“So Lyra, do you want matching metal?” Grant cut in, adjusting his seat before getting right back to business. I had to wonder how much he heard and how much he guessed, but the change in subject was more than welcome.
“Fuck off, Grant. You’re not looking at my wife’s pussy.”
Grant snickered and pressed the tip of the gun to Carver’s back, sending small vibrations through his chest onto my skin. “Just offering my services.”
“You pierced Car?” I asked, wiping the tears from my cheeks and maneuvering slowly to look over his shoulder, watching as Grant worked to fill the faded spots.
“Sure did. He’s one of the few people I’d do it for, too. Fucker didn’t flinch, though I know it hurts like a bitch.”
“You’re pierced?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“Lyra,” Carver growled.
I giggled as he squeezed my thigh. “Sorry, you don’t need to answer that. I didn’t know it was that common.”
“It’s not,” Grant said. “And we all are.”
“Who’s—”
“Don’t answer that,” Carver warned. “You almost done back there? Swear it was only a few spots.”
“Yes, your highness. Wrapping up, then onto the butterfly and your hand, right?”
“Right,” Carver answered.
My eyes fell to Car’s arm. “Why is the butterfly more faded than the others?”
“Were you not around when he got it, or was that after you—”
“Watch your tongue,” Carver warned and Grant laughed, shaking his head. “It was my first one,” Carver replied.
“Yep. And if I’d been the one who did it, it would’ve looked ten times better.”
Carver snorted. “Or ten times worse. Were you even a tattoo artist when you were sixteen?”
“Were you a weed farmer at nineteen? No. But clearly we both have our passions and know what we’re good at.”
The crazy ups and downs my body was going through this morning were making my head spin. I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my palms into them. When I blinked them open again, I studied the two of them.
Gleaning from their conversation, Grant was three years younger than Carver, putting him around twenty-five. They talked to each other as if they could be brothers, though their looks would tell you otherwise. Where Carver’s hair was swept back and tousled, Grant’s was one of those modern-day mullets country boys were bringing back like wildfire. Their eyes werealso different, with Carver’s being my favorite shade of blue, and Grant’s being more grey and pale. They seemed like yin and yang. Carver said Grant was the entertainment, and that was easy to picture. He seemed like the life of any party, with his easygoing smile and smooth like whiskey voice. Carver, on the other hand, looked like he ended most parties, more likely than not, with his fists. I could almost picture Grant’s flirtatious attitude getting the three of them into trouble, Carver defending them all with his hands, and Hayes…well, he seemed to be the silent but deadly type. Maybe he was the one who dragged the two of them out from the bars when he’d had enough.
Maybe one day I’d know his friends better than judging them by their appearance.
Maybe, if I stayed…
Grant’s booted foot tapped on the floor and the gun clicked off, pulling me from my thoughts. “Alright, lovebirds. I need his front side now, so unless you plan to strap yourself to his back—”
“It’s fine. I’ll go.”
Carver loosened his hold on me a fraction, then cupped my chin and pulled my lips to his. The kiss was soft and sweet, but promised so much more as his thumb swept over my bottom lip. I leaned into his touch. “Go eat. I ordered breakfast for you, but didn’t want to wake you up.”
I adjusted my dress as I stood, then made my way toward the kitchen.
“Remember how I asked if you had a friend?” Grant asked from the fold-out chair my husband probably asked him to bring, because all of ours were…well, a pile of ash by now.
“You mean when you thought I was doing my makeup on the side of the road?”
Carver chuckled as he turned in his seat, giving Grant his arm.
