Sweet Nothing by Jamie McGuire, Teresa Mummert Read Free Book Online

I sighed “—try not to say anything stupid to anyone with tits today.”
    “Oh. You’re still pissed about Jacobs.”
    I ripped my belt from the loops and folded it in half, glaring at him.
    He held up his hands. “Okay. You’re right. I fucked up. It’s been a while and I was nervous, so I might have tried for liquid courage.”
    “I’m pretty sure you drank liquid jackass instead.”
    “I wasn’t that bad.”
    “You introduced Jacobs as slavery , and then you puked sushi and raisins all over the ground.”
    Quinn looked around, trying to remember. “Damn.”
    “Yeah,” I said, remembering the look on her face when she walked away from me at the hospital. She had the upper hand, and she knew it. “Get dressed.”
     

     
    I’d consumed enough food to feed a small village, and all I wanted to do was sleep. Instead of going back to my apartment, Quinn used his mom’s apple pie as a peace offering. We walked back to his place and then helped his mother move a bedroom set she’d found from a secondhand store to the third floor of her apartment building.
    “You sure you’re all right, man?” Quinn was leaning back against his mother’s counter, polishing off a thick piece of pie.
    “I’ll live.”
    He shook his head but didn’t press me any further. I didn’t need anyone looking over my shoulder, and Quinn understood that. Despite his frequent fuckups, he was a good guy.
    “You boys have plans this evening?” his mother asked as she handed Quinn a napkin and a glass of milk. I shook my head, struggling not to laugh at how helpless he became in the presence of his mommy, a spitfire Italian.
    “I got something I gotta do.” I walked toward the door with a wave. “Thanks for the pie, Mrs. Cipriani.”
    Quinn lifted his chin in acknowledgment as he continued to shovel food into his mouth.
    I was practically running on fumes by the time I slipped out of the old brick housing unit and made my way down to Tit for Tat, a small tattoo joint I saw on my way to work every day. I’d hoped I wouldn’t be seeing the inside of one of these places for a long time, but it had become a superstitious ritual now. A bell chimed overhead when I pulled open the door. A man with a Mohawk and more ink than a paperback glanced up at me through dark-rimmed hipster glasses.
    “Just finishing up here, man. Check out the flash on the walls. It will just be a second.” He wiped a towel over the arm of the woman he was tattooing, smearing a small stain of ink across her milk-colored flesh.
    I nodded, glancing over the drawings hanging on the walls. There were a lot of traditional pieces and some new age tattoos that looked like they could be in a gallery somewhere. But I wasn’t up for something fancy. My tattoo was more of a scoreboard—a death cheat sheet.
    Shoving my hands deep into my jean pockets, I roamed around the lobby area, averting my eyes from the woman’s breast now in clear view as she showed one of the employees her nipple ring she was worried was becoming infected.
    The cash register slammed closed, and the tattoo artist called to me. “Sorry about the wait.” I turned around, approaching the front desk. It was made of glass with various body jewelry and morbid décor inside. “Can you give me an idea of what you’re looking for?”
    “No problem.” I reached behind my head, grabbing the back of my basic cotton T-shirt and pulling it off. The ball chain necklace holding a single penny fell against my chest. I ran my fingers over my left ribs, tracing the nine tiger stripes that cut across my skin. “I earned another stripe.”
    The man stepped from around his counter and bent down to get a closer look at the work before standing back up to his full height. He was much thinner than I was but several inches taller than my six-foot frame.
    “I hope this isn’t a body count. Most guys just opt for a tear drop or a few dots.”
    I laughed as he tilted his head toward his station. “No, just a few