Page 30 of Confessions of a Virgin on a Dating App
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Devin shot me a smug grin as he shuffled his cards. The sleeve of his sweatshirt slid halfway up his forearm, and I could see part of his dragon tattoo. “Am I being too stereotypical for a goth kid?”
“Well,no, but—”
“I could play dragons instead,” Devin teased, flinging another card in my direction. This time, the artwork on the card depicted a dragon with a red body and five angry, snarling heads.
I knew exactly who she was: the vicious multi-headed dragon goddess of the Underworld.
“Cremara? Hell no. I’ll take vampires, please.”
Devon made an elaborate show of plopping the card back into its deck box. “That’s what I thought.”
“Wait a minute,” I reached out and grabbed Devin’s arm. He jolted at my touch; his nerves tense as I rolled up his sleeve. “I never realized, that your tattoo is of Cremara.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Devin pulled his arm away, quickly covering the tattoo with his sweatshirt sleeve. A cold trickle of embarrassment crept down my neck.Why did you just grab his arm like that, you weirdo? Why do you care about his tattoo?
But a single question, one that didn’t involve my awkwardness, lingered stronger than the rest.
Why even have tattoos if you’re going to cover them all the time?
In all the years I’d known Devin, he always wore a sweatshirt while working at the shop. Even in the hundred-degree summer heat of Florida, I never saw his bare arms except for the few times he rolled his sleeves up. And even then, he always seemed cautious of how he positioned them. Cassidy and I even joked about it once, mentioning that it was probably why Critical Games’ A/C was always cranked up so high.
We continued setting up our game in silence. It made me uncomfortable, because just a few seconds earlier Devin had been his usual sarcastic, teasing self. Now, as he sat silently shuffling his cards, I knew something lurked behind those multicolored eyes. My tattoo comment had set his nerves on edge.
For the next hour, as we played our game, it lingered in the back of my mind.
Even once round two began and I joined another group, I kept an eye on him. For the rest of the night, he stayed behind the counter at his computer, his face deeply focused and devoid of emotion.
And not once did he roll up his sleeves. His arms remained covered for the rest of the night.
Chapter 9
Saturday morning arrived, and as soon as Tristan’s pickup truck pulled in front of my townhouse, my anxiety’s grip on my throat turned into a chokehold.
I should’ve been excited. An overnight trip to one of Florida’s most popular beaches with a sweet, sexy guy would be paradise for any other woman. But as I climbed into the passenger seat, with a beach tote in my lap and sunglasses perched on my forehead, I felt a deep sense of impending doom.
Relax, Avery.I told myself.You can do this. Everything will be fine.
It was a 45-minute drive, and during that time, I was able to make small talk with Tristan to keep my nerves at bay. After we made it out of Orlando, he took my hand in mine, and our fingers laced together over the center console of his truck. It felt like heaven and hell at the same time.
The worst part was that my anxiety was obvious. It was plastered all over my face and emitted through my sweatypalms. Tristan noticed this, and to alleviate my worries, he suggested we listen to music.
His truck was old, likely from the early 2000s, with a CD player and an auxiliary port instead of a modern screen. He used a long black cable to hook up his phone, which rested in a plastic mount attached to one of the air vents.
“Any suggestions?” he asked as he flipped through his phone.
“What do you like to listen to?”
“Lots of stuff, but I’d say rock is my favorite.”
“Let me take a look.”
He handed me his phone, and I scrolled through his playlists until I settled on one called’90s Rock. Foo Fighters’ heavy guitar riffs blared to life, vibrating throughout the whole car, and the knot in the pit of my stomach loosened.
“Excellent choice,” Tristan chuckled, a single forearm propped on the steering wheel. The drive to Daytona was quiet; we were on a narrow strip of Interstate 4 with nothing but trees surrounding us. Florida’s foliage was unusual; a mixture of forest and jungle, with towering pines flanked by plump, shrubby palmetto bushes. As we got closer to the coast, the trees gave way to open swampland, a maze of murky water and grass that sprawled across the horizon.
“I love Florida,” Tristan remarked, a hazy, nostalgic smile on his face as he drove. “It’s so beautiful out here.”
