Page 35

I grin. “Too late.”

Zane drops the wrench and wipes his hands on a rag, finally turning to face me. “What’re you thinking?”

“Something permanent.”

“That’s fucking vague. Permanent like...getting a puppy or permanent like a regrettable tattoo?”

“Better,” I say, standing up too fast and swaying on my feet.

Zane raises a brow. “Better than a tattoo? Not much left on the table, man. Don’t tell me you’re gonna knock someone up out of spite or something.”

I flip him off, grabbing my keys. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

“Caleb.” His tone’s sharp now, cautious. “Whatever it is, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” I cut him off, stumbling toward the door. “Do something stupid? Already doing it, buddy.”

He groans, muttering something about my funeral under his breath, but he doesn’t stop me.

The tattoo parlor smells like antiseptic and bad decisions. The walls are covered in neon signs and blown-up pictures of inked-up bodies. The guy behind the counter looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, his eyes sunken and his hair sticking up in every direction.

“What do you want?” he asks, not even bothering to look at me properly.

I slap a wad of cash on the counter. “Something that’ll make me forget I have a dick.”

That gets his attention. He leans forward, squinting at me. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No shit. Can you do it or not?”

He sighs, grabbing a clipboard. “Sign this waiver. It’s your funeral.”

“Funny.”

“What?” he grunts.

“My best friend said the same thing.” I scribble my name, the letters barely legible. He takes the paper and counts the cash, then gestures for me to follow him to a chair in the back.

“What are we doing? Prince Albert? Frenum?”

“Whatever’ll hurt more.”

He chuckles darkly. “Alright, tough guy. Frenum it is.”

The chair’s cold under me, and the buzz of the equipment makes my skin crawl.

“You’re sure about this?” the guy asks, snapping on a pair of gloves.

“Do I look like I’m not?”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen sober people chicken out.”

“Well, I’m not sober, am I?”

“Alright.”