Page 32 of Inked & Bloodbound
The mere thought of him sends a pulse through my body, igniting butterflies in my stomach and sending them flapping against the edges of my gut. I have no idea how I’m supposed to look him in the eye after that dream. It’s not like it’s unwarranted. He was the one who kissed me last night.
So why is he all I can think about?
Kate is already waitinginside when I arrive, her glossy chestnut hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her hospital scrubs traded for tapered black cigarette pants and an elegant silk blouse. When I wave to her from the doorway of the restaurant, I see the relief in her deep brown eyes.
“Lil! You already look so much better,” she says, pulling away from our awkward hug to study me. “Those ghastly dark circles are starting to fade, and you’re not doing that awful squinty thing with your forehead. I was seriously going to recommend Botox.”
“I feel better. I really do,” I say, ignoring the casual insult—her love language—and slide into the seat across from her. “I really think that alternative therapy is working for me.”
Kate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, bloody hell. Alternative therapy? What kind of alternative therapy?”
I should have known she’d pounce on that. Kate’s skepticism about anything that isn’t peer-reviewed is normal. She’s been a lifelong devotee of modern medicine, dismissive of anything “witchy woo-woo,” and until a few days ago, I was, too.
“Just…meditation stuff. Visualization techniques. It’s hard to explain.” I wave my hand vaguely. “The important thing is it’s working.”
“Meditation.” Her tone is flat. “Lily, you hate meditation. You once told me sitting still for ten minutes felt like torture.”
“I’m a woman; it’s my prerogative to change my mind,” I saydefensively, then redirect the conversation. “How are things at the hospital?”
She lets me deflect, but I can see she still has questions. We order our food—she gets a salad; I get a crispy chicken sandwich because it’s nice to have an appetite again—and we fall into our usual rhythm of gossip and whining about work.
But eventually, she circles back.
“So how did you get into all this alternative therapy bollocks?” she quizzes, stabbing at her lettuce.
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Actually, I met this guy when I was getting a tattoo. His name is Cassini, and he?—”
“A tattoo!” she shrieks, drawing disapproving looks from a nearby table of middle-aged diners. When a glamourous older woman with a helmet of coiffed hair tuts loud enough for us to hear, Kate shrugs apologetically then drops her voice. “A bloody tattoo? You’ve only been away for a few days, and you’re already unrecognizable! What’s this tattoo of yours, then?”
I take a sip of my iced tea to buy time. “Yes, I got a tattoo. The other night after work, I had a spontaneous moment. I don’t know what came over me, but as I was driving home, I dipped into a shop on Sixth and just did it. I got it for my mom. For her anniversary.”
She coos, “Aaah, that’s actually quite sweet. Well, come on then, show me!”
I wipe a little blob of mayo off my chin with a napkin. “I can’t show you here. It’s right under my boob!”
“You’ve already shown him your tits? You dirty bitch.” She cackles, throwing her head back. Her laugh is infectious, and I can’t help but join in.
“No, it’s not like that,” I protest. “We haven’t even kissed, not properly. No tongue. But I’ll admit I am kind of into him. He’s very easy on the eye.”
She stuffs another forkful of salad in her mouth and gestures for me to continue.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “We have a connection, and I want to see where it goes. There’s something about him that I’m just drawn to.”
“What kind of something? Good something or serial-killer something?”
“Good something. I think.” I lean back in the chair. “It’s stupid, but my life has felt so chaotic, and it’s like he’s helped me take control of it. I’m pushing thirty; maybe it’s time to start thinking about settling down?”
Kate nearly chokes on her sparkling Pellegrino. “Lily, darling, you think this Cassini bloke is stable? He’s a tattoo artist, for God’s sake, and you haven’t even snogged him.”
“So? There’s nothing wrong with being a tattoo artist.”
“I’m not saying there is, but let’s be realistic. You have terrible taste in men.” Kate leans forward, her voice firm. “You always go for guys who promise the world and end up disappointing you. That van life guy, the wannabe influencer, that hobosexual who stayed in your apartment for six weeks without paying you a dime.”
I wince at the thought. Tom the “experimental musician” with a pervert mustache had been a serious low point in my dating life. Tied for last place with Jason, the himbo from Tampa who kept needing to borrow money because he sold all his possessions to fund an ai workout app that no one asked for. “I’ll pay you back,” he promised, but of course, he didn’t.
Since Mom, I’ve had a thing about promises. She made so many when I was a kid that I stopped believing in them. “I promise I’ll get sober,” she’d sobbed one time. “I promise this is the last time we move,” was another one.
Now, when someone makes me a promise, they’d better be damn sure to keep it; otherwise, they’ll quickly find themselves out of my life.