5. Scottie Elise Reed #2
Cash is hovering over me, his forearms planted firmly on either side of my head, trapping me in the space between his skin and the earth.
His chest rises and falls in a heavy rhythm against mine.
My hands are flat against his chest, my fingers instinctively curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. I can feel his heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm right beneath my palms.
“You okay, Scottie?” he asks, his voice low and roughened.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He traces the line of my jaw with his eyes, his head dipping just a fraction closer, his breath warm against my skin.
A loud, mocking bleat breaks the spell from ten feet away.
Cash bites back a laugh, a slow, self-deprecating smirk gradually returning to his face. He’s clearly trying to hold it together, but he’s fighting a losing battle.
He clears his throat, pushing himself up off me, though his hand lingers on my hip for a second too long before he completely detaches himself.
He offers me a hand, hauling me to my feet with a single, effortless pull.
My body feels entirely too cold the moment the physical contact breaks. Even the grass feels less solid without him there.
Standing near the fence line, Nico is holding Barnaby by a makeshift rope halter, shaking his head at us with a look of disappointment.
“Glad to see you guys are taking the animal rescue seriously. I thought you were supposed to be securing the perimeter, not getting into a wrestling match.”
***
Four hours later, the house has settled into a state of quiet, grim recovery. We’re all back in the living room, slumped over like the survivors of a natural disaster, clinging to mugs of coffee.
The blue lipstick is mostly gone from Dean’s face, though his jaw still has a faint, ghostly tint. Jenna is lying face-down on the rug, clutching a cold compress to her lower back, looking like she’s given up on life.
I’m sitting on the floor, leaning against Cash’s legs while he sits on the sofa.
It’s an unconscious move, one I don’t have the energy to fight, and honestly, I don’t want to.
His hand is resting on my shoulder, his fingers tracing the collar of my shirt in a way that’s agonizingly casual.
“Three days,” Ivy says, staring at the ceiling as if she can find the answers there. “In three days, I am getting married. I am going to be a wife. With a rib tattoo I can’t even identify yet. This is not the itinerary I had in mind.”
“And a husband who bought a goat,” Callahan adds from the recliner, looking defeated.
“The wedding will be perfect,” I promise, closing my eyes, leaning back into Cash’s touch. “Because the bar for ‘perfect’ has been significantly lowered. As long as nobody gets arrested, branded, or kidnapped by a goat again, we win. That’s the threshold now.”
From across the floor, a blanket pile stirs.
Noah finally pushes the wool off his face, his eyes clear and sober. He blinks at us, then stares intently at our wrapped limbs.
“Wait,” Noah says, his voice raspy but sharp, as if he’s just realized the scope of our stupidity. “What did you guys actually get tattooed? I’ve been trying to run the probability models on your poor decision-making, and I’m terrified.”
“Alright, I can’t take the suspense anymore anyway,” Jenna groans, rolling over and sitting up with a dramatic wince. “We are peeling. Now.”
A collective wave of nervous tension ripples through the room. The boys lean forward, entirely invested in our downfall.
“My lady first,” Cash rumbles right behind my ear. “Let’s see the damage, Sharky. Don’t keep us in suspense.”
I don’t even have the strength to punch him for calling me his. I just peel it back, the plastic crinkling in the quiet room.
It stings as the film lifts away. I grab a damp paper towel from the coffee table and carefully wipe away the excess ointment and the stray ink.
I look down, and my breath catches in my throat.
What.
The.
FUCK.
The entire living room goes dead silent for three whole seconds before Callahan and Brick erupt into chaotic, shrieking laughter.
“No way!” Callahan laughs, slapping his knee so hard it echoes. “Scottie, you didn’t! Tell me that’s a joke!”
Cash leans over, his chest pressing against my shoulders as he looks down at my wrist. He actually looks a little stunned for a split second, but then the smugness—the sheer arrogance—takes over.
“A dollar sign,” he taunts. “Damn, Sharky. I knew you were obsessed with me, but you went and got me actually permanently inked on your pulse? I’m flattered. Truly. I’ll make sure to put you in the will.”
“No, no, no! I did not do that! It is an S for Scottie! It’s a stylish, aesthetic S!”
“Definitely not for someone who’s nickname is.. uhh.. Cash?”
“NO!”
He laughs entirely unfazed by my frantic, high-pitched denial.
He looks at Callahan, practically beaming. “Look at this, Callie. She’s officially marking her territory.”
“I’m getting it lasered off.”
“No, you aren’t,” he says. “You’re stuck with me now. It’s written in ink. That’s the law.”
Marcus shakes his head from the kitchen doorway, staring at me in complete disbelief. “I was so sure you guys would be relaxing. Not actually getting wasted and doing… this.”
“Dean, get up,” Jenna interrupts, poking the lawyer with her foot. “Show us yours. I need to feel better about myself.”
Dean sighs, a sound of pure defeat. He stands up, unbuttons his jeans just enough to reveal his hip, and peels away his plastic square with the precision of a surgeon.
“You made me do this,” Dean mutters, glaring directly at me. “I distinctly remember you telling me that a true best friend wouldn’t let me leave without matching body art, and then you pointed at a stencil and told me it was a symbol of freedom.”
We all squint at his hip. It’s a tiny, delicate, perfectly shaded butterfly with its wings spread out right on his pelvic bone.
The room goes dead silent again before Nico lets out a high-pitched, wheezing sound of delight.
“A butterfly, Dean?” Callahan chokes out. “You got a delicate little monarch on your waist? You look like you’re ready to fly away at any moment.”
“I think it’s a swallowtail,” Brick adds, looking genuinely fascinated. “The detail is quite impressive, really.”
“Huh,” Dean frowns and tilts his head, examining his own hip with a critical eye. “Honestly… the line work is quite crisp. It’s actually kind of cute in a… ironic, post-modern way. But I still blame you, Scottie.”
“You look beautiful, Dean,” I manage to choke out through my laughter. “It’s very ethereal.”
“Just show us yours, Jenna,” Dean mutters, eager to deflect the attention.
Jenna hitches up her shirt, revealing the skin right on her lower back. She rips the plastic off in one violent, fearless motion, unfazed by the pain.
We all bend down to look.
Staring back at us from Jenna’s skin, right above her tailbone in bold, early-2000s cursive font, are the words: LUCKY YOU.
“A tramp stamp!” Callahan snorts, throwing his head back and clutching his chest. “Jenna, you got a literal early-2000s warning label! That is incredible.”
“Oh, my god,” Jenna gasps, squinting into the reflection of the glass coffee table to see it. For a second, she looks utterly pissed, staring at the placement in horror. “A tramp stamp? I am an adult woman!”
Then, she blinks, shifts her weight, and shrugs. “You know what? Whatever. It’s true. Anyone who actually gets to see that is a lucky son of a bitch. I’ll own it.”
Then when it’s Ivy’s turn, she winces and peels it back with a sharp breath, the crinkling sound loud in the quiet room. After a quick wipe with a damp paper towel to clear the gooey ointment and loose ink, she cranes her neck, squinting down at her own side.
She freezes.
Right there, spelled out in a tiny, delicate cursive is Mrs. Callahan.
Ivy stares at it for three long seconds. She looks at the ink, then looks blankly at the wall, a sudden, existential crisis of faith washing over her face.
“Huh,” she mutters, serious. “I’m a feminist. How did I let this happen?”
Callahan shifts in his chair, leaning forward to get a look.
“Look at the bright side,” Callahan chuckles, his voice soft. “At least now I know you won’t be getting cold feet. You’re literally tagged and bagged.”
“Honestly, I’m just sad we had to give Barnaby to animal control,” Nico sighs from the corner, looking genuinely depressed. “The shelter guy said they’d find him a nice farm, but I miss him. I think I’m gonna go and get a goat tattoo for him. In honor.”
“Don’t you dare,” Ivy warns, though she’s still smiling. “If you get a goat tattoo, I’m uninviting you from the wedding.”
“Statistically,” Noah’s voice cuts through the chuckles as he pulls the blankets back over his head, “the chance of this group making it through the next seventy-two hours without further bodily harm is less than twelve percent. We are a public health crisis.”
“Shut up, Noah,” we all say in unison.
I lean my head back against Cash’s knees and finally, for the first time since I woke up, the world stops spinning.
The wedding is coming. The road trip is waiting. And somewhere in Boston, there’s a goat named Barnaby who Nico considers a family member.
But right now, the only thing that matters is the quiet, the heat of Cash’s hand on my shoulder, and the fact that we’re all still here.
Disasters and all.
***
3:21 PM
Me: Tell your friend to stop smiling at me.
Callahan: Which friend?
Me: The stupid one.
Callahan: Doesn’t narrow it down.