“What about your other tattoos?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence. I wasn’t trying to get all deep—it kind of happened by accident. “Did you get your other tattoos in tribute to the few things that matter—or because we’re all gonna die, anyway?”
He makes a face. “Some of each, depending on the tattoo.”
“When did you get the one for your mom?” I ask.
“When I was twenty, I think.”
“She died when you were seven?”
He nods.
“Why did you tell me it means ‘But for the Grace of God I go’ rather than telling me it’s your mom’s name?”
He shrugs. “I never tell people about my mom.”
“Why not?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions?”
“Because I gave you my application and you still owe me yours.”
He makes an annoyed face. “When I was really young, I used to tell people about her whenever anyone asked. Jonas and I had to see a therapist when we were kids and I used to just talk and talk and talk. Blah, blah, blaaaah. But when I was a teenager, I noticed every time I told people, I feltworse,not better. Telling people made them look at me funny—like there was something wrong with me because my mom was murdered—like, I dunno, all of a sudden, they thought every time I laughed I was full of shit. And then, after my dad died, and everything that happened with Jonas, I just shut the fuck up completely. From then on, talking about Mom just opened thefloodgates to questions about my dad, which meant I’d pretty much be talking about Jonas and all his shit. And I realized I don’t need anyone scrutinizing my face as I’m talking for telltale signs that I’m ‘laughing through the pain.’”
I bite my lip.
He exhales. “New topic. Have you always been this way?”
“What way? Annoying?”
“No. So fuckingorgasmic.”
“Oh.” I make a face like he just gave me whiplash. “Wow, that was a sudden shift in topic.”
He forges right ahead. “I’ve never been with a woman who has orgasms so easily and often as you do.” He smirks and bites into a fry. “I’m already addicted to making you come. Best game ever.”
I feel a surge of pure elation, but I don’t reply.
“Jesus, if I could come that many times in a row, I’d never leave my room. You must masturbate all the time.”
I blush.
“Oh, come on. Cat got your tongue, Kitty Kat? You wrote me that awesome application and now you’re gonna get all shy on me?”
“It’s different to write all that stuff down than to talk about it, face-to-face.”
“Aw, come on, PG.” He shoots me an incredibly charming look. “It’s just me, remember? Honesty-game. How often do you masturbate?”
I feel my cheeks blazing.
“Come on, Kat. Honesty-game, baby.”
I sigh audibly. “Every day, pretty much. I try not to let a day go by without having an orgasm.”
“Nice.”
“An orgasm a day keeps the blues away.”
“I love it. When did you discover your motor runs so hot?”
