Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“Well, I’m touched,” Oliver says, pressing his cheeks like he’s stifling a blush.
“I was talking about Allie,” Clay laughs. “Are you impressed?” He nods pointedly at the only woman at the table as she tries my food. Her eye-closing appreciation has the whole table whooping.
“One point for Carson,” Tom laughs, pointing finger guns in my direction. I feign getting hit in the chest and take a seat at the head of the table, watching as everyone clears their plates in record time.
After dinner, when the cleaning up is done, and everyone is indulging in alcohol, I flop next to Allie on the couch. Her legs are curled up, feet tucked neatly beneath her. With her hair pinned up in a messy style, she has the air of a sexy librarian who’s just desperate to drop the socializing and curl up with a good book. The men in the group have gotten tangled up in a discussion about cars, and Oliver is currently showing Theron and Gabe his sports car in the driveway.
But all I want to do is find out more about Allie.
“I’m still blown away by dinner,” she says, reaching out to touch my arm. I like her tactile nature. Human beings need human touch, and not enough people reach out that way anymore. When I was a kid, my mom was the same, except when my dad was around. He used to yell at her that she’d make me soft if she hugged me too much. I think that’s why she stopped.
“Thanks. It was nothing, though. I’m sure whoever volunteers tomorrow will produce something good.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” Her eyes scan over my left arm, taking in the tattoos there.
“This one is beautiful.” She points to an intricate image of Poseidon’s face, with a trident and huge waves that start at my hand and wrap around the almost photographic image. I get a lot of positive comments about this one, but when I look at it, all I see is a slight distortion where I didn’t quite get the angle of the face right, and the way the trident stands out too much against the more important God image.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to criticize the image but at the last minute, I bite my tongue. “Thanks. I try to do my own tattoos where I can.”
“You did this?” she asks, running her finger over the wave, eyes wide with fascination.
“I did.”
“Wow. I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but this kind of thing would tempt me.”
“There are better artists out there,” I say, already praying she doesn’t ask me to ink her pristine skin. I’d never trust myself to do her justice.
Clay flops onto the sofa next to me. “Shut up with the modesty,” he says. “This guy has a waitlist for his work.”
“It was that viral TikTok,” I remind him. “One post and people go crazy.”
“They wouldn’t go crazy if your stuff wasn’t worth waiting for, would they?” Allie says.
“People are stupid. They join lines at the mall without even knowing what they’re lining up for! They jump on anything if it seems popular.”
“Well, if I was into tattoos for myself, I’d pay good money for one of yours,” Allie says. “And stop with the self depreciation or you’ll insult me.”
Clay nods his head in agreement, and I bite my lip.
You’re nothing. You’re no one. Just another loser in a long line of losers. The words buzz around my head like a mantra that only I’m aware of. I know I should have left my father’s negativity behind me a long time ago. I haven’t spoken to him for eight years, so his poison should have found its way out of my bloodstream by now, but it hasn’t. Everything he said has become a part of me, wrapping around my self-belief and strangling it like the kraken’s tentacles.
I rub my other arm where Clay inked those tentacles last year. I didn’t tell him the significance.
“I was always terrible at art,” Allie muses. “But my English teacher told me that I can make beauty with words.”
“Are you going to make our cock stories beautiful?” Jimmy asks, unaware that his comment makes Allie’s brightness falter for just a second.
“I’ll do my best,” she says, false sunshine plastered onto her expression, but I see the truth. Allie might not want me to be self-depreciating, but she has a tendency for it herself.
“I want to read something you’ve written that you’re really proud of,” I say.
Allie’s eyebrows gather high in the center of her forehead, creating a sweet wrinkle of surprise. “You do?”
“Yeah. Why not? We’re all here sharing our life stories. Maybe you should share something with us.”
“Yeah, Allie. Why don’t you tell us what you think the answer to the big question is?” Theron suggests.
“What big question, Theron?” She tips her head, not expecting what I know is coming.