Page 116 of Mourner for Hire
I clear my throat against the memory.
Dominic’s gaze sweeps over every part of my face, every crevice, every pore, every line and wrinkle. Every flush of blood under my skin.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, why did youget yours?”
“Same reason.”
I raise my eyebrows.
He shrugs. “More or less.”
I tilt my chin just slightly. “Tell me more.”
“The one on my calf is a lion because it stands for bravery and righteousness.” He holds up his right arm, revealing the cross on his inner forearm. “I got this on my eighteenth birthday. I love God and all that, but I think I just got it to be tough.”
“Tough for Jesus?”
“Exactly.” He laughs, pulling his left arm out of the water and letting his finger drift over every tattoo. “This date is when my dad died. That’s his name… obviously.”
I grin at him but stay silent.
“The ship more or less has to do with the child in me’s wild obsession with large vessels of transportation…”
Again, I laugh, but let him continue.
“But really, it’s the reality that two things can be true at once. Steel is heavy and powerful. It will sink, even in the smallest amounts. But if shaped the right way, it can float.”
My throat starts to tighten, and my chest does this weird thump-thump-ache thing that it does when I’m about to cry.
“A lot of this is just design I liked, and the snake—” he stops at his shoulder, “—reminds me that we can shed our old skin and create new versions of ourselves.”
“Oh, not Satan?” I tease, and he laughs. “Which leads to the butterfly, right?”
“Which leads to the butterfly,” he agrees.
We hold our stare for at least five seconds. Five heated, intense seconds. I can’t tell if we’re about to kiss each other or tell the other to fuck off.
Finally, I blink away, not ready for either to happen.
“You have more tattoos than I thought.”
I flash him a small smile. “A lot can be under a sundress.”
I hold his gaze, leaving the insinuation hanging in the air.
“Tell me about your tattoos.”
I’ve told many people about my tattoos, but for some reason, when Dominic says it, it feels like he’s saying,take off your clothes.
My breath trembles as his fingers reach out and trace the butterfly on my ribcage.
“Well, you know about the butterfly. The peony is for my mom—she died when I was eight.Carpe Diemis pretty self-explanatory,” I add, my fingers falling to my hipbone. “The moon phases on my foot was my I-just-turned-eighteen tattoo.”
He nods and laughs.
My hand touches the heart-shaped birthmark on my shoulder. “When I was little, I used to pretend this was a tattoo. My dad would yell at me about it and say,don’t you dare!?”
“Your dad isn’t a fan of tattoos?”
