Chapter 20
“Wake up, cutie. What would you like to do today?” I spread the curtains wide and let in the soft Dallas morning. The sky is a pale blue, and the sun shines through the thick windowpane, a golden ray bouncing off Ezra’s tired eyes. He looks wrecked, but in the prettiest way. My fault, of course.
Coming back to my hotel room to celebrate was easily my favorite part of the night.
The sex—god, the sex—was incredible. I took control in ways I’ve never done before, and Ezra completely surrendered to every touch, thrust, and all I had to offer.
And I had a lot to offer. We went at it for hours, pushing each other to the edge until our bodies were wrung out, muscles aching, too exhausted to move.
Waking up this morning, sore all over, feels like a badge of honor—a delicious, aching reminder of everything we did to each other the night before.
Ezra groans into the pillow, “Five more minutes?”
“Nope. You drove three hours to see me throw a ball down a lane, so now I’m repaying the favor. Whatever you want to do today, we’re doing it. Museums, shopping, restaurant hopping, maybe a tattoo parlor?” I shoot him a look, eyebrows raised.
He lifts his head just enough to squint at me. His hair’s a mess, wild like he just bowled a seven-ten split using his head instead of a ball. “What if I want to stay here all day and just watch you walk around in your boxers?”
I laugh. “Tempting, but I want to do something you really want to do. And we’ve done each other enough for one day.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin, and I give him a quick wink in return. He hesitates before speaking up. “Did you say tattoo parlor?”
“I did.”
That gets him moving. He rolls over, scratches the back of his neck, and stares up at the ceiling like he’s really thinking about the offer. “Alright,” he says finally. “I want barbecue. I’m craving Judy’s, but obviously we can’t have that right now. And then I want to go to Dealey Plaza.”
“Isn’t that where—”
He interjects, “Where Kennedy was assassinated? Yeah. I’m dark. I have weird interests. You should probably know this about me.”
My smile refuses to disappear. “The JFK tattoo on your arm and the ones I’ve seen in your sketchbook make a little more sense now.”
“And then maybe…” He pauses. “Maybe we can stop by a tattoo parlor? I know a guy who owns one on Elm Street. We can go check out some of his new work. See what he’s up to?”
I grab his suitcase from the floor, tossing it onto the edge of the bed, then head toward the bathroom. “Murder, brisket, and tattoos. You got it, babe. Get dressed.”
I coat my toothbrush with paste as he mutters, “I knew the three-hour drive would be worth it.” I poke my head out, with the toothbrush sticking out from my mouth, and blow him a kiss. No matter where we go or what we do today, giving him this time and making him happy is all I can ask for.
Walking down Elm Street, there’s a light breeze fighting its way through the muggy Dallas heat.
The harrowing walk through Dealey Plaza was both fascinating and depressing, but seeing Ezra light up, telling me all the historical inaccuracies and conspiracies of the Kennedy assassination, made up for the slight discomfort in the darkness of it all.
It even helped me understand him a little more when it comes to how he perceives sacrifice—especially when it pertains to family, as opposed to country, in the perspective of JFK.
My stomach’s full from barbecue, but I’m still savoring the taste of smoky brisket and baked beans as we move past sleek, modern skyscrapers next to older, more historic brick buildings. It’s a mix of old and new, which is a vibe very reminiscent of what Ezra and I want for Spare Time.
Ezra nudges me with his elbow, excitement practically radiating off him.
“Here it is! Ink Weekend.” He points to the industrial black storefront, the windows decked out with tattoos of every style imaginable.
“The guy who used to own the studio near Spare Time moved here, opened up this shop, and sold his old place to Damien. Or something like that. He’s a good guy. ”
I squint up at the sign. “Ink Weekend, huh? Are they not open on weekdays?”
Ezra laughs, low and knowing. “It’s a play on words, I guess.
Like, weekends are fun; so are tattoos. Detailed and larger tattoos take the whole weekend, if not the whole week.
You know? Ink Weekend. Don’t think too hard.
” He pulls open the door, and the cool air from inside greets us with an immediate rush.
The space is dim, with sharp white light illuminating art on the walls and within the flash art displays.
Skulls, dragons, naked women, roses, tigers, and tribal pieces flood my sight.
They’re done mostly in black ink but are still vibrant with details.
The faint buzz of a needle echoes throughout the parlor.
There’s an edge to this place. Something about the raw, electric atmosphere makes my heart beat quicker than usual.
Even more exciting is seeing Ezra’s giddiness in motion.
It’s like he’s walking on clouds as he steps into the studio.
A man sits at the front desk, ink winding up his forearms in dark, intricate patterns that catch the overhead light each time he turns a page. His brow stays furrowed, lips pressed in a line as he studies the worn pages of an old-school ledger, the faint scrape of paper the only sound he makes.
When he sees Ezra, his face shifts into surprised delight. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Mr. Jiménez himself.” He stands up and offers a firm handshake. “How the hell are ya, kid?”
Matching his steely motion, Ezra’s fingers wrap around the man’s hand as if he wants to prove something. “You’ve known me for a long time, Zeke. You know Mr. Jiménez was my father.”
“Yes, I knew your father for a long time too, which is why I also know this world’s a better place with a Mr. Jiménez out there, especially if he was raised by the best.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come to the services, Ezra. Dallas has been keeping me busy.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but don’t worry. It was a nice service. My mother and I weren’t expecting almost the entire town to come out to show their support, but they did.”
“Your father was a very loved man. With how he ran the bowling alley, he did a lot for our community. He taught me a lot too. About running a business, that is. I’m sure he’s proud of you for stepping up and following in his footsteps.
” A light curve at the corner of his mouth appears as he lifts his head up and then back down. “How is the alley doing, by the way?”
Ezra clears his throat. “It’s great.” His response is short, curt even. “Speaking of…” His quick deflection is subtle but noticeable. “How has the shop been doing? I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve been in.”
“We’re doing well.” Zeke turns, opening his arms, showing off the parlor. “I’m short-staffed though. This old man can’t seem to find any real talent that wants to work normal business hours. It’s making me think I’ll never have the chance to retire.”
He pauses, his eyes moving slowly across his studio.
He takes it in like he’s seeing it for the first time.
A sense of pride wafts through the room.
“So, if you’re looking to get a tattoo today, I might be able to squeeze you into a slot later this evening.
I have two small pieces coming in soon and a fairly large backpiece coming in about an hour. ”
Ezra nods but remains quiet. I catch the way his shoulders drop slightly, like he came expecting to be allowed to linger and watch—hoping to show me a little bit more of who he wants to be, like he’d already imagined himself being the one designing the art.
I step up before he can talk himself into leaving, my voice bolder than I wanted. “Do you think any of the appointments in the next hour would be good for a beginner artist?”
Zeke raises an eyebrow, a little hope gleaming in the corner of his eye.
“Unfortunately, no. The two coming in are newbies, and we’ve already consulted on what they’re looking for.
It’s a recently married couple getting infinity symbols I’ve designed for them around their ring fingers.
I wouldn’t trust a beginner I’ve never observed with such a small design on such a sensitive spot. But why do you ask? You an artist?”
I shake my head and grin. “No, but Ezra is.”
“No shit?” He looks Ezra over, his eyebrow raised. “How long you been tattooing, Ez? I’d love to see your work.”
Ezra shakes his hands, slowly backing away. “Oh no. I’m not finished with my training or anything. I just draw. I mean, I’ve done a little skin work, but nothing like what you do. I’ve been learning from Damien.”
“Ah, I see.” He pauses. “Has Damien taken you under his wing?”
He nods. “He’s been showing me the ropes. He’s let me do a few small tattoos on some of his regulars brave enough to let me experiment.”
“And how’d that go?”
“From what I gathered, they all seemed happy with my work.”
“Alright.” He sits back down at the front desk. “Damn, I would love to see how you do. But like I said, I can’t trust a beginner on replicating my—”
“What about me?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
The moment is easily one of the most out-of-body experiences I’ve ever had.
I don’t know what gets into me. Maybe it’s seeing Ezra look at the floor and giving it a subtle kick.
Or maybe it’s just that I know he needs someone to believe in him out loud right now.
Ezra’s head snaps up. “Truett, no. You don’t mean that. You don’t even have any tattoos. It’s okay.”
“So?” I shrug, trying to play it cool, even though my heart’s speeding up just a little. “What if I want one? You gotta start somewhere. And I’d love for you to do my first.”
Ezra stares at me, stunned, while Zeke laughs, appearing more impressed than amused. “You serious?”
Am I? The hell if I know. Never have I once been drawn to the idea of having a needle repeatedly dig into my skin.
The thought of it doesn’t exactly thrill me.
In fact, it makes my stomach flip a little.
Though, seeing Ezra’s face light up in a soft, surprised kind of hope over the idea of giving me my first, and probably only, tattoo makes it feel right.
“I’m serious,” I say, even with my voice croaking just a tad bit. “Let’s do it.”
Ezra smooths the sketch onto my skin. Right on the soft part of my wrist, just under my thumb. It’s small. Clean. A little bowling pin outlined in blue stencil ink. He leans back to study it, then looks up at me, brow furrowed.
“You sure you want a bowling pin?” he asks. “I mean, you’re already a professional bowler. Do you really need a reminder of that?”
I glance down at it, then back at him. “I don’t see it as a nod to being a pro,” I say. “It’s more like… honoring Spare Time. That’s where I figured out I love the sport. Where it all started for me. So yeah, I’m sure.”
Ezra nods, just once, then peels off the transfer paper. “It’s perfect,” I say before he can even ask. And I mean it.
The buzz of the tattoo gun startles me when he flicks it on, and even though I’m trying to play it cool, I flinch. My body jerks before I can stop it, and sweat beads at the top of my lip.
Ezra notices. Of course he does. He’s a professional.
He turns the tattoo machine off, sets it down gently, and reaches for my hand. His thumb brushes over mine with a calm, steady touch. “I got you, okay?” he says softly. “We also don’t have to do this.”
Then, without warning, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. Just once, just barely. But it’s enough to quiet the nerves in my gut.
I swallow before I nod. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’m ready. I want to do this.”
He smiles and turns the gun back on. This time, I don't jump.
A sharp burn flares as the needle touches down, dragging across my wrist. A small pinch that turns into a quick numbing, but I keep still. Ezra’s focused, calm, grounded as hell. It’s oddly comforting, knowing his hands are the ones doing this.
When he finishes, he sets the gun aside and wipes down my wrist. The skin is red and a little puffy, but the pin is there with its sharp lines and tiny red ring around the top. It’s exactly what I wanted.
Zeke wanders over, surveying the work. “Damn,” he mutters, crouching a little to get a better look. “For that size, that is one clean tattoo. Nice line work.”
Ezra looks like he’s trying not to smile, but it creeps through anyway.
Then Zeke claps a hand on my shoulder. “Gotta say, though, you’re gonna need to get me a towel for this chair, boy.” He grins. “Or maybe a damn mop.”
A nervous chuckle slips out. My cheeks are hot, and when I sit up from the chair, the back of my shirt is drenched in sweat.
He turns back to Ezra, nodding. “If you keep that steady hand, that laser focus, and the precision in those details, you’re gonna be a fantastic tattooist, Ezra.
Who knows, with a little more mentoring from Damien, I might just call you up and persuade you to take over for me here one day.
” He jerks his chin toward me, tickled. “Just don’t go kissing all your clients’ hands.
My studios have a reputation to uphold.”
Ezra rolls his eyes, even as a blush spreads up the back of his neck. Then there’s a look on his face, like something coming alive in a way I haven’t truly seen in him.
He’s proud.
Happy, even.
The kind of happy that settles a warm feeling throughout my entire body. “This is really what you should be doing, Ezra.”
He doesn’t look up when he replies, but his mouth twitches into a smile.
“One day.” He pauses, and his smile fades quickly.
“But the alley needs me right now. How do I afford my own ink gear, when my savings goes to neon lights, paint, and new bowling shoes? Which reminds me, we need to get new shoes. Add that to the list, please.”
I don’t say anything back, but in my head, it’s already decided. If he’s chasing this—if he really wants to become a tattoo artist instead of running the bowling alley—I’m going to do everything I can to help him figure out how to do it, even if I don’t know what that looks like for him yet.
Or us.