an octave above our normal tone. “Oh my God.”

Her face flushes red. “I called for our Lord and Savior too. I’m one of those girls now.” We stare at each other before bursting into a fit of laughter. “And Beth,” she says, wiping tears from her cheeks. “It’s not confessions he does in there.”

“No shit.”

“Although, he’s so good with that baton, I would have confessed to a murder from before I was born.”

A baton?

I’m still in shock, trying to untangle my tongue to form words. “You’re a beast. You come home from a shift at the emergency room to go a round with Damon.”

She holds up three fingers.

“Kim!”

“I know. I know. My thighs are killing me, and I’m probably a walking STD.”

She grabs a cooled cake from the wire rack and stuffs the entire thing in her mouth.

“You used protection, right?”

She rolls her eyes, obviously insulted. “I was horny, not stupid.”

“Fair enough.”

Quick to deflect, she asks. “You’re not working, are you?”

“No. My last photography booking was last weekend. London tomorrow, remember?”

She grimaces. “Don’t remind me.”

I feel her eyes on my back as I grab my camera from the table in the hallway and place it in my bag. Her unspoken words are louder than anything she says out loud.

I keep my eyes on the bag when I say, “Spit it out. You’ll give yourself an ulcer if you swallow it.”

“I’m just worried, that’s all. You’re going to be in London for eight months.”

“It’s work.”

Concern washes over her features. “Sisterly instinct, I guess.”

A shiver crawls down my spine. “About what?”

“I don’t know.”

I grab her hands and pull her into a tight hug. “It’s eight months. I’m only doing it because it will be good on my law-school application. I’ll be home before you know it.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She seems unconvinced, but there’s not much more I can do to reassure her off-kilter spidey senses. Pulling away, I press my thumbs to either side of her mouth, right where our matching dimples are. “Smile. You had sex with a priest last night.”

I swear her cheeks burn my fingers. “Stop it.”

We jump as three knocks sound at the front door.

Strange.

Visitors need to be buzzed in. You can’t just call to our apartment unless… “I bet he knocked with his baton.”

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