Page 53 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

And for some reason, I agreed.

Then we had sex on the chair in his booth, soaking up the moment, similar to how our livers were soaking up all the alcohol in our systems. And like the alcohol, we both knew how much our relationship would wind up damaging us in the long run. But we didn’t have the willpower to say no and do what was best for us––to keep our distance. To protect our hearts and to obey the rules we’d set when we decided to start having threesomes.

But nope.

Instead, we continued sneaking around behind Gibson’s back, hooking up and blaming it on the alcohol and bad scheduling.

It was a load of bullshit, and we both knew it.

I don’t know why I still care or why I continue to dissect our past decisions on a daily basis. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. But it doesn’t stop the deep ache from blossoming every time I take a walk down memory lane.

Because I did get hurt. I did open up to him. I did give him a piece of myself I never planned on giving. And when I tried to tell him about my feelings, he rejected me.

“Have you kept your promise?” he asks, his gaze rolling over me and all my virgin skin on full display.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “Have you kept yours? To never get a woman’s name tattooed on your body?”

He gives me a knowing smirk. A moment later, it softens, and he turns his attention back to the road. “Maybe.”

We made so many promises back then. Sometimes, it’s hard to acknowledge how our present is very different from the one we’d anticipated not so long ago. No. Now, our worlds are upside down and inside out.

And it’ll never be the same.

But there’s one promise I do intend to keep. He will be theonlyperson who ever gives me a tattoo because he’s right. It’s intimate––putting something on someone’s body which will be there for the rest of their lives. And the only person who I’ve ever wanted to impact me on such a level is him.

Irrevocably.

“You okay tagging along?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Sure.”

“It shouldn’t take long. It’s right around the corner.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. Positive. You sure you’re not worried Jos’ll give me a job?” I wink.

Throwing his head back, he laughs. “I have no doubt he would. He loves a girl with virgin skin.”

“He does?”

“Yeah.” He scans my bare arms again before his gaze rolls over my shorts and down my legs. “He makes a bet with all the other workers to see how long the person will last until they cave.”

My smile grows until my cheeks pinch. “And how long do you think I’d last?”

“Depends on if you plan on keeping the promise you made to me.”

“So, you won’t give me a tattoo now that things are”––I wave my hand around––“the way they are?”

“Hmm,” he hums, but he doesn’t answer me as he pulls into the shop’s parking lot. “Let’s get inside.”

He pushes open the driver's side door and climbs out of the car. After pulling Peanut’s car seat out, he joins me at Etch 'N Ink’s entrance. The rough brick and chunky lettering, along with the grungy-modern decor, manage to ride the line between homey, kickass, and unique as the scent of cleaning products and cigarette smoke wafts through the air.

“Who’s this?” an older man asks, trudging up from the back of the shop. He motions to the car seat in Milo’s hand.

“Jos, this is Penny,” Milo returns.

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