Page 10 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I laugh dryly, hating how close I am to tears while praying she can’t tell I’m seconds from having a panic attack. “Thanks.”

Without another word, I yank on the handle and slip into the leather seat.

This is going to be interesting.

4

Maddie

The silence is stifling as Milo pulls out of the hospital’s parking lot, and I’m not sure how long I can take it.

“Nice car,” I offer, fiddling with the hem of my dark red blouse. “Is it new?”

He grunts.

“What happened to your motorcycle?”

“Motorcycles don’t hold car seats,” he mutters, still refusing to look at me.

“Oh.”

He traded in his motorcycle? For me?

Not for you, you idiot. For Peanut.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ignore my guilt and the way his tattoos magnify the muscles along his forearms as he grips the steering wheel. A few new ones are etched into his skin, and I’d give anything to examine them closer, but I’m not stupid. Which is exactly what I would be if I asked him about them.

He might be a tattoo artist, but each of his tattoos is personal to him. With a story. A feeling. He might be shitty with words, but his tattoos? They speak louder than any sentence he could ever string together.

When a gorgeous dandelion etched into his forearm catches my eye, my fingers itch to trace it, but I clench them into a fist.

“Staring’s rude,” he mumbles, his gaze still glued to the road.

“Sorry. I, uh…” I point to the dandelion tattoo, unable to help myself. “It’s new.”

He looks down at his forearm, the ink still fresh and dark, each line crisp and strong, yet almost delicate too. He still refuses to say a word.

“It’s gorgeous,” I mention.

More silence.

“Did you do it?”

The bastard stays quiet, only fanning my curiosity.

“I mean, I know you like to create the stencils for your own tattoos, right?”

His jaw ticks.

“Or did you let one of the apprentices practice on you again? If you did, you should give them props from me. It might be my favorite––”

“She needs a name,” he barks, practically strangling the leather steering wheel with his firm grasp.

I flinch back and look at the car seat tucked in the back row. My chest flares with indecision as I suck my lips between my teeth. Finally, I whisper, “I know.”

“So, why haven’t you named her?”

“I don’t know.”

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