Chapter Fourteen
Chapter
Fourteen
Gone.
The word reverberates through me, a sharp clattering that threatens to shred my insides.
He’s not gone yet. There’s a piece of him in my bag. And more notes in Dom’s safe.
Josh is still here.
Just not…like he was.
“He passed away in January.” When Dom speaks, there’s no hint of the grief and rage I’m fighting against. He’s his normal steady-voiced self. “You knew him?”
The man straightens off his stool and the woman comes up beside him, leaning her body into his as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. The two of them join together as they speak to us.
“We met him in Oregon. I’m Reggie, and this is Carmen. We were at Multnomah Falls, I proposed, and Josh happened to be there. He took that.” Reggie gestures toward the wall, where a framed photo of a kissing couple surrounded by glittering mist hangs. “It was perfect. He offered to send it to us, no charge. I told him to come through town sometime, and I’d tattoo him. On the house. We kept in touch but…” When Reggie trails off, eyes going cloudy, all of us know what he’s having trouble voicing.
Josh got too sick to come here and claim his tattoo.
Reggie shares a wobbling smile between us. “He called last year. Told us the situation. Asked if he could pass off his freebie. To his sister and his best friend.”
“We said yes. Of course we said yes.” Carmen’s eyes shimmer now, the hint of tears gathering at the base of her lashes.
She can cry for my brother. This woman who only knew a little of him.
Why can’t I?
“Thank you,” Dom says. “Did Josh also say what type of tattoo we’d be getting?”
Carmen chuckles and Reggie grins wider.
“No.” A dimple appears in the man’s cheek as he beams at us. “Josh said you’d never go through with it if he got that high-handed. Whatever you get is up to you.”
Carmen slips out from under her partner’s arm and goes back to her customer. Meanwhile Reggie pulls out some binders and settles them on the counter.
“Take a look. Take your time. I’m happy to draw up a custom piece if you have any ideas. Whatever you want.”
What if I don’t want a tattoo? I almost mutter petulantly. But I keep the ungrateful words to myself.
Because they’re a lie.
Josh was telling the truth in his letter. I’ve dreamed about getting a tattoo forever. Of having an artist sketch a beautiful, meaningful design into my skin. But just like all of the pages of those pretty journals I bought for myself, my skin has remained blank.
I was waiting for something significant to occur in my life. Something to immortalize with a permanent symbol.
But do I want to immortalize the death of my brother?
While these thoughts ricochet through my mind, Dom uses the hand that’s still on my lower back to guide me toward the counter. He opens the first binder and slowly flips through the pages.
None of the images register. I’m sure they’re gorgeous and fashioned with skill.
But they were made for someone else. Not for me.
Not for Josh.
I almost wish he’d left specific instructions on what to get, because I don’t know how I’m supposed to pick something that matters.
Better yet, I wish he were here to bicker with and push back against. He would try to coax, then berate, then charm me into getting a tattoo.
Would he win? Would I?
But now it’s just me versus words on a piece of paper.
“What are you thinking?” Dom asks, quietly so only I can hear. His warm breath brushes my ear, making me shiver, which in turn makes me scowl.
“I’m thinking Josh is a lot harder to argue with now.”
There’s a rich sound. A soothing set of notes I belatedly realize is Dom’s chuckle.
“I meant about what tattoo you want to get. Assuming you’ll go through with it.”
I glare up at him and find his eyes already on me. Our gazes lock and hold.
“I’m getting one.” My voice lacks the hard edge I tried equipping it with. Instead, I sound almost breathy. “But it has to matter.”
Dom firms his mouth and offers a small nod, his stare never leaving mine. “Like a jar of peanut butter on your butt?”
His delivery—stone-cold serious—is what gets me. That, and the memory of a hungover Josh stumbling into my fourteen-year-old bedroom muttering that he made a mistake.
All the angry grief drains from my body as I snort. Then giggle. Then dissolve into stomach-cramping laughter.
To commemorate his eighteenth birthday, my older brother got drunk on cheap vodka and found a less reputable tattoo studio willing to ink a wasted teenager’s ass with a nonsensical idea. Josh had tugged down his shorts and pulled the bandage back enough for me to see a beautifully detailed jar of open peanut butter and a realistic slice of bread spread with brown goo.
“Peanut BUTTer,” he’d explained to me.
“I am not getting that,” I force out through my hilarity, then try to suck a few calming breaths in through my nose so I don’t have to use my inhaler. Chuckles continue to sneak out despite my efforts. “But I did think it was extra embarrassing how he only got half done.”
Dom, wearing his own smile, lifts a single brow. “Half done?”
“Yeah. Half the sandwich.” I hold out my hands as if they’re slices of bread. “A PB and J. He needed a jelly jar on the other cheek.” God, that would’ve been perfect. A PB and J ass.
Then something amazing happens. A light flush comes to Dom’s cheeks. A subtle pink that quickly deepens to an impossible-to-ignore red.
Is he embarrassed? About what…?
A ludicrous suspicion hits me and I take a step back, studying the rule-following man at my side, wondering if I’m about to find out that miracles do exist in the world.
“Dominic Perry.” My voice is tight with disbelief and passionate hope. “Do you…have a jar of jelly tattooed on your ass?”
He straightens to his full six-foot-three height, crosses his arms over his chest, firms his jaw…
Then gives me a curt nod.
My world explodes.
Time has no meaning.
I think I faint but somehow stay standing.
It is very possible that slight dip of Dom’s head will be the simplest thing to set off an asthma attack in my life. But I manage to keep breathing while I wheeze out a single question.
“How?”
Dom narrows his eyes, but I would bet my favorite puzzle he’s trying not to smile.
“Vodka.” He lifts a shoulder and drops it back into place. “And it was his birthday.”
“I think I might cry.” Or I would if my tear ducts were functioning properly. But that is how overjoyed I am to discover that Mr.Responsible Asshole has a goofy picture forever inked onto his derrière.
It’s too beautiful of a thought to believe.
“I need to see it.”
Dom’s head jerks back, eyes widening. “What?”
I don’t know why, but in this moment, there is nothing I want more in the world than to see that tattoo. “Moon me. Right now. I demand proof.”
Both of Dom’s brows raise this time. “You can’t be serious.”
I rub my hands together with an evil grin, then cup them around my mouth. “Show us the goods!”
There’s a chortle to my right, and that’s when I remember there’s more than just Dom and me in the shop. Glancing over, I realize that Reggie is sitting on a low stool near a set of tattooing tools, watching our back-and-forth with a grin on his face.
“We’ve got a bathroom down the hall if you want some privacy.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder.
I don’t give Dom an opportunity to decline. I press my hands into his lower back and use every ounce of my not-very-much strength to force him toward the restroom. When his feet shuffle forward, I know I’ve won, because if Dom didn’t want me to move him, then he wouldn’t move.
We reach the bathroom, which is plenty large enough to fit us both, and I shut the door behind us. Closing us in.
“Show me.” I cross my arms and hit Dom with a demanding glare even as I fight off eager giggles.
This can’t be real. Dominic Perry cannot have a tattoo on his butt.
The man meets me stare for stare. Then his fingers go to his fly and heat explodes across my cheeks when I realize exactly what is about to happen.
Dom is going to strip for me.
When we dunked ourselves in the frigid ocean, he kept his underwear on. Even on the night of the ill-fated pity finger bang, Dom never got fully naked. Not that he’s getting naked now, either. But I’m going to lay my eyes on a new part of him.
The sound of his zipper is loud in the suddenly too-quiet bathroom.
He turns his back toward me, and I catch my breath. He hikes up his shirt, and my pulse thrums. He hooks a thumb in his waistband, and I bite hard into my lower lip.
Then Dom bares his right ass cheek to me.
Briefly, all I can register is how tight and perfectly formed the partial globe is. But in the next second, all I can see is the image embedded in his skin.
It’s the same style, thick lines and bold colors. The same arrangement of an open jar and a slice of bread covered in goo. Only Dom’s is a jelly jar with grapes on the label and purple coloring.
The other half of the PB and J.
For a fabulous moment, I live in the joy of familiarity. I know the brother of this tattoo.
But then reality crashes hard into my chest. So hard that I stumble back and gasp for a breath. I bury my face in my hands to hide the way my expression twists with horrible realization.
I’m never going to see Josh’s ridiculous tattoo again.
Not that I saw it a lot. Only when my brother felt extra goofy and wore a Speedo swimming rather than a full set of trunks. In the tiny getup, his pale ass was on full display along with his eighteen-year-old mistake.
But what feels like a butter knife straight to the sternum is the realization that Josh’s tattoo doesn’t even exist anymore.
That piece of my brother, along with the rest of him, is ashes.
Dom’s jelly is all on its own.
“Maddie?”
I don’t remove my hands from my face. A massive pressure behind my eyes demands I cry under the devastating weight of this moment. But instead of leaking tears onto my face, I only feel the start of a sharp pain in my temple. My grief is a drill, digging into my sensitive brain matter.
Then a firm pair of arms enfolds me, pulling me against a hard chest wearing soft cotton.
“I’m sorry,” Dom mutters, his breath warm against my hair, seeping through my skull and soothing the ache. “I thought it would make you laugh.”
My next inhale shudders with unshed tears, but I manage to peel my hands away from my face. Then, because the fight has temporarily left me, I let my forehead drop and rest against Dom’s shoulder.
We stand like that—him holding me up, me leaning on him—for an indeterminate amount of time, and my traitorous mind points out this hug isn’t so meaningless. This doesn’t feel like an act.
This feels like relief.
Which means I must break the moment before it starts to mean too much.
“It’s very embarrassing,” I mutter into his cedar-scented shirt.
He huffs a short laugh but doesn’t say anything.
“Do you regret it?”
After a pause, where Dom’s fingers spread wide as if attempting to cover more of my back, he gives me an answer. “I used to. But not anymore. Now I think it might be the best part of me.”
My heart squeezes tight, and I suck in a deep inhale at the new rush of emotion.
Determination presses away the painful confusion from a moment ago, and I realize how vulnerable I allowed myself to be in this bathroom with Dom.
Why do I keep letting my walls fall when he’s around?
Knowing this path will only lead to more pain, I step out of his embrace and avert my eyes. Putting as much distance between us as I can.
“Pull your pants up.” My voice is steady now. “It’s time to do something we won’t regret.”
I don’t wait for him, striding out of the bathroom and back to the front of the shop, passing Carmen as she sketches orange flames into her customer’s skin. Dom doesn’t waste any time appearing at my side, and we resume our spots at the counter. Time to make a decision.
My eyes move to the binders but immediately slide away. There’s nothing in those pages for me. Unbidden, my attention finds its way to Dom’s ass, but not because I want a jar of jelly. A flap of paper sticks out of his back pocket, and I realize it’s Josh’s letter.
I reach out, slip it free, and unfold the sheet. Dom watches me, face unreadable.
With the tips of my fingers, I trace the message written in my brother’s hand, and when I reach the last two words, I know without a doubt what I want immortalized on my body. What I want to dig deep into my skin with ink.
“Can you tattoo this on me? Exactly as he wrote it?” I hold the precious letter out to Reggie and point to the signature.
Love,
Josh
The artist smiles at me, the expression soft. Understanding.
“Of course, Maddie. I would be honored.” With obvious care, he accepts the sheet of paper to examine the writing closely. “Where would you like it?”
“My wrist,” I say without hesitation. “Where I can always see it.”
There’s a looming presence behind me, and I realize Dom has stepped in close. I brace for him to suggest I get it in a place that can be covered up if need be. A responsible location.
“I want the same thing.”
I scowl over my shoulder, up at him. “Are you stealing my idea?”
He holds my gaze, an unreadable emotion in his brown eyes. “It’s a good idea.”
Before I can decide if I want to fight more with Dom about his choice to get a matching tattoo with me, Reggie ushers me to a chair, then copies Josh’s signature onto some special tracing paper that he’s then able to press against my skin and leave the design behind. Even seeing the script on me in the temporary purple ink, I know I’ve made the right decision.
For the rest of my life, a piece of my brother will be on my wrist. Wherever I go, he’ll be there in this tiny way.
The needle stings something fierce, a sharp, burning pain. I grit my teeth and stare at the wall of designs, distracting myself by visually tracing the lines of other pieces of work.
“Done,” Reggie announces sooner than I anticipated, though I’m glad the pain is over.
When I glance down, words clog up in my throat. But I’m not sure if I regained speech that I could articulate how much the sight of Love, Josh on my wrist means to me.
“It looks great,” a deep voice murmurs, and I turn to meet Dom’s eyes.
“You better like it, seeing as how you’re getting the same one.” I mean to affect a mocking tone, but my words come out almost breathless. Not that I’m unused to that state.
I lose my breath a lot. It just seems to happen more often around Dom.
A smile twitches the corner of his mouth, and he watches as Reggie cleans the tattoo, then covers it with a clear protective wrap.
“Your turn, big guy.”
I climb off my seat, switching spots with Dom.
Reggie cleans his station, changes out his needles, and prints a new tracing of the design.
“Which wrist?”
Dom glances down at his hands, then he reaches to unbuckle Josh’s watch. “Hold this for me?” He extends the timepiece for me to take.
Unlike in the cabin, I accept it, cradling the accessory gently. While Reggie preps Dom for his tattoo, I fiddle with the device. As I hold the watch, my thumb rubs over the wristband, warm from contact with Dom’s skin. The metal backing of the watch holds the heat of his body, too, and I pause when I feel an indent in the otherwise smooth surface.
Tearing my eyes away from the man in the chair, I examine the underside of the watch and realize there’s an inscription. A simple message.
Brothers, always. -D
D for “Dom.”
Dom gave this watch to Josh.
My brother gave it back in the end.