Tattoos Short Quotes

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

And I’ve been trying everything I can think of since to make up for it—short of tattooing her name on my ass and streaking across Yankee Stadium.” I was saving that for next week.

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having ‘Property of Trey Coleman’ tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considered you his, could he?

What have you done to me?" Rhysand stood, running a hand through his short, dark hair. It's custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh." I rubbed my left forearm and hand, the entirety of which was now covered in swirls and whorls of black ink. Even my fingers weren't spared, and a large eye was tattooed in the center of my palm. It was feline, and its slitted pupil stared right back me. "Make it go away," I said, and he laughed. "You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren't you?

It's when I'm around some people that my entire vocabulary goes on vacation. Like now, when Dave's walking next to me wearing an old black singlet and board shorts and the tattoo of a bird on his wrist, every single word in my head except "no" and "huh" is lying somewhere on a beack getting a suntan

Someday I will stop being young and wanting stupid tattoos. There are 7 people in my house. We each have different genders. I cut my hair over the bathroom sink and everything I own has a hole in it. There is a banner in our living room that says “Love Cats Hate Capitalism.” We sit around the kitchen table and argue about the compost pile and Karl Marx and the necessity of violence when The Rev comes. Whatever the fuck The Rev means. Every time my best friend laughs I want to grab him by the shoulders and shout “Grow old with me and never kiss me on the mouth!” I want us to spend the next 80 years together eating Doritos and riding bikes. I want to be Oscar the Grouch. I want him and his girlfriend to be Bert and Ernie. I want us to live on Sesame Street and I will park my trash can on their front stoop and we will be friends every day. If I ever seem grouchy it’s just because I am a little afraid of all that fun. There is a river running through this city I know as well as my own name. It’s the first place I’ve ever called home. I don’t think its poetry to say I’m in love with the water. I don’t think it’s poetry to say I’m in love with the train tracks. I don’t think it’s blasphemy to say I see God in the skyline. There is always cold beer asking to be slurped on back porches. There are always crushed packs of Marlboro’s in my back pockets. I have been wearing the same patched-up shorts for 10 days. Someday I will stop being young and wanting stupid tattoos.

If all of our sins, bad habits, and poor choices were permanently inked into our skin like tattoos, we would all dress quite modestly.

Some people are only in our lives for a short time, but the mark they leave on us is a cherished tattoo.

Rowdy, hopped-up college kids pass us in an endless, noisy blur like they're being mass produced or squeezed out of a tube - guys skulking in their T-shirts and cargo shorts, girls in low-slung jeans and flip-flops, pimples and breasts and tattoos and lipstick and legs and bra straps, and cigarettes; a colorful, sexy melange. I feel old and tired and I just want to be them again, want to be young and stupid, filled with angst and attitude and unbridled lust. Can I have a do-over, please? I swear to God I'll make a real go of it this time.

From what I’d seen in such a short amount of time, the tattoos weren’t just random crap people would regret when they were elderly. The pieces clients got seemed to be so much more than that. They were memorials and declarations. They were outpourings of love and pain. Letters and images, icons and symbolism, personal and eternal. It

And the people who would burn the words, the people who would take the books from the shelves, the firemen and the ignorant, the ones afraid of tales and words and dreams and Hallowe'en and people who have tattooed themselves with stories and Boys! You Can Grow Mushrooms in Your Cellar! and as long as your words which are people which are days which are my life, as long as your words survive, then you lived and you mattered and you changed the world and I cannot remember your name. I learned your books. Burned them into my mind. In case the firemen come to town.

Do as you like, a minimal maxim, an old favorite of mine, so exalting and at the same time so difficult as a Rabelesian rule. I hold the liberation theory that the best writers liberate the language from taboos, tattoos, cockatoos, repetitions, old fashion repressions and expressions, clichés, fetters, and so forth. For this reason I call it sometimes liberature for short, this liberating literature.

Dan was shorter than me, especially as I was wearing sky blue silk stilettos. He appeared to be my age or a few years older,stocky, and thick necked with swirling tattoos just visible beneath the blue collar of his uniform.Dan gave me a plain once over as he walked me to an elevator and placed his palm against a glass screen. The screen retracted to reveal keypad. Dan then punched in a series of numbers and he said- “You’re very big.”I gave him a cursory smile, “Yes. I ate all my vegetables as a child.

No one else noticed, or cared. It was just something they did. Taking other people’s livestock. Other people’s lives. She watched the soldiers, hating them. They were different in so many ways, white and black, yellow and brown, skinny, short, tall, small, but they were all the same. Didn’t matter if they wore finger-bone necklaces, or baby teeth on bracelets, or tattoos on their chests to ward off bullets. In the end, they were all mangled with battle scars and their eyes were all dead.

A dam inside my own heart opened up, and the feelings of heaviness and unease lifted like wind against the winter sky. I loved him. I loved his slow wit and his gruff demeanor and his tender disposition. I loved his endless empathy and his world-weary cynicism and his innocence. I loved that he was a walking, breathing paradox. I loved his lank hair and his iron earring and the tooth missing at the back of his mouth. I loved the way he laughed, music incomparable to any song, and the way he smiled, like you could see the child in him and the animal in him and the man in him all at once. I loved that he listened to crappy music, the kind that made me want to put my head through a wall, and I loved the charcoal stains on his knuckles and the pencils he tucked behind his ears. I loved that he told me to shut up as though I could actually say anything. I loved that he made me feel as though I could. I loved his short fingers and his rough palms and his long legs and his flat belly. I loved that he liked to read Kerouac but didn't know how to pronounce Kerouac. I loved his brown skin and his blue tattoos and his tempestuous blue eyes. I loved that he loved the land. I loved him. I loved him. Oh, God. I loved him.

The tattooing has taken only seconds, but Lale’s shock makes time stand still. He grasps his arm, staring at the number. How can someone do this to another human being? He wonders if for the rest of his life, be it short or long, he will be defined by this moment, this irregular number: 32407.

She curled her fingers into his chest instead of complying. “You’re an incredibly handsome male,” she said. “Perfect bone structure, pure blond hair, eyes so blue they should be impossible. Your only ‘flaw’ is this tattoo.” She traced the three jagged lines on his right biceps. “It’s an echo of the markings on your alpha’s face.” He gave a short nod. “A symbol of absolute loyalty.” Her lips parted. “Knowing that just makes you even more dangerously beautiful.

My short-term factual memory can be like water; events are a brief disturbance on the surface and then it closes back up again, as if nothing ever touched it. But it’s a strange fact that my long-term memory remains strong, perhaps because it recorded events when my mind was unaffected. My emotional memory is intact too, perhaps because feelings are recorded and stored in a different place than facts. The things that happened deeper in the past, and deeper in the breast, are still there for me, under the water. I won 1,098 games, and eight national championships, and coached in four different decades. But what I see are not the numbers. I see their faces. 'Pat should get a tattoo!' The kids laughed. 'What kind should she get?' 'A heart. She should get a heart.' Little did they know. They are the tattoos.

Your tattoo,” I said without thinking. “Does it mean anything?” “Don't most tattoos?” he said. “I kind of want something to have significance if it's in permanent ink. On my skin.” “What does it mean?” “It's a warning,” he said. Right. “Do you have others?” I couldn't see any, despite his short sleeves. “I mean, under your clothes?” What was wrong with me? Was it inappropriate hour or something? “One more.” He was trying not to smile. “But I need to know you a little better first.

of the year. Ripped jeans, short sleeved black tee, tattooed upper arms, and pierced eyebrow. Then again, that had been Jett’s style, minus

The world is just waiting for you to come dance.

Some symbols reach to your primordial archives.

Some symbols let you express yourself infinitely in their force.

Why is is that all people in Hollywood think, oh short, black and tattoos, ohhh he's in the music industry? No motherfucker, I'm an Author.

Here is the first guest, a young woman in a short blue dress. Her face is a trifle on the vacant side but she’s got a knockout bod. Somewhere inside that dress, Hodges knows, there will be the sort of tattoo now referred to as a tramp-stamp. Maybe two or three. The men in the audience whistle and stomp their feet. The women in the audience applaud more gently. Some roll their eyes. This is the kind of woman you don’t like to catch your husband staring at.

He is testing his body in the wind, feeling the weight and breadth of it. My heart is a new bird throwing itself against the space he is taking up. There are no long-legged white girls around us, no pale, over-cologned boys snicker-flirting with the bartender. Instead, all around us, there are brown and Black bodies marked with glow paint and tattoos. There are micro-minis and leather short-shorts and calf-length dresses in pleated faux silk atop unshaven legs. There are bodies with breasts, with thights, with scars, with canes; wearing high heels, wearing high tops; large bodies, small bodies, bodies that twirl and shake and fill the room. This is not dancing, but a becoming of winged creatures.

It goes like this. We’d date. We’d laugh. We’d fight. We’d have fucking off-the-charts make-up sex.” Drea shivered as he intended. Short, shallow breaths made her chest heave, causing his cock to harden. “What makes you think it would be off the charts?” Her voice was barely a whisper. He leaned toward her, his lips a fraction from her ear. It took every ounce of self-control not to taste her skin. “When it feels this good without even touching, how could it not be?

He rose grumpily, fell to the floor, and crawled. I looked at his exposed butt crack, a dark unkempt abyss that I was falling into. I was short of breath. I felt paralyzed. His asshole was a canyon. This was my 127 hours. I needed to chip away at the rock and get out.

Its prickly commander, Samuel P. Heintzelman, a short, bearded West Point graduate who had served in the Mexican-American War and later became a major general in the Civil War, didn’t want to be there and was preoccupied with making extra cash through the thriving ferry service.

He talked to me like he did when I was a child, when his voice was clear and melodic, his hair still dark, when he had only wrinkles around his eyes. He held my hand and patted it softly with every word, as if his words could be tattooed in my veins. He said trees grow up because they want to get closer to the stars. He said everybody is the center of their own world and yet they're just a speck in the universe. He said it's everyone's responsibility to not be afraid to love and to be loved. He told me that I was beautiful, that creating me was a good enough reason to live. He said every time he drank he was destroying a part of himself. We're afraid life is so short, we try to take from it as much as we can. We forget everything we need will come in due time. He said people need to have faith they will be taken care of, that people are part of this earth and the earth always gives us what we need.

My tattoos are permanent; it’s just my body that’s temporary. So is yours. We’re only here on earth for a short while, so I decided a long time ago that I wanted to decorate myself as playfully as I can, while I still have time.” I love this so much, I can’t even tell you. Because—like Eileen—I also want to live the most vividly decorated temporary life that I can. I don’t just mean physically; I mean emotionally, spiritually, intellectually. I don’t want to be afraid of bright colors, or new sounds, or big love, or risky decisions, or strange experiences, or weird endeavors, or sudden changes, or even failure.

Isn’t it sad that when a girl says she was sexually assaulted, our first instinct is to think she’s probably lying? Statistics and facts tell us the exact opposite. We demand “perfect victims” who better not have been drinking or hanging out at a party in a short skirt or revealing dress or have ever been known to enjoy sex.

She grabbed her shorts off the floor and stomped past me. “Fucking ugly bitch. Fucking asshole,” she muttered as she practically tripped in her rush to get to the stairs. King stood in the doorway. “And if I hear you ever talk shit about her again, I’ll find you and take that butterfly tattoo back.” “Oh yeah?” she shouted, stopping on the landing. “How the fuck are you going to do that?” King was in the doorway one second and an inch from her face the next. “I’ll tell you how,” he seethed. “I’m going to find you, and then I’m going to take my time carving those fucking butterfly wings from that nasty pussy of yours with my knife. Sleep on that before you decide to open that good for nothing dick-sucker of yours again.

Mom asked me this morning if I’d made my New Year’s resolution yet. I told her it’s to get a tattoo on my butt cheek of half a heart, like those friendship necklaces, and trip was going to get the other half-we’re still arguing over who gets the Best butt cheek and who gets the Friends cheek. Each has its own issues in isolation. I feel like there’s a poem in there somewhere.

Palpatine laughed without merriment. “What could you possibly have to offer someone like me?” “Just this.” She opened the soft shoulder bag to reveal a humanoid infant of less than a standard year in age. The infant’s hairless head was stippled with an array of short but still pliant horns, and its entire body had been garishly and ceremonially tattooed in red and black pigments.

I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles, sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and children collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance. One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect. It was, however, not easy to watch a child choking to death from diphtheria when you knew a tracheotomy and nursing would save it, one saw women drowning in their own vomit because they were too weak to turn over, and men eating worms as they clutched a half loaf of bread purely because they had to eat worms to live and now could scarcely tell the difference. Piles of corpses, naked and obscene, with a woman too weak to stand propping herself against them as she cooked the food we had given her over an open fire; men and women crouching down just anywhere in the open relieving themselves of the dysentery which was scouring their bowels, a woman standing stark naked washing herself with some issue soap in water from a tank in which the remains of a child floated. It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the postmortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tattooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.

So you want to help me,” she said. “Yes. Whatever I can do to help you.” “No one can help me,” she declared with no slightest indication of bitterness or despair. “Only one person could ever help me, and he’s dead. You will die, too, if you associate with me, and you’ll die cruelly.” 12 I STOOD IN THE SHADOWS SHORT OF DICKENS, SHE in the lamplight, and I saw that her fingernails were painted black and that tattooed on the backs of her hands were curled blue lizards with forked red tongues.

When I asked her once how she could allow her body to be marked up so casually with permanent ink, she said, “Oh, but you misunderstand! It’s not permanent. It’s just temporary.” Confused, I asked, “You mean, all your tattoos are temporary?” She smiled and said, “No, Liz. My tattoos are permanent; it’s just my body that’s temporary. So is yours. We’re only here on earth for a short while, so I decided a long time ago that I wanted to decorate myself as playfully as I can, while I still have time.

Sornians were famous for violently resisting royal decrees to marry and reproduce—such decrees being popular after the Threshers’ War. You might think such a movement would be easily suppressed, but many of its adherents were birders and other warriors, and knew how to fight, both singly and in formation. One Sornian poet was arrested in Unther, but her captors never made it to gaol with her, as they were drubbed by a phalanx of her sisters using tentpoles as pikes. The group near us had the words As We Will tattooed in Beltian on arms or napes and were armed with short swords and truncheons.

Suddenly Junior Allen swung aboard, leaped, landed lightly. He was immaculate in white sport shirt, white slacks, pale blue yachting cap. I guessed he was nearing forty. I had not been prepared for him to look so powerful and so fit. He was broad, with shoulders so packed and corded with muscle they gave him a slightly simian posture, the impression enhanced by the extra-long weight and heft of brown tattooed arms, and the short legs, slightly bowed. He had a brown, seamed, knotty face, broad, smiling broadly, the smile squinching the small blue eyes. It was a friendly grin. It was a likable grin. It did not change in any way as he looked at me.

The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the Malahini vibrated under the men’s feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. “It’s incredible,” he gasped, but no one heard him.

You must know something.” “And why is Archer Cross here?” That was from Jenna. His voice had apparently changed over the summer, since he actually said the words instead of squeaking them. “He’s an Eye.” “Didn’t he try to kill you?” Nausicaa had drifted up, and she narrowed her eyes at me. “And if so, why exactly were you holding his hand earlier?” Conversations like this usually ended in pitchforks and torches, so I held my hands out in what I hoped was an “everyone just calm the heck down” gesture. But then Jenna spoke up. “Sophie doesn’t know anything,” she said, nudging my behind her. That might’ve been more effective if Jenna weren’t so short. “And whatever reason we’re here, the Council had nothing to do with it.” Jenna didn’t add that that was because the entire Council, with the exception of Lara Casnoff and my dad, was dead. “She’s just freaked out as the rest of us, so back. Off.” From the expressions on the other kids’ faces, I guessed Jenna had bared her fangs, and maybe even given a flash of red eyes. “What’s going on here?” a familiar voice brayed. Great. Like this night didn’t suck out loud enough already. The Vandy-who had been a cross between school matron and prison guard at Hex Hall-shoved her way through the crowd, breathing hard. Her purple tattoos, marks of the Removal, were nearly black against her red face. “Downstairs, now!” As the group began moving again, she glared at Jenna and me. “Show your fangs again, Miss Talbot, and I’ll wear them as earrings. Is that understood?” Jenna may have muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” but her tone said something totally different. We jogged down the stairs to join the rest of the students lining up to go into the ballroom. “At least one thing at Hex Hall hasn’t changed,” Jenna said. “Yeah, apparently the Vandy’s powers of bitchery are a constant. I find that comforting.” Less comforting was the creeptasticness of the school at night. During the day, it had just been depressing. Now that it was dark, it was full-on sinister. The old-fashioned gas lamps on the walls had once burned with a cozy, golden light. Now, a noxious green glow sputtered inside the milky glass, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.

Your hair! You cut it all off!” She pulled off her own hood as she crossed the distance between them. Indeed, the long silver-white hair was now cropped short. It made him look younger, made his tattoo stand out more, and … fine, it made him more handsome, too. Or maybe that was just her missing him. “Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.” “Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head. “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?” His nostrils flared, and she clamped her lips together to keep from laughing.

at the moment—and looking for other boats. Kelly advanced the port throttle a notch farther as he turned the wheel, allowing Springer to pivot all the more quickly in the narrow channel, and then he was pointed straight out. He advanced the starboard throttle next, bringing his cruiser to a mannerly five knots as he headed past the ranks of motor and sail yachts. Pam was looking around at the boats, too, mainly aft, and her eyes fixed on the parking lot for a long couple of seconds before she looked forward again, her body relaxing more as she did so. “You know anything about boats?” Kelly asked. “Not much,” she admitted, and for the first time he noticed her accent. “Where you from?” “Texas. How about you?” “Indianapolis, originally, but it’s been a while.” “What’s this?” she asked. Her hands reached out to touch the tattoo on his forearm. “It’s from one of the places I’ve been,” he said. “Not a very nice place.” “Oh, over there.” She understood. “That’s the place.” Kelly nodded matter-of-factly. They were out of the yacht basin now, and he advanced the throttles yet again. “What did you do there?” “Nothing to talk to a lady about,” Kelly replied, looking around from a half-standing position. “What makes you think I’m a lady?” she asked. It caught him short, but he was getting used to it by now. He’d also found that talking to a girl, no matter what the subject, was something that he needed to do. For the first time he answered her smile with one of his own. “Well, it wouldn’t be very nice of me if I assumed that you weren’t.” “I wondered how long it would be before you smiled.” You have a very nice smile, her tone told him. How’s six months grab you? he almost said. Instead he laughed, mainly at himself. That was something else he needed to do. “I’m sorry. Guess I haven’t been very good company.” He turned to look at her again and saw understanding in her eyes. Just a quiet look, very human and feminine, but it shook Kelly. He could feel it happen, and ignored the part of his consciousness that told him that it was something he’d needed badly for months. That was something he didn’t need to hear, especially from himself. Loneliness was bad enough without reflection on its misery. Her hand reached out yet again, ostensibly to stroke the tattoo, but that wasn’t what it was all about. It was amazing how warm her touch was, even under a hot afternoon sun. Perhaps it was a measure of just how cold his life had become. But he had a boat to navigate. There was

Hennessy carefully patted the blood away to reveal the tattoo. It was difficult to not be overwhelmed by the realness of it, the permanence of it. Part of him expected her to just wipe the blood and ink away to reveal bare skin, but instead, his entire left arm was patterned darkly from shoulder to wrist with something like chain mail. No, like snakeskin. Each scale was a pure dark green, and the only place his skin showed through was in a narrow line to indicate the edge of each interlocking scale. It felt like a lifetime ago he and Hennessy had held a snake in the abandoned museum. Bryde had ordered them to look at the reptile, to study it, take in its details in case they wanted to dream it later. They had. But Hennessy had been wide awake, not dreaming, when she’d painted these scales up and down his skin. “Fuck you,” he told her. “This is so good.” She gave him the ghost of a smile. “Welcome back, Ronan Lynch.” It was still jarring to be Ronan Lynch. Time behaved so differently here; it was important here. One did not have endless dark moments to fill; human lives were so short, so urgent— “Where’s Adam?” Hennessy asked, “What?” “Adam. My Adam. Adam!

Ouch.” The yelp came out by accident as Trent went back over the bumps of her spine. Harper winced. Trent was doing his best to move the needle location around, she could feel that, but it was really starting to hurt. She heard Trent put down his equipment and slide the stool around in front of her. “This is the worst it’s going to be, Harp. You’re being so incredibly brave. I’ve had grown men cry at this point.” He paused for a moment before kissing her gently on the temple. “We have two options. I can stop in a minute and we can pick it up next time, or I can keep going for another twenty minutes and it will be done. The final appointments, then, will be short and sweet. Not to mention a whole lot less painful.” Harper took in a deep breath and blew it out harshly. Determined not to cry, she bit down on her lip hard. It stopped the pending deluge, but the tears still threatened. “Oh darlin’.” Trent kissed her softly. “I’d switch places with you in a heartbeat if I could. I know it hurts where I’m working.” Harper nodded. He understood. “Can you make it fifteen?” Trent kissed the side of her eye, where a single tear was making a break for freedom. “I’ll do it in ten.

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither the Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For Childhood is short—a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day— And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen

with “This is a class assignment,” and (2) they had to engage the interactions with a straight face. They couldn’t give away the punchline. The exchanges went something like this: Students (walking in a group toward a stranger in a mall): “Excuse me, sir!” Stranger (looking around and awkwardly shifting bags of clothes): “Uhh, yeah? Me?” Students: “Yes! You. I was walking by, saw you, and wondered: Will you be my friend? Can I see pictures of your family? What are your political preferences? Can I see the pictures of your tattoos? What are your religious preferences? Why? Are you pro-choice? How come? Who are your favorite musicians? We’re going to read you a list of probing, introspective quotes, and you simply give us a thumbs up or a thumbs down if you like them or don’t like them. If you feel angry about a quote, tell us why.” And so on. My students had to video each interaction. And yes, it was as awkward and cringey as you can imagine. According to the papers they had to write after the fact, the assignment stirred up quite a bit of reflection. In a few short years, my students had come to believe they had “friends” because they knew some information about people. They thought they were connecting with those people. The exercise helped them see that our social media exchanges are anything but normal. The thumbs ups and thumbs downs are anything but connecting. The reality is that most of us don’t have any friends. Until recently, friendship was about enduring the awkwardness and ugliness of human

Let the nations be glad and sing for joy…. —Psalm 67:4 (KJV) My wife was poring over a map of Europe. “Look, Danny. My homeland is a tiny little country. I had no idea it was so small.” “I know, you could put maybe half a dozen Irelands inside the state of Texas.” It may be small, but Ireland has made a huge impression on the world. More than a dozen US presidents and some thirty-four million Americans trace their roots to Ireland, including my own auburn bride. Officially, Saint Patrick’s Day honors the missionary who came to Ireland about 1,600 years ago. There he started hundreds of churches and baptized thousands, thus raising the moral profile of Ireland. But most of his life is a mystery and forgotten. Unofficially, Saint Patrick’s Day is everybody’s opportunity to be Irish for a day, regardless of religion or nationality. By the simple act of wearing green, I can be lucky or bonny or practice a bit of blarney. In short, I can be happy for a day. There are many ways to celebrate the day. Some daring types dye their hair green or wear shamrock tattoos. Others march in parades or attend Irish festivals, where they dance an Irish jig or enjoy an Irish stew. More serious types demonstrate for green causes or go to spiritual retreats, where they pray for missionaries. Yes, I will wear green today, so I don’t get pinched. And I will listen to some fine Irish music, starting with my favorite, “Danny Boy.” I will also pray for some of my former students who are currently missionaries in Ireland. Most of all, I will try to be happy for the day. That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? And if I can be happy for one day, why not every day? There is much to be happy about, God. Help me find a reason to sing with joy every day. —Daniel Schantz Digging Deeper: Ps 16:9; Is 55:12

California, land of my dreams and my longing. You've seen me in New York and you know what I'm like there but in L.A., man, I tell you, I'm even more of a high-achiever - all fizz and push, a fixer, a bustler, a real new-dealer. Last December for a whole week my thirty-minute short Dean Street was being shown daily at the Pantheon of Celestial Arts. In squeaky-clean restaurants, round smoggy poolsides, in jungly jacuzzis I made my deals. Business went well and it all looked possible. It was in the pleasure area, as usual, that I found I had a problem. In L.A., you can't do anything unless you drive. Now I can't do anything unless I drink. And the drink-drive combination, it really isn't possible out there. If you so much as loosen your seatbelt or drop your ash or pick your nose, then it's an Alcatraz autopsy with the questions asked later. Any indiscipline, you feel, any variation, and there's a bullhorn, a set of scope sights, and a coptered pig drawing a bead on your rug. So what can a poor boy do? You come out of the hotel, the Vraimont. Over boiling Watts the downtown skyline carries a smear of God's green snot. You walk left, you walk right, you are a bank rat on a busy river. This restaurant serves no drink, this one serves no meat, this one serves no heterosexuals. You can get your chimp shampooed, you can get your dick tattooed, twenty-four hour, but can you get lunch? And should you see a sign on the far side of the street flashing BEEF-BOOZE-NO STRINGS, then you can forget it. The only way to get across the road is to be born there. All the ped-xing signs say DON'T WALK, all of them, all the time. That is the message, the content of Los Angeles: don't walk. Stay inside. Don't walk. Drive. Don't walk. Run! I tried the cabs. No use. The cabbies are all Saturnians who aren't even sure whether this is a right planet or a left planet. The first thing you have to do, every trip, is teach them how to drive.

One day, on the verge of dying of boredom, Uncle Johnny had had enough. He turned to me and said sternly, “Noah, I’m not gonna sit in here like we’re in an oversized coffin. We’re either opening the door or we’re turning the TV on. Which one do you want?” I rolled my eyes and grumbled for a few minutes before answering, “All right. Turn on the TV.” Without hesitation Uncle Johnny shot up out of that chair and reached up to hit the power button on the TV mounted from the ceiling. No sooner had his butt hit the chair seat than he was right back up again. “Fuck that. I am opening the door, too, because I want it open.” He vigorously emphasized his intention so I didn’t protest. He marched over and swung that door open. I swear he might have even taken a deep breath as if it were fresh mountain air. Then he came back to his chair and sat down. There was a movie on starring Matthew Broderick. I’d never heard of it before but Uncle Johnny was explaining to me that this was a remake and Gene Wilder had played Broderick’s character in the original film. In spite of myself, and my stubborn wish to sit and suffer in silence, I really liked the movie. And I remember thinking, I am really enjoying myself. I even turned to Uncle Johnny and said, “I’m glad we turned the TV on. This is great!” Uncle Johnny just smiled as if to say, “Of course! Finally!” We were right in the middle of the movie when one of my machines started to malfunction. The machine’s beeps drowned out the movie. A nurse came in to fix the problem and it just happened to be the hot nurse I had a crush on. She had short hair, a few tattoos on her arm, and she always wore a bandana over her head. The machine she was trying to fix was plugged in on the other side of the bed, up against the wall. “Oh, I see. Hold on. I have to move the bed out from the wall to fix this,” she said. At this point I was just watching her. She fixed the machine and pushed the bed back up against the wall. She actually hit the wall with the bed and zap! The TV went out! “WHAT?! NO!” I screamed. She couldn’t get it to turn back on. She tried but nothing worked. “Oh no, I’m sorry. We’ll have to get maintenance down here to fix it,” she said with an apologetic look that I met with a glare of disdain. She was no longer hot to me. She was just the nurse who broke the TV. Maintenance didn’t come to repair the TV until the next day. I didn’t get to watch the rest of the movie. In fact, I never saw the end of the movie and I didn’t even know the name of it until years later. Maybe one of these days I’ll get to see The Producers from start to finish.

A folded triangle of paper landed in the center of his notebook. Normally he’d unfold it discreetly, but Beamis was so clueless that the note could have hit him in the head and he wouldn’t notice. Loopy script in purple pen. The paper smelled like her. What’s your #? Wow. Hunter clicked his pen and wrote below her words. I have a theory about girls who ask for your number before asking for your name. Then he folded it up and flicked it back. It took every ounce of self-control to not watch her unfold it. The paper landed back on his desk in record time. I have a theory about boys who prefer writing to texting. He put his pen against the paper. I have a theory about girls with theories. Then he waited, not looking, fighting the small smile that wanted to play on his lips. The paper didn’t reappear. After a minute, he sighed and went back to his French essay. When the folded triangle smacked him in the temple, he jumped a mile. His chair scraped the floor, and Beamis paused in his lecture, turning from the board. “Is there a problem?” “No.” Hunter coughed, covering the note with his hand. “Sorry.” When the coast was clear, he unfolded the triangle. It was a new piece of paper. My name is Kate. Kate. Hunter almost said the name out loud. What was wrong with him? It fit her perfectly, though. Short and blunt and somehow indescribably hot. Another piece of paper landed on his notebook, a small strip rolled up tiny. This time, there was only a phone number. Hunter felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and he couldn’t remember how to breathe. Then he pulled out his cell phone and typed under the desk. Come here often? Her response appeared almost immediately. First timer. Beamis was facing the classroom now, so Hunter kept his gaze up until it was safe. When he looked back, Kate had written again. I bet I could strip na**d and this guy wouldn’t even notice. Hunter’s pulse jumped. But this was easier, looking at the phone instead of into her eyes. I would notice. There was a long pause, during which he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Then a new text appeared. I have a theory about boys who picture you na**d before sharing their name. He smiled. My name is Hunter. Where you from? This time, her response appeared immediately. Just transferred from St. Mary’s in Annapolis. Now he was imagining her in a little plaid skirt and knee-high socks. Another text appeared. Stop imagining me in the outfit. He grinned. How did you know? You’re a boy. I’m still waiting to hear your theory on piercings. Right. IMO, you have to be crazy hot to pull off either piercings or tattoos. Otherwise you’re just enhancing the ugly. Hunter stared at the phone, wondering if she was hitting on him—or insulting him. Before he could figure it out, another message appeared. What does the tattoo on your arm say? He slid his fingers across the keys. It says “ask me about this tattoo.” Liar. Mission accomplished, I’d say. He heard a small sound from her direction and peeked over. She was still staring at her phone, but she had a smile on her face, like she was trying to stifle a giggle. Mission accomplished, he’d say.

I left my car on the street, walked up across the dead yard, and a guy I took to be James Lester opened the door. He was average-sized in dark gray cotton work pants, dirty white socks, and a dingy undershirt. His hair was cut short on the sides and on top, but had been left long and shaggy in back, and he looked at me with a squint. He was thin, with knobby, grease-embedded hands and pale skin sporting Bic-pen tattoos on his arms and shoulders and chest. Work farm stuff. I made him for thirty, but he could’ve been younger. He said, “You’re the guy who called. You’re from the lawyer, right?” A quarter to eleven in the morning and he smelled of beer.

They drifted back to reality slowly, limbs entwined, heartbeats erratic, bodies shimmering with sweat. Hunter drew her head onto his shoulder, unwilling to let her go. A half smile settled on his mouth. He knew this first coupling had fallen far short of what it could have been, what it would be the second time. He had been tense, and so had she, not to mention the pain he had inflicted. His smile broadened. This small woman filled the empty places inside him, made him feel whole again. Gazing sightlessly across the lodge at the evening shadows, Loretta listened to the rapid tattoo of Hunter’s pulse. She felt boneless and completely exhausted. Her cheeks flamed when she thought of the things he had done to her and the shameless way she had responded. A wave of embarrassment washed over her. As if he sensed her anguish, he slid his hand over her hip and upward to her ribs. “My heart is filled with great love for you,” he whispered. Tears sprang to Loretta’s eyes. She couldn’t name the emotion that caused them, didn’t want to. Then, like projectiles from a cannon, the words shot from her mouth. “Oh, Hunter, I love you, too.” The moment she said it, she knew it was true. She loved him as she had never loved anyone, with an intensity that made her ache. Hunter, the fierce warrior, the culmination of all her nightmares, had become the most important person in her world.

Among the chattering, cheerful, well-dressed crowd of people waiting at the gate were a number of quiet young men, each with a pleasant but neutral expression, each rather short even for a Japanese, and each with a Japanese calligraphy character tattooed on his forehead. As I walked past, one of them smiled and raised his hand. "Mr. Rawson?" At my puzzled nod he bowed and his smile broadened. "Welcome to Japan. I am a robot working for the Convention and Visitors' Bureau of the Japanese government, and I have been assigned as your guide and interpreter while you are in our country. There is no charge for my services, but you are free to accept or decline them. I should add that the bureau wishes to extend special hospitality to a visitor from such a great distance, and that it will probably ask the favor of an interview, which will then be published in one of our tourist magazines. My name is Toshio Takata, and most of my English-speaking guests call me 'T-Square.'" Before this last sentence he had clasped his

On a smoggy spring day, the midday sun baked two California Highway Patrolmen in dark blue uniforms and a bearded dirt biker astride his Yamaha. They stood on a dirt road between the San Andreas barren earthquake faulted hills crisscrossed with biker’s trails. The sergeant stood next to the still body of Eduardo Sanchez, a thirteen-year-old boy clad in a t-shirt and oversized shorts, lying on his back with three bullet wounds and powder burns tattooed on his forehead. An astonished look captured his small immature cold face.

Beast. Born Catcher Coffey—isn't that a great name?—in Nashville, Tennessee, the man's a former MMA champion turned Death by Daybreak henchman. He's tall, wide, muscular, and covered in tattoos and piercings. Like, model for GQ level bad boy. One half of his head is buzzed short, the rest of his dirty blonde hair combed over to one side. With the beard, the nose ring, and the massive black and red eclipse tattoo on his right arm, he looks like a fucking beast.

When I die I hope that there will be laughter. I hope that champagne will be served. I hope that people wear red. And I hope when people speak of me that this is what they will say: She hugged too hard. She laughed too loud. She felt too much. She swore too much. She talked too much. She wore heels that were too tall. She wore skirts that were too short. She had too many tattoos. She made too many inappropriate jokes. She asked too many questions. She drank too much caffeine. She drank too much wine. She made peace with being too much for too many. She was overdressed. She was never early. She couldn’t sing but that never stopped her. She couldn’t sew. She couldn’t bake. She couldn’t be contained. She never had a shortage of people in her kitchen. She made her own traditions. She stopped using her voice for apologies unearned. She loved with reckless abandon. She tried to see the whole world. She tried to save the corners that she could. She tried to give her children deep roots and wide wings. She fell. She rose. She danced. She unraveled. She let go. She evolved. She carried herself as though she was made of feathers. She never smoothed her wild edges. She never stopped writing new chapters. She never stopped chasing the light. She was a tangled mess. She was strong. She was fierce. She was brave. She was a badass. She dreamed out loud. Her friends were her soulmates. The ocean was her therapy. Grace was her religion. Imperfection was her backbone. Forgiveness was her freedom. She lived like there was magic enveloped in the every day. She lived like there would never be enough time. She lived like there was fire in her veins. She lived.

Luke is as bronzed as his friend is pale, wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his insanely muscular arms, with long, dark blond hair pulled back in a bun and a short beard. He’s got tattoos that wrap around both biceps, and he’s carrying a box that must be heavy, because his arms are flexing. He smiles at me with instant warmth, and I melt.

While the orc was still certainly nearly seven feet tall, if not more, he was noticeably shorter than his father and siblings. His features seemed somehow softer, his tusks less pronounced—while the sides of his head were shaved and the remaining jet-black hair pulled back into a short ponytail, he did not have any of the visible tattoos Hrul had.

His smile became a bit wild, and before I could brace myself, he grabbed my arm. There was a blinding, quick pain, and my scream sounded in my ears as bone and flesh were shattered, blood rushed out of me, and then- Rhysand was still grinning when I opened my eyes. I hadn't any idea how long I'd been unconscious, but my fever was gone, and my head was clear as I sat up. In face, the mud was gone, too. I felt as if I'd just been bathed. But then I lifted my left arm. 'What have you done to me?' Rhysand stood, running a hand through his short, dark hair. 'It's custom in my court for bargains to be permanently marked upon flesh.' I rubbed my left forearm and hand, the entirety of which was now covered in swirls and whorls of black ink. Even my fingers weren't spared, and a large eye was tattooed in the centre of my palm. It was feline, and it's slitted pupil stared right back at me. 'Make it go away,' I said, and he laughed. 'You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren't you?' From the distance, the tattoo looked like an elbow-length lace glove, but when I held it close to my face, I could detect the intricate depictions of flowers and curves that flowed throughout to make up a larger pattern. Permanent. Forever. 'You didn't tell me this would happen.' 'You didn't ask. So how am I to blame?' He walked to the door but lingered, even as pure night wafted off his shoulders. 'Unless this lack of gratitude and appreciation is because you fear a certain High Lord's reaction.' Tamlin. I could already see his face going pale, his lips becoming thin as the claws came out. I could almost hear the growl he'd emit when he asked me what I had been thinking. 'I think I'll wait to tell him until the moment's right, though,' Rhysand said. The gleam in his eyes told me enough. Rhysand hadn't done any of this to save me, but rather to hurt Tamlin. And I'd fallen into his trap- fallen into it worse than the worm had fallen into mine.

But the reproach was short-lived, and was almost immediately replaced with a conspiratorial look—such a look of understanding and delight as might cross a parental face when the parent discovers her child has done something immensely distinguished and has been too modest to boast about it. So might a parent look on finding out that her daughter has been chosen for a university ski team, when she thought all along that she was only a moderately competent skier; or if she discovered that her daughter was in the running for a “Young Woman of the Year” award and had said nothing about it; or when, as in this case, she found out that her daughter had at last managed to find a nice-looking boyfriend with no visible tattoos or facial piercings.

One of them hides his face beneath a black hoodie like he doesn’t want to be spotted, dark streaks of wavy hair peeking out, and both hands stuck in pockets of his track pants. Tattoos can be seen under his sleeves. Another one with light blond hair and a side sweep, along with sharp, piercing blue eyes, has his hand tightly tucked into his expensive jeans like he’s clutching a knife. A bunch of tattoos peeks out from underneath the white shirt covered by a leather jacket. The third is tall and thin but muscular looking in a lean way, with short red-dyed hair in a side part. He’s wearing an actual white button-up shirt and tie. How odd.

Because you're mine?" I ask softly. "Because I have always been yours." And he leans down and puts his head in my lap, where our joined hands were just a moment ago. I hesitate, because touching him like this feels more intimate than we've ever been... and I literally just showed him my tits. But it's different like this. It's softer, more tender. I flex my fingers and then carefully run them through his soft, dark hair. He groans, hugging my legs and holding me close, as if he's never wanted anything more than this moment. I scratch lightly at his scalp, then brush his hair back from his brow. He has tattoos that disappear into his short hair, and I wonder how far back they go. I even trace the pointed line of one ear, surprisingly delicate on such a big, strong guy. "No matter what you decide, I'm fine with all of it," he reassures me. "I just want to be with you. More than that, I want to be yours.

Oh! Hi,” a voice says to my right, and I turn my gaze. I see a guy slightly younger than myself, probably late twenties, with tattoos covering his entire body. He’s wearing athletic shorts and a tank top, his hair pulled back with a hot-pink sweatband. And in his mouth is a lollipop. What the fuck is this? Is this a cosmic joke? “I couldn’t help but admire how strong you are,” the guy says with a grin, his lips cherry red from the candy. “I was wondering if you could give me some pointers. I’m Emery, by the way.

Catherine lived in a two-story Craftsman. It wasn’t much from the outside. No landscaping, a crumbling porch, paint chipping off the rails and trim. The windows couldn’t have done much to regulate the temperature. They had to be at least thirty years old, and only half had screens. This surprised me. Catherine was fastidious in all ways, but her house was a bit of a wreck. The neighborhood was all right. At least she wasn’t in imminent danger of being shot or mugged when she stepped outside. There were no cars in her driveway, so I wasn’t certain she was home. I reached for the doorbell but hesitated. Probably better to knock, just in case Josephine was sleeping. As I’d been told more than once, babies did a lot of that. It took a while. So long, I was about to give up when the door finally swung open. “Elliot?” Catherine stood in the open doorway, waiting for me to say something. The problem was, I’d been rendered speechless. The Catherine I knew was buttoned up to her neck, hair tied back, conservative, and almost modest in her style. The woman in front of me was barely dressed. Her shorts stopped at the top of thick, creamy, tattooed thighs. Her tank top didn’t cover any more of her. Her breasts nearly spilled out of the low neckline, belly button peeking out from the gap above her shorts. Her bare arms were covered in colorful tattoos from wrist to shoulder. Her hair, which was always tamed into submission, spilled around her shoulders and neck in a violent riot. It wasn’t curls like I’d always suspected, but wild, licking, wavy flames that shot out in all directions. I met her eyes, which were wide with alarm, and finally found my voice. “This isn’t what you look like.

promised I’d never take my wedding ring off, but I broke that promise shortly after I made it. I removed it to get her name tattooed on my ring finger.

I’ve always said I didn’t want an ordinary life. Nothing average or mundane for me. But as I stared at the rather ample naked derriere wiggling two inches from my face today, I realized I should have been more specific with my goals. Definitely not ordinary, but not exactly what I had in mind. The Texas-flag tattoo emblazoned across the left cheek waved at me as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. The flag was distorted and stretched, as was the large yellow rose on the right cheek, both tattoos dotted with dimples and pock marks. An uneven script scrawled out “The Yellow Rose of Texas” across the top of her rump. Her entire bridal party—her closest friends and relatives, mind you—had left her high and dry. They’d stormed off the elevator as I tried to enter it, a flurry of daffodil-yellow silk, spouting and sputtering about their dear loved one, Tonya the bride. “That’s it! We’re done!” They sounded off in a chorus of clucking hens. “We ain’t goin’ back in there. She can get ready on her own!” “Yeah, she can get ready on her own!” “Known her since third grade and she’s gonna talk to me like that?” “Third grade? She’s my first cousin. I’ve known her since the day she was born. She’s always been that way. I don’t know why y’all acting all surprised.” I felt more than a little uneasy about what all this meant for our schedule. The ceremony was supposed to start in fifteen minutes. The bride should have already been downstairs and loaded in the carriage to make her way to the hotel’s beach. My unease grew to panic when I knocked on Tonya’s door and she opened it clad only in a skimpy little satin robe. “Honey, you’re supposed to be dressed and downstairs already.” I tried to say it as sweetly as possible, but I’m sure my panic came through. My Southern accent kicked in thick, which usually only happens when I’m panicked or frustrated. Or pissed. Or drunk. “Do you think I don’t know that?” she asked, arching a perfectly drawn-on eyebrow. “Do you think somehow when I booked this wedding and had invitations printed and planned the entire damned event, I somehow didn’t realize what time the ceremony started? And just who the hell are you anyway?” Well, alrighty then. Obviously this was going to be a fun day. “Um, I’m Tyler Warren. I’m assisting Lillian with your wedding today.” “Fine. Those bitches left me with my nails wet.” She held up both hands to show me the glossy, fresh manicure. “How the hell am I supposed to get dressed with wet nails?” she asked, arching both eyebrows now and glaring at me like I was somehow responsible for this. “Oh.” My mind spun with the limited time frame I had available, the amount of clothing she still needed to put on, and the amount of time it would take to get her in the carriage and to the ceremony. “Give me just a second to let Lillian know we’ll be down shortly.” I smiled what I hoped was my sweetest smile and stepped backward into the hallway. She slammed the door as I frantically dialed Lillian’s cell. “You’d better be calling to tell me she is in the carriage and on her way,” Lillian said. “It is hotter than Hades out here. I have several people looking like they’re about to faint, and I may possibly dunk a cranky, tuxedoed five-year-old

Earlier, he’d sent Tom away when Polas launched into his stilted explanation of the first mate’s tattoos. As soon as the old man described them as slave tattoos, Baltsaros had been glad he had dismissed the first mate. Now he was unkindly forcing Tom to adopt the role that he swore he would never be in again. He frowned at Tom. “Polas said that the only way we could pass within the city walls without drawing attention is with a slave. I’m sorry, Tom, but you’re going to have to come to terms with this. It’s just an act… It’s not like you’re going to have to bow and scrape to me, and I will do everything in my power to keep you from facing any abuse.” Tom grunted against his forearm and raised his sea-green eyes to Baltsaros’s. “Fine,” he muttered, his jaw tight and brows creased. Though surly, Tom’s answer would have to do. The captain nodded, and then let out a short sigh.

I’d like to be with you,” she said, “but only if you’re comfortable with it. It’s not going to hurt the baby—you can call the doctor and ask her yourself. Or talk to Z—he and Bella were together while she was pregnant. She told me so. Talk to whoever you need to, but please rethink where you’re at. Being with you has to have a place in all this.” As he cracked his knuckles like he was considering things, she stared at the tattoos that ran up his inner forearms. She tried to imagine a son of hers with a set of those and reached out, turning one of his hands over so she could run her fingertips across the symbols. “Will he get these, too?” So many names, she thought. “Or because I’m his mother, is he not allowed—” “Fuck that shit. He can abso get them—and I’ll have V do it. But only if he wants them.” “I’m surprised.” “About?” “How much I want him to. I want him to be just like you.” There was a long pause and Wrath had to clear his throat. “That’s just about the best compliment anyone’s ever paid me.” “I don’t know. . . . I just feel like you’re the perfect man.” “Now you’re making me blush.” She laughed in a rush. “It’s true.” “I curse. Constantly. I have a short temper. I order people around—including you.” “You’re also a great fighter. Great lover—although my son will never, ever have sex—nope, not going there, and if we have grandchildren, they will be immaculately conceived. Wait, where was I—oh, yeah, so you’re also very loyal. You’ve never looked at another woman.” Wrath put his index finger up. “And that would be true even if I could see.” “And you’re smart. Great-looking—” He leaned in. “Are you trying to butter me up so I’ll have sex with you?” “Is it working?” “Maybe.” He kissed her lips softly. “Just give me a little time. Only yesterday you were rushed to the doc’s because you were throwing up.” She ran her hand down his cheek and his hard jaw. “I’ll wait for you. Always.” -Beth & Wrath

Harper, wait up!” He caught my arm and spun me around so I was facing him. “You’re not even going to say hi now?” “Hi.” My voice cracked and I kept my eyes to the ground. Chase gently placed his hand under my chin and lifted until I was staring at him through unshed tears. “Baby what’s wrong?” God I didn’t want to hear him call me that. Memories of our times together flashed through my mind and my cheeks instantly filled with heat. “Nothing,” I cleared my throat and blinked back the tears, “it’s just allergies or something.” His look told me he wasn’t buying that, but didn’t push that subject further. Stepping back he hung his head and sighed roughly, shifting his weight a few times, “I haven’t seen you around my house much. I know you don’t want to be with me, but don’t feel like you can’t be there, I won’t bother you and Brandon.” “That’s not why I haven’t been there. I um, I broke up with him.” Chase’s head snapped up, “You did? When, why didn’t you tell me?” He was failing miserably at trying to hide his elated smile. “A little over a week ago. But it hurt me more than I could ever explain to do it, and I need time to get over that. I can’t just rush back to you because Brandon and I aren’t together anymore.” He cupped my cheeks and hunched down so he was almost eye level, “I love you, I’ll give you all the time you need. Unless. Unless you don’t want me anymore?” I pressed my face harder into his left hand and closed my eyes, inhaling his clean masculine scent. “I’ve told you, I will always love you Chase, but I’m still not sure you won’t eventually leave me. Because of that fear, I don’t know if I can be with you. And some things have changed since we talked last, you might change your mind about me altogether.” “That’s not possible.” I pulled his hands off my face and wrapped his tattooed arms around my shoulders. After placing a kiss on his throat I buried my head in his chest, “I wish that were true.” My life had drastically changed in such a short amount of time. For obvious reasons, I’d had to break up with Brandon and now Chase and I were going to have a baby. Because of the turn of events, I found myself wanting a life with Chase more and more, I wanted him to be there for me and his baby. Here, wrapped up in his strong arms, I could almost let myself believe it might happen. But Chase was about to graduate college, he was a tattoo artist and spent most of his mornings surfing. I couldn’t see him settling down with me and our baby. “It is Harper,” his voice cracked when he said my name, and tears started falling down his face, “I love you so damn much, why can’t you see that?” Oh

He went into the hall bathroom that separated the two bedrooms and lifted the lid. He yawned. He scratched his head and felt foreign objects in his hair. While he continued to aim the stream into the commode, he leaned to the left to look in the small mirror over the sink and almost had heart failure. He actually might have jumped and briefly missed the pot. Sean had little-girl “things” in his short hair—clips, bows, ponytail bands, jeweled bobby pins. And there was something else—he scraped off some Scotch Tape. His hair was too short so some of that stuff was taped on! But that was the least of it—he had a bright red Angelina Jolie mouth that went way out of the lines. Blue eyelids and pink cheeks. He looked like a clown. He zipped his pants. Then he wet a finger under the faucet and rubbed it over his eyelid. Nothing changed, except that he saw his fingernails were bright green. He washed his hands vigorously. Oh, God—he’d been tattooed in his sleep! He took the bar of soap to his lips; no amount of scrubbing helped. “Frannnnn-ciiiii!” he yelled. A moment later she tapped at the door and he jerked it open. She was casually drying her hands on a dish towel while he was scowling. “Magic marker, I think,” she said, before he could ask the question. “Why?” he asked desperately, totally stunned. Franci shrugged. “She’s not allowed to touch my makeup. And she thinks you look wonderful.” Then she grinned. He stiffened and pursed his lips. “I’m pretty sure I’m out of uniform.” She chuckled. “We’ll think of something. Are you staying for dinner?” “I can’t go out like this!” “Okay, let’s try some fingernail polish remover on your green nails, have some dinner, and then I’ll see what I can do about your, ah, makeup. Really, Sean, rule number one—never close your eyes on a three-year-old.” *

Deerfield, Massachusetts February 29, 1704 Temperature 0 degrees Mercy could not keep up the pace. Gradually the line passed her by, until she was walking with Eben Nims, and she must not fall farther behind than that, because the Indians behind Eben were the end of the line. Daniel held tight and sucked his thumb. But not only did Marah refuse to walk, she kept yelling that her feet were cold, and she wanted Stepmama, and she needed her mittens, and she was hungry. Mercy could walk, though not fast enough, and she could carry, though not easily. But she could not supply food, warmth or Stepmama. Mercy tried to believe that Stepmama was up ahead of her with the baby; that it was so crowded and chaotic Mercy could not spot her. But in her heart, she did not think Stepmama had left the stockade. “The savage put food in my pack, Mercy,” said Eben quietly. “If you slip your hand into the opening near my left shoulder, there’s a loaf of bread on top.” They walked on, considering whether the Indians would tomahawk her for stealing Eben’s own bread. Well, they’d shortly tomahawk Marah for whining, so Mercy might as well get on with it. She set the two children down, and Eben bent his knees so she could reach and Mercy fished around in the pack. She slid the loaf out. It was long and fat and crusty. Her Indian was watching. Mercy looked straight at him while she ripped off a chunk for Marah. He did nothing. Mercy decided to give some to Jemima too, which would give her something to do besides whine. She would give bread to Eliza and hope food would break Eliza’s grieving stupor. Marah didn’t take a single bite. She threw the bread across the snow. “I want Mama!” she said fiercely. She glared at Mercy, as if all this hiking and shivering were Mercy’s fault. Mercy could not abandon the bread out there in the snow. She was going to need that bread. It was all they had, and somehow Mercy had become responsible for Marah and Daniel and Ruth and Eliza and Jemima, and probably even for Eben. Mercy stepped off the trodden path to retrieve the crust, but her Indian stopped her, shaking his head. On his face was no expression but the one painted in black. His arms were tattooed with snakes that curled their fangs when he tightened his muscles. How could he go half bare in this weather? she thought, and then remembered that she wore his rabbit-lined cloak. Daniel, sitting happily on her hip, reached out from under the rabbit fur and patted the snake. The Indian tensed his upper arm to make the snake slither. Daniel giggled, so the Indian did it again, and it seemed to Mercy that he actually smiled at Daniel. Then, blessedly, he took Marah for her.

She had white-blond hair cut pixie-short, and a black rose tattoo on the nape of her neck. From behind I could see she had one of those dainty cartoon frames: curvy hips, tiny waist, and mysteriously, no shoulders. I could probably bench-press her.

Gilly frowned at me.  "Ya know, stereotyping be a sign of limited intelligence.  I might have asked ye where yer lower back tattoo be or yer lip piercing, but I didna."  It folded its short little arms and cocked out one funky-shaped hip in a defiant stance.

Gilly frowned at me. “Ya know, stereotyping be a sign of limited intelligence. I might have asked ye where yer lower back tattoo be or yer lip piercing, but I didna.” It folded its short little arms and cocked out one funky-shaped hip in a defiant stance.

Here’s the scene: The three of us are by the Olympic-sized pool. The Latina with the thick waist is hovering in the shade of the veranda up by the house, her eyes on Frank in case he might want something, but so far he doesn’t and he hasn’t offered anything to me. If he did, I would ask for sunblock because standing here next to his pool is like standing on the sun side of Mercury. Gotta be ninety-six and climbing. Behind us is a pool house larger than my home, and through the sliding glass doors I can see a pool table, wet bar, and paintings of vaqueros in the Mexican highlands. It is air-conditioned in there, but apparently Frank would rather sit out here in the nuclear heat. Statues of lions dot the landscape, as motionless as Joe Pike, who has not moved once in the three minutes that I have been there. Pike is wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, faded Levi’s, and flat black pilot’s glasses, which is the way he dresses every day of his life. His dark brown hair is cut short, and bright red arrows were tattooed on the outside of his deltoids long before tattoos were au courant. Watching Joe stand there, he reminds me of the world’s largest two-legged pit bull.

She wears a Val Surf T-shirt and boys’ boxer shorts and she has a boy’s phone number scrawled on her hand. Part of her wants to spit on it and rub it off, and part of her wishes it was written in huge numbers across her belly, his name in gang letters, like a tattoo.

Logan shoulders his way past me and glares at her. “I’m not leaving again,” he says to her. She nods. “I know.” “No matter what you say,” he goes on. “I just needed to do something. I wanted it to be a surprise.” She holds her hand out to him. “I meant to do it later, but time got away from me, and then I realized that I hadn’t done it yet, and I was almost out of time. And so Friday helped me with it.” She motions for him to take her hand again. “But first we had to wash that stupid basketball off.” A grin tugs at the corners of my lips when she lifts her hospital gown and I see that the ball is gone. She’s wearing a pair of Logan’s boxer shorts for now, but her belly is huge and she looks like the timer on her chicken has popped. Across her belly are the words, “My name is Catherine. And I’m my daddy’s girl.” “You finally picked a name?” Logan asks. He puts his hand on her belly and draws out the letters. It’s made like his tattoo that says, “My name is Emily.” It’s the one he got when he found out her real name. “That name was your favorite, right?” she asks. I know it’s more than just his favorite. Catherine was our mom’s name. He nods, and I see him swallow really hard. “Kit,” he says. “Kit,” she repeats. Her voice cracks. There’s so much history between them with regard to that nickname.

I didn’t think you were coming back until later,” he says. He eyes me up and down but not in a creepy way. “Who’s your friend?” he asks. He sticks out a hand to shake, and I take it. “I’m Paul,” he says. He’s huge, and he has even more tattoos than Pete does. There’s another guy behind him. He’s thin and has long, blond hair, and it’s held back with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. “Matt,” he says as he sticks out his hand to shake. Then I notice a guy and a girl sitting on the couch. She’s the blonde I saw at the prison, and she eyes me with the gaze of an antiques dealer, as if she’s looking for all my imperfections. “Emily,” she says with a little wave. “Logan,” she says, as she pats Logan on the chest. He extends his hand, and I take it. But there’s one more, and my breath catches in my throat when he steps out from behind Logan. He looks so much like Pete. He has to be Sam. I look from Pete to Sam and back. “I’m the pretty one,” Sam says. He reaches out like he wants to hug me, but I recoil. I can’t help it. I’ve come a long way, but not that far. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says with a nod. I extend my hand, and instead of shaking it, he lifts it to his lips. His short little moustache tickles the back of my hand. I twist my fingers out of his grip, and Pete glares at him. “Keep your fucking hands off my girl,” he growls. But then he opens his arms, and Sam falls into them. They hug the way men do, with lots of backslapping and murmured words. “I’m glad you’re here,” Pete says. “You called. I came. Like a good big brother.” “Eight minutes,” Pete growls playfully. He drops an arm around my shoulders. “He was born eight minutes before me and he thinks he’s the shit because he’s older.” He coughs into his fist. “Excuse me. I am the shit.” He grins. He looks so much like Pete that it’s almost disturbing. “I think you’re both shits,” Paul says as he goes to fridge and gets a beer.

Yes,” I call. “Sky,” the receptionist says quietly. I pick up the handset. “Yes,” I say again. “What’s up?” “There’s a really hunky guy standing in front of me, and he’s asking for you,” she whispers into the phone. What hunky guy would be asking about me? “What does he look like?” “He’s about six two,” she starts. “Six three,” I hear someone say. “Oh, six three,” she says. “He’s a big one.” She giggles. My heart jumps. “What color is his hair?” “Blond. And long.” It’s Matt. Oh shit. It’s Matt. “I’ll be right there,” I say. But my heart is thumping like crazy. What is Matt doing here? I hunt around under my desk for my shoes and slide them on. Then I straighten my skirt and run a hand down my hair to smooth it. A minute ago, I had it held up with a pencil. It’s just Matt, I tell myself. It’s Matt. “Do you want me to send him back?” the receptionist asks. She laughs again. “Or I can just keep him?” Definitely not. He’s mine. “I’ll be right there,” I repeat. I look down at my business suit. I hope I look all right. I guess it’s too late now to worry about it. I walk into the reception area and find Matt leaning against the glass doorway. He turns to face me and smiles. “Hi,” he says quietly. I walk toward him, my legs shaky. “What are you doing here?” I ask, but I’m grinning, too. I stop in front of him, one move short of leaning into him for a hug. The receptionist is watching really closely. “I came to see if you want to go to lunch.” He shrugs. He’s wearing black jeans and lace-up boots. A black T-shirt is stretched across his broad chest, and it’s tucked neatly into his jeans. I can see his tattoos. A piece of hair has fallen from his ponytail, and I want to reach up and tuck it behind his ear. “How did you find out where I work?” I ask. I motion for him to follow me. Thank you, I mouth at the receptionist, and she winks at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I shake my head, and Matt walks quietly behind me. “I texted Seth,” he says. “Traitor,” I say, but inside, I’m thrilled. “Did I come at a bad time?” he asks. He looks down at his wrist, even though there’s no watch on it. “I can come back later.” “No, no.” I don’t want him to leave. Ever. I lean against the edge of my desk. “I’m glad you’re here.” His voice is deep and soft when he responds. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning.” He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “So I figured I’d drop by. I totally understand if you’re too busy, though.” He looks into my eyes. “I might cry if you send me away, but I’ll go.” I’m not going to send him away. Not a chance. “I don’t want you to go,” I say. He grins. “Good.” He looks around my office. “Do you have time for lunch?” “Oh!” I cry. “I thought you were just going to stand there and let me look at you. You actually want to go somewhere?” He laughs. “Yeah. I told you. I’m going to make you fall in love with me. Lunch is step one.” “What’s step two?” I ask impulsively. “If I told you, it wouldn’t work.” I nod. I want it to work. “Don’t tell me.” “Guy’s got to have some secrets.

Grabbing the T-shirt off the bed, he pulled it over his head. Plain black but not as loose as he normally wore. He turned toward the mirror and realized the tight fit emphasized his shoulders, chest and arms. Tinia’s teat, he looked like a hard-ass with the tattooed runes on his left arm and the muscles bulging. He’d probably scare the girl away. Except, the shorts kind of balanced it out, made him look a little more normal. Yeah, like the friendly neighborhood ex-con about to do his lawn. “And

Take off your hood,” he said with a soft growl, his eyes fixed on her mouth. She crossed her arms. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, Prince.” “From tears to sass in a few minutes. I’m glad the month apart hasn’t dimmed your usual good spirits.” He yanked back his hood, and she started. “Your hair! You cut it all off!” Indeed, the long silver-white hair was now cropped short. It made him look younger, made his tattoo stand out more, and… fine, it made him more handsome, too. Or maybe that was just her missing him.

She lifted our hands, untangling our fingers to get a closer look at my hand. At the matching tattoo on my ring finger. She gently touched the marking. “Why did you do this? Is it some kind of family tradition?” “Not that I know of.” “It’s going to make divorce awfully complicated.” “Good thing I have no plans of ever divorcing.” My words hung like steam in the air. She wiggled around to look back at me. “You didn’t just do this for the short term?” I held up my hand. “Does this look short term to you?” “But you hardly know me.” “I know enough.

His answering kiss was nothing short of savage possession. He tattooed his claim onto my lips, sealing it with an oath of forever. And I made him a vow of my own with the offering of my body and soul.

He was tattooed and scarred and could be abrasive when he wanted to be, but the way he touched me was nothing short of reverent. He made me feel cherished. Safe. Beautiful. All without even trying.

Thank you for coming with me.” She knew it was no small thing. Dom was Monarch of Iona now, the leader of an enclave shattered by war and betrayal. He should have been at home with his people, helping them restore what was nearly lost forever. Instead, he looked grimly down a sand dune, his clothes poorly suited to the climate, his appearance sticking sticking out of the desert like the sorest of thumbs. While so many things had changed, Dom’s ability to look out of place never did. He even wore his usual cloak, a twin to the one he lost months ago. The gray green had become a comfort like nothing else, just like the silhouette of his familiar form. He loomed always, never far from her side. It was enough to make Sorasa’s eyes sting, and turn her face to hide in her hood for a long moment. Dom paid it no notice, letting her recover. Instead, he fished an apple from his saddlebags and took a noisy bite. “I saved the realm,” he said, shrugging. The least I can do is try to see some of it.” Sorasa was used to Elder manners by now. Their distant ways, their inability to understand subtle hints. The side of her mouth raised against her hood, and she turned back to face him, smirking. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said again. “Oh,” he answered, shifting to look at her. The green of his eyes danced, bright against the desert. “Where else would I go?” Then he passed the rest of the apple over to her. She finished the rest without a thought. His hand lingered, though, scarred knuckles on a tattooed arm. She did not push him away. Instead, Sorasa leaned, so that her shoulder brushed his own, putting some of her weight on him. “Am I still a waste of arsenic?” he said, his eyes never moving from her face. Sorasa stopped short, blinking in confusion. “What?” “When we first met.” His own smirk unfurled. “You called me a waste of arsenic.” In a tavern in Byllskos, after I dumped poison in his cup, and watched him drink it all. Sorasa laughed at the memory, her voice echoing over the empty dunes. In that moment, she thought Domacridhan was her death, another assassin sent to kill her. Now she knew he was the opposite entirely. Slowly, she raised her arm and he did not flinch. It felt strange still, terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. His cheek was cool under under her hand, his scars familiar against her palm. Elders were less affected by the desert heat, a fact that Sorasa used to her full advantage. “No,” she answered, pulling his face down to her own. “I would waste all the arsenic in the world on you.” “Is that a compliment, Amhara?” Dom muttered against her lips. No, she tried to reply. On the golden sand, their shadows met, grain by grain, until there was no space left at all.

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having Property of Trey Coleman tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considers you his, could he?” Very true. In addition to those marks that Trey had left while they consummated the claiming, there were those that he had made during the second, third, and fourth rounds that followed through the night. There was a bite at the hollow of her throat, another on her inner wrist, a third one on the swell of her breast, and also claw marks on both upper arms—and those were only the ones that weren’t hidden beneath her black T-shirt, navy jeans, and black leather knee-high boots.

The massive wardrobe, decorated with stickers and posters of Jack’s favourite bands, stood in the corner. I went to it and opened both the doors – then stepped back in amazement.   It was like something out of a fashion spread. Footwear was aligned in two perfectly straight lines along the bottom of the wardrobe, with boots at the back and shoes at the front. Each pair was polished and had a pair of socks folded up in the left shoe or boot. Above the shoes, Jack’s clothes were hung up on fancy padded hangers, organized by colour going from black through grey, white, pale pink, dark pink, purple and then blue. One quarter of the wardrobe was taken up with closet shelves, where every item, from T-shirts to jeans to scarves, was folded into a perfect geometric square that I wouldn’t have been able to achieve with two helpers, a ruler, and sticky tape.   I turned my head and looked at the chaos of the room. Then I looked back at the wardrobe.   No wonder she never let me see inside before.   “Jack, you big fat fake.” I let out a laugh that was half sob. “Look at this. Look! She’s the worst neat freak of them all, and I never even knew. I never even knew…”   Trying not to mess anything up too much, I searched through the neat piles of T-shirts until I found what seemed to be a plain, scoop-necked white top with short sleeves. I pulled it out, but when I unfolded it, there turned out to be a tattoo-style design on the front: a skull sitting on a bed of gleaming emeralds, with a green snake poking out of one eyehole. In Gothic lettering underneath, it read WELCOME TO MALFOY MANOR.   Typical Jack, I thought, hugging the shirt to my chest for a second. Pretending to be cool Slytherin when she’s actually swotty Ravenclaw through and through.

Thus to this day, Europe’s elite discourse often depicts America not as proletarian, which at least to leftist Europeans has the connotation of authenticity, but rather as commodified, commercial, vulgar—values that exude inauthenticity, plasticity, and heteronomy. European elites’ image of America as “Las Vegas,” “Disneyland,” basically as “white trash”—or what the British call “chav”— has a distinguished pedigree: gaudy jewelry, expensive-but-tacky clothes, garish makeup, platinum blond hair, tattoos, vulgar demeanor, in short inauthentic and kitschy glitter best captured by the term “uncouth.” This disparaging image of America cultivated by European elites was also linked to how the young United States embodied modern capitalism hostile to an aristocratic order.

Kenton County began shuttling inmates from 104 directly to the LLC to avoid the perilous bus trip. The day before I met Webb-Edgington, eleven people from the jail arrived. LLC staff fed them, then got busy finding them beds in sober-living houses. They fitted a couple for eyeglasses. One man was wearing only shorts; outside, the temperature was 21 degrees. LLC staff dug him up a pair of pants. Kenton County jailer Terry Carl hired a social worker to sign inmates up for Medicaid. They often asked her for dental care, too. Ravaged teeth were as public a sign of street addiction as visible tattoos. Improved smiles, on the other hand, helped their confidence; then they dressed better and they got their hair cut, too. Some of them got tattoos removed by Jo Martin, who in the winter of 2019, three years after being turned away, moved her lasers into an office at the LLC. Jason Merrick imagined now what he called “recovery-ready communities”—towns geared to helping addicts recover. “This is what rehabilitation looks like,” Merrick told me. “It’s a full continuum of care, not just punishment.

What a waste! I have wasted time, resources, energy. Tattoo ink taints the flesh. It is more than a permanent scar—it is a nausea-inducing taste that I refuse to consume.

Tammy had read this article online called “Making Your First Million on Social Media” that said ukuleles were trending, along with hydroponic gardening, tattoos, eco-friendly period products, and Boston terriers.

She tried the front door and it was unlocked, which actually surprised her. “Not open,” Mac’s deep, rumbly voice called out from the back about a second before he stepped out from his workshop. His eyes widened when he saw her. And he stood there looking like deer in headlights. Good. “Adeline,” he began. “A text? Seriously? You blow me off with a freaking text,” she snapped out, her boots stomping forward of their own volition. That burning fire that had spent days kindling was licking up her spine now as she worked up a good head of anger. He closed his eyes briefly as he moved toward her. “Look, it’s not what you think.” “Really? It’s not what I think? You didn’t send me a dismissive, crappy text about an hour before our date? After spending all that time together and becoming…friends.” Or she’d thought they had. Obviously she was wrong. “So you didn’t blow me off after all that? And then ignore me right in front of people on Main Street?” It was quite literally possible there was actual steam coming out of her ears right now. Guilt flickered across his expression for a moment but then his face went carefully neutral. “Look, I didn’t know how else to handle it. I just don’t think we should see each other. I shouldn’t have ignored you and I should have called, but—” She’d took another step forward, hands on hips, when the front door behind her swung open with a bang. She jumped and turned to find some guy stalking in. He had on heavy-looking boots, jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and there was a chain hanging from his back pocket attached to his belt. And he had some ugly-looking tattoos on his arms. Prison tats.

You’re mine, and unless you have a fucking good reason, you’re staying here with me. Because short of getting it tattooed on my fucking face, I’ve done everything I can to claim you.

Fitzy is short for Colin Fitzgerald, and he just happens to be THE UNICORN. The tall, sexy, tattooed, hockey-playing unicorn of a man who I might have a teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy crush on.

Pretension hung in the air like an unacknowledged fart, and at each show, I felt two tattoos and a master's degree short of fitting in.

Once both male canines had collected enough smell samples from Sabrina's crotch/my dinner, we stopped laughing and managed to get inside the apartment. It was a two-room apartment on the ground floor and it was quite dark inside, with the curtains closed and only one or two lamps turned on in the entire place. Two big cats, two big dogs and two Jewish guys were sitting in the living room. There were a variety of products scattered all over the place. The room was a mess, not necessarily caused by the pets. They told us that they also have two more large cats at home in Belgium. Mario introduced us to Tom Titelany: the short, dark-haired guy who had opened the door and was the owner of the Dogue de Bordeaux. The other guy, sitting in the dark, a bit taller and skinnier with brighter skin, and brighter hair, and much brighter eyes, called Adam Maraudin, was the owner of the two large cats and the Bull Terrier jumping around. There was a huge serpent tattoo winding around Adam's shoulder, and though his tank top only revealed part of the design, it was clear that this was not an ordinary tattoo, it seemed to me to be of Far-Eastern origin or Thai. They then introduced us to Adam's girlfriend, the British Rachel Conarts, whom Adam called Shifra for some reason. She had ginger hair and was as tall as Adam, taller than Tom. There was a big bag of scuba diving kit in the living room and, when I asked them about it, they told me that Shifra and Adam had first met in Thailand, where they had been scuba diving. One of them was called Tom, the same as my name, and the other one was called Adam, coincidentally the same as my middle name. Coincidence? I don’t know.

Her mom says they’re trying to find a rabbit, but they find a witch instead, with curly hair and tattoos of stars and not scary like Baba Yaga. Her name is Mina and she knows her mom from back in the day, and Bridge is impressed at how she is grubby and glamorous at the same time in a short black dress and big army boots with the laces undone so she might trip at any moment.