Page 20 of The Trailer Park Twink
Daddy’s eyes bulge. “The fuck would I be jealous for? I’m just saying, you’re obviously hurting him. Be fuckin’ careful.”
Clint continues working on my tattoo, and the whole time, I’ve got my face buried in the crook of my elbow, weeping from the pain. Dallas is doing everything he can think of to soothe me, but nothing’s working. Not the way he strokes my shoulder. Or how he keeps kissing the back of my head. Not even when he leans closer, whispering that I’m being so brave for him. His good boy. Daddy’s best boy.
Then it’s over. The pinching pain stops, and the gun shuts off, making my crying and sniffling sounds ten times louder. I don’t move a muscle. Dallas does, though. He stands up from his barstool and stares at my ass, checking out the tattoo for the first time. His eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open, and then his hand touches my shoulder and he holds onto me like a life preserver.
“Is that . . . Is that what I think it is?”
Behind me, I hear someone’s phone make a shutter sound, taking a picture of my first—and only, if I have any say in the matter—tattoo. Then, Clint is in front of me, showing me the screen. The tattoo is perfect.
A rainbow-colored depiction of Texas with a big black star over the city of Dallas. There’s a cursive D next to it, leaving no room for interpretation. I’ve just branded myself as his, and the longer I stare into his eyes, the more nervous I get. He’s not saying a word. I have no idea if he’s happy or mad, and it’s eating me up inside.
“Please don’t be mad at me. I just wanted to—”
“Get up,” he interrupts, his voice stern. Inside, my heart is breaking, because I know I’ve pushed too far, but outwardly, I try to convey strength to show him I have absolutely no regrets. Once I’m on my feet, I stand tall, refusing to back down.
“I won’t apologize for it,” I say decidedly. “I’ll never apologize for loving you, Daddy.”
His chest rises and falls rapidly and I’m low-key worried he might hyperventilate if he doesn’t calm down.
“Clint?” he calls out, not breaking eye contact with me.
“Yeah, bro?”
The corner of his lip twitches upward. “You got time for one more?”
“I’ve always got time for you, D-Bag.”
“Good. Give me the same thing he got, but move the star.” He chuckles when I gasp, but he doesn’t look back at me. “He’s got a landmark for Dallas on his ass, I’ll take one for the city of Austin.”
“Dallas,” I whine, gripping his wrist tighter than I should. He doesn’t even flinch. Just looks back at me with glossy eyes, unfiltered love pouring out, right at me.
“You want the outline of Texas filled in with a rainbow, too?” Clint asks, placing a new needle on the end of his tattoo gun.
“You don’t have to,” I reassure him, but I don’t think he needs reassurance. He doesn’t look bothered by the prospect at all.
“I’m just as proud of my gay son as Bubba is of his queer kid. You bet your fucking ass I want that rainbow.” He cups my cheek. “Thank you, Austin.”
“For what?”
He snorts a laugh. “For what? You got me branded on your ass.” His eyes flash this ridiculous expression—swirls and slashes of mischief flickering all around—and his cocky grin widens. “I’m gonna be on your ass for the rest of your life.”
Damn right he is. On it. In it, hopefully. He can just come and go as he pleases. Make himself at home. Kick up his feet and take a load off.
“Yeah?” I breathe, taking a step forward. We’re chest to chest, our stomachs touching. Our breaths collide.
“Yeah.” Dallas hops onto the bar and lies on his stomach. He reaches below, unbuttoning his jeans and shimmying them down until his entire ass is exposed. Fuck. It’s the second time I’ve seen it in a week, and the view just keeps getting better.
“Get over there, kid,” Clint says, pulling my attention away from Dallas’ ass. Clint is pointing at the stool beside Dallas, urging me forward. There’s a hint of knowingness in his eyes, though, aside from Dallas, I’m pretty sure everyone here knows how I feel for my stepdad. It’s not as if I’ve tried to dilute my emotions for them. “Go hold the boyfriend’s hand.”
My heart thumps rapidly in my chest, because Jesus Christ. He can’t just say that like it means nothing. Like that word doesn’t hold the power to rip away everything I’m hoping for, all at once.
Dallas turns his head in my direction, laughing softly as he pats the bar he’s lying on. “You heard him. Come hold your boyfriend’s hand.” He’s joking. I know Dallas better than I know myself. I think the pot is getting to him, because he looks dazed and more than a little confused. “Don’t make me wait, baby,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows.
I take a seat on the barstool.
“Is that what you are?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and silly. “Are you my new boyfriend?”
He winks at me. “For tonight, at least. Now, be my good boy and hold my hand like he asked.”
