Chapter 5 #2
That definitely wasn't the answer I was expecting, but it also wasn't the one I was after.
I swallow hard, fingers stilling on the ring. "Let me rephrase that. Who were you planning on giving it to? A man doesn't carry around his grandmother's ring in his pocket unless he planned on giving it to someone."
The air between us feels dangerously charged.
"I think I'll keep that to myself for now." His tone is clipped, final.
Coward. Heat flashes through me—anger, hurt, something I refuse to name.
"Trigger, this isn't going to work if you're seeing someone behind my back.
I have to know how to cover for you, and I don't need to be looking over my shoulder, worried about what woman wants to spill my blood because I took her man. "
He shifts toward me slightly, and suddenly the backseat feels impossibly small. "I never said there was someone else—"
"Then why can't you just tell me why you had this ring in your pocket?" My voice rises despite my best efforts to stay calm. Why does it matter so much? Why do I care?
"I didn't say I wouldn't."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication.
I spin the ring again, a nervous habit I'm developing, hating his silence on the subject because I have to stare at the reminder.
I lean my head against the seat, and my eyes catch his hand.
He's not wearing a ring. Unlike him, I don't carry spare rings for funsies.
"Fine, don't tell me," I say, my throat tight as I take it off. "You're not wearing one, so neither am I."
I hold it out between us.
"Asha, stop playing games." His voice drops lower, and there's an edge to it now that makes my pulse quicken. "You have to wear that ring. You're my wife."
"And you're my husband. I'll wear mine when you wear one."
The challenge sits between us like a lit fuse. His eyes darken, jaw working as he stares at the ring in my palm, then back up to my face. The muscle in his temple twitches.
"You're serious." It's not a question.
"Completely." I don't drop my hand, don't break eye contact.
"You didn't get me one," he bites out, and there's an edge to his voice that makes my stomach flip. "I can wait. You, however, can't. We have a meeting to attend, and that ring needs to be on your finger. It's part of our deal."
Our deal. The words sting more than they should.
"I agree, it's a bad look, but so is you not wearing one. If the Arora family is as traditional as you say they are, they'll expect both of us to be donning rings."
"I'm a rancher. These are working hands." He holds one up as if to prove his point. "It's perfectly reasonable that I don't wear a ring for that reason alone. Beyond the safety aspect, there's the cost of losing it, riding, mucking stalls, feeding, the list is endless."
Of course he has an answer for everything. My grip tightens on the ring.
I shrug, forcing casualness I don't feel. "Well, I'm a rancher's wife and a vet at that, so..." I set the ring on his thigh. "We can be untraditional together."
The ring sits there on the dark fabric of his pants, catching the light. Neither of us moves to touch it. The backseat of our car is humming with tension so thick it almost feels tangible.
There’s a tick in his jaw before he says, "Put this back on and don't take it off again."
His voice is low, controlled, but there's something dangerous underneath it, something that makes heat coil in my stomach even as irritation flares in my chest.
He doesn't get to just order me around.
"Make me," I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang in the air between us, and I watch his eyes flash with surprise before something darker moves in. His gaze drops to my lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes.
Oh God, what did I just say?
The tension is suffocating now, the space between us charged with something that has nothing to do with business deals or fake marriages.
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
He leans forward slightly, and I force myself not to retreat.
His hand moves toward the ring on his thigh, fingers closing around it.
"Don't test me, Asha," he says quietly, his voice rough. "I always win."
But instead of handing it back, he reaches for my left hand. His fingers are warm, firm, as he takes my wrist, gentler than I expected given his tone, but with enough pressure that I feel trapped. Claimed. Breathe. Just breathe.
"Wear this, and I'll meet your terms." His eyes search mine as he waits for another objection. When I don’t stop him, he takes my hand and slides the ring back on himself. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, lingering a beat too long to be casual. "Was that so difficult?"
I should pull away. I should say something cutting. Instead, I'm frozen, hyperaware of every point of contact between us and the way his eyes haven't left mine.
"Your turn," I manage, but my voice lacks conviction.
His thumb traces another slow circle on my wrist, right over my pulse. "As you wish," he says before his eyes flash outside the window. "Manuel, change of plans. Pull over; we have to make a stop."
He pulls away, and I straighten in my seat, my eyes darting out the window. There's no jewelry shop, just a few tiendas. That's when my eye catches the word tatuajes. My Spanish is rough, but I'm pretty sure that translates to tattoo.
My head snaps back toward him. "Have you lost your mind?"
"In more ways than you know," he answers somewhat cryptically.
"Trigger, this is—" I start, but I don't even know how to finish. Insane… Extreme… Permanent!
That last word echoes in my head like a warning bell. This is a temporary marriage. A business arrangement with an expiration date. You don't get permanent marks for temporary things. He's already out of the car, heading toward the parlor.
By the time I catch up to him, he's already inside. The tattoo parlor is exactly what you'd expect: dark walls covered in flash art, the buzzing hum of machines in the back, the sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with ink. A woman with sleeve tattoos and a nose ring looks up from the counter.
"Can I help you?" she asks with a thick accent.
"Yes, wedding band," Trigger says, holding up his left hand.
Her eyes dart between us. "One or two?" she questions.
He glances over his shoulder like he's waiting to see if I'll take the same reckless leap. "I didn't ask you to do this."
He doesn't argue. Instead, he turns back and replies, "Just one. Will there be a wait?"
"No, not for a band. Easy tattoo," she confirms before adding, "Follow me."
Once he's seated in the chair, I can't help but point out the obvious under my breath as she prepares her tray. "This is permanent. We aren't."
The way he pushes his tongue into his cheek as though he doesn’t like my comment has me shifting on the stool beside him.
"It's as permanent as I want it to be. Tattoos can be removed."
"Even if you get it removed, it could still leave a scar."
His eyes flick to mine, dark and intense. "Maybe I want the reminder. I have no intention of forgetting my first and last marriage."
First and last. I can't help it. Those words make my breath catch in my throat.
I can't be sure what they mean. Does he mean he plans to keep me, or does he simply mean he has no plan to ever get married again?
Neither makes sense, given that he was carrying a ring in his pocket the night we randomly decided to set this fake marriage in motion.
Here I am, overthinking again, letting my mind travel down roads that lead to inevitable ends. I stand abruptly, needing air, and hike my thumb over my shoulder. "I think I saw a coffee shop. I'm going to grab another. Want me to grab you one?"
"Sure," he says with a heavy sigh.
Did he feel it too? Or am I imagining things?
I'm almost to the door, my hand on the handle, when I remember I have no money.
Heat creeps up my neck as I turn back. The worst part of all this might be that I have no money of my own.
I've never worked—at least not a job that earns me a paycheck.
I pull the card I never returned out of my pocket and hold it up.
"Mind if I use this?"
He doesn't even look up from where the needle is tracing black ink into his skin, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. "My money is your money. You're my wife, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The use of that nickname needles at my nerves because it feels like a power play. Like he’s getting me back for walking away while he gets the wedding ring I requested tattooed on his finger.
"Don't call me that."
"Why?" Now he does look up, and the heat in his gaze pins me in place. "Does it bother you...sweetheart?"
"It's disingenuous," I manage, gripping the doorframe a little tighter than necessary.
"So is this entire marriage." He holds up his hand, showing me the half-finished band wrapping around his finger. "But here we are, making it permanent anyway."
The artist glances between us, clearly entertained.
"You're the one who suggested this," I point out, gesturing vaguely at his hand.
"And you're the one who demanded I get a ring." His eyes don't leave mine. "Seems like we both got what we wanted."
Did we?
"Two coffees, then," I say, needing to escape before I do something stupid like ask him what he really meant about this being his last marriage. "Black. No sugar?"
"You remembered." He sounds almost surprised.
Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you, and I hate myself for it.
"Don't read into it. I'm just a good actress."
"The best," he agrees, but something flickers in his eyes. "Almost had me convinced you actually give a damn."
I leave before I can respond, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is just a role. Just a performance. So why does it feel like every word between us is carving something permanent into my chest, deeper than any tattoo ever could?