Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
He’s here all the time but somehow so far away.
I miss him like crazy.
God, I sound like such a baby. The boys are literally making all of their dreams come true, and all I can do is complain. I mean, is it that much to ask for a moment alone with my boyfriend so I can try to seduce him? My subtle hints haven’t been enough. Hell, not even the glaringly obvious ones have been. Though knowing Ezra, he’s probably purposefully holding off until I’m older. He’s driving me insane with all this trying to be noble bullshit. I mean, fuck. Just nail me already!
Mr. Judgmental returns with a design, and as he takes his seat, he hands me the piece of paper. “What do you think?”
Turning the paper around, I take in the beautiful design—a finely lined rose with the cursive words ‘Hypothetically Yours’ acting as the stem. The swoops of the y’s are accentuated to create leaves, and the tops of the t’s become thorns. The delicate line continues up, and at the very top is the rose.
My heart starts to race. “It’s perfect,” I say.
“Alright,” he says, taking it back and glancing over it one more time. “Where do you want it?”
I throw my hand right over the back of my head and point to the top of my spine as I awkwardly try to turn and show him. “Right here.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, probably knowing that I’ve done absolutely no research on how badly this is going to hurt. But there’s not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for Ezra, and if having some big dude tattoo my spine for the next thirty minutes is what I’ve gotta do, then count me in. Besides, I have a high pain threshold. Mostly. Well, I mean, kind of. Or maybe not. I’m a little bitch whenever I stub my toe, but period cramps don’t bother me too much, and that’s gotta count for something, right?
Ahhh fuck. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all.
“Right, hop on the table,” he says, glancing over my shirt. “You’ll have to take that off, but keep the underwear on. I’ve got something I can drape you with if you’re more comfortable.”
“I’ll be okay,” I say, certain he’s seen a lot worse than some random girl’s bra straps. Besides, it’s not as though we’re alone here. At least six other people are hanging around, and despite his judgmental tendencies, he seems like somewhat of a teddy bear.
I scooch up on the table and whip my shirt off as he gets to his feet. “Relax,” he says, shaking his head at my enthusiasm. “I’ve got a few things I need to prepare and then we’ll get started. You need anything? Food? Water? A piss? I don’t want you getting up during your session and screwing with my flow.”
“I’m good,” I say, kinda wishing I could adopt this guy. He seems like fun. Bit rough around the edges, but I like that he’s straightforward, and I’m not left wondering about his intentions. It’s comforting.
He takes off, and I’m left twiddling my thumbs for a few minutes, scrolling through my gallery on my phone and trying to find a picture of me with the band to prove to him that I’m not some desperate groupie like the other girls that have been hanging around a lot lately.
My tattoo artist returns a few minutes later, and after quickly getting himself set up, my face is squished against the table with his big arms positioned over my back. Then, instructing me to take a breath, he gets started.
The pain is ridiculous, so I guess I’m nothing but a wretched liar. My pain tolerance is about as low as it can get, but I breathe through it, knowing he’s going as fast as he can to get it done. He tries to talk to me, but I don’t listen to a damn word until he’s finally pulling away and wiping the excess ink off my skin.
“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he mutters, looking over his handiwork.
“You might as well have been using a chainsaw. Do I even have any skin left?”
He rolls his eyes. “Quit being such a princess. You have ink now. You’re a badass.”
Meeting his stare, I grin wide as a wave of pride shoots through me. “Hell yeah, I am,” I agree, knowing that Ezra is going to love it.
He gets me all cleaned up, and after allowing me just a moment to check it out in the mirror, he puts some kind of fancy cling wrap over the rose before giving me a whole rundown of instructions for how to keep it clean and avoid infection.
After handing over my whole life savings, I turn and walk out of the shop but stop when my phone rings. When I pull it out of my back pocket, Ezra’s name and a photo of us fills the screen, and a smile pulls at my lips. I can’t help but whip back around and hold out my phone for the big burly guy to see. “Ha. Told ya,” I say, sounding like a whiny child. “I’m not a groupie. He’s my boyfriend.”