Starlight (Peaches Monroe #2)(52)
Author: Mimi Strong

“Used and abused.” I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and prepared myself to stand.

“I’ll take good care of you. I have an excellent hangover cure.”

I rubbed the bandaged spot inside my hip. “Sounds awesome. Do you also have a tattoo remover? Apparently I got a tattoo two nights ago, and get this: I’m too f**king pathetic to pull off the wrap and see what it is.”

“Probably an I Love Keith Raven tattoo. Very popular with LA girls.”

“I hope so, because I can think of worse things.”

“Me, too.”

I twisted my arm behind my back and pulled down the zipper of the dress, which was another borrowed one, and pretty cute: green with white dots, with shoulder panels of black lace. After wriggling out of the dress, I flopped back on the bed and pointed to the edge of the tape, sticking out of the waistband of my underwear.

“You look first,” I said. “Break it to me gently.”

He hovered over me, rubbing his hands gleefully, like a mad scientist, then peeled down the tape.

“Oh, that’s sweet,” he said, followed by, “Hmm. Weird. I don’t get it.”

I curled up to sitting, sucking my stomach in with the aid of both hands so I could see the little tattoo. It was dark blue, with a tiny squiggle shape—a bird—and then the words Doves Cry.

“Huh,” I said.

“Okay, you have to tell me what it means.”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe I was playing a game of Tattooist’s Choice.” I twisted my spine so I could look at the tattoo from another angle. “Actually, I really like this. Doves Cry. It’s like… everybody cries. And that’s okay.”

“Doves don’t really cry, though, do they? Don’t they coo? Coo, coo.”

“Coo, coo to you, too.” I pondered the puzzle of my new tat for a few seconds. Was it a reference to the cuckoo clock in my Closet of Regret? No, that was reaching too far.

Keith jumped off the bed and returned with a whole First Aid kit. “You need to better care of your tattoo,” he said.

“I need to take better care of my entire person.”

He squeezed out some clear gel and tenderly applied it to my skin. Mmm, that felt nice. He pulled out a giant bandage, like the kind you might use on a skinned knee, and applied it over my new ink. Then he kissed the top of my leg. “All better.” He kissed my leg again, then sat up and moved toward my lips.

I stopped him by putting my hand up between us. “Sorry, I need to either brush my teeth or throw them away. I care about you too much to let you kiss me right now.”

He tried to convince me that it didn’t matter, but I squirmed away from him and ran to the bathroom, where I locked myself in, along with my purse.

I started tidying up, but got distracted. I was eager to show Keith how grateful I was for his heroic rescue the previous night, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to check my messages.

According to my outbox, I’d sent him my location the night before using the GPS function. That made sense, as I was in no state to remember the name of the club, which had something to do with either seafood, or astronomy, or possibly both. Saturn Prawn? Dolphin Galaxy? Planet Oyster? Ew, no.

I snorted as I found some photos I’d also sent Keith’s way—all pictures of either my cle**age on its own, or my cle**age along with a top-down view of my face in a goofy expression.

But I hadn’t just sent those pictures to Keith. I’d also forwarded them to Shayla, and to Adrian.

Oh, and there was a picture response from Adrian.

The picture from him was a little blurry, and looked like a distant image of… some people? Some guy with a shaved head?

Eep!

I dropped the phone on the bath mat.

That was definitely a penis.

Adrian had sent me a dick pic?

Oh, no, that was NOT the appropriate response to a little bit of cle**age. Unless…

The next picture sort of excused Adrian’s, because it was my own nipple, being squeezed between my fingers. Now, most ni**les are not that easily identifiable, and my own are certainly no exception, but Luscious Hilda Mae Sparkles did my nails for our night out, and those were my rainbow-painted nails.

What I did next was exactly what any modern girl in this situation would do. I forwarded the dick pic to my best friend, Shayla. Oh, I hesitated for half a second, wondering if there was any sort of dick-pic-sender-recipient privilege, but neither of us were lawyers, so I went ahead and sent that bald-man-from-a-distance straight to Shayla’s magical wiener-viewing screen. I figured any dude sending a photo of his man-privates to a girl has to know that girl’s one to six best friends will also get a gander.

After my phone-business was done, I got showered and scrubbed up.

I took another peek at the tattoo after I got dressed in some stretch jeans and one of my favorite T-shirts, navy blue with silver rivets and sparkles.

Doves Cry.

The letter O had a squiggle on it, so the tattoo could be read as Daves Cry. Daves Cry? I didn’t know anyone named Dave, and even if I did, the bird over top would make no sense.

Regardless of what it meant, it was a pretty f**king rad tattoo. I took a picture of it, still red and puffy under the ink, but didn’t send it to anyone.

“Don’t you look adorable,” Keith said as I came out to the living room.

“You, too.” I gave him a hug and kissed his stubbly cheek. “You look super-fine in those flannel pajama bottoms. Has anyone ever told you that you could be a model?”

He struck a pose, stretching his shirtless torso to make his ab muscles ripple. “Scusi, che ore sono?“

“What?”

“That was my bad Italian. I think I asked you for the time.”

I batted my eyelashes. “I always have the time for you, baby.” Three more blinks. “Wait. Does this mean you’re going to Italy?”

He grinned.

“No way!” I went in for the high five, and he grabbed me in a bear hug, picked me up, and swung me around. I squealed like a little girl.

He put me down, then he picked me up and swung me around again. And then a third time, and he would have kept going for a fourth if I hadn’t been wailing, “Put me down before you stretch out my new tattoooooo!”

Keith looked down at me, his lovely brown eyes wide open. “Stretch out your tattoo?”

I rubbed the spot while giving him a serious face. “Yeah, you’ll crack it or something.”

“You could just say you don’t like being swung around.” He hooked his finger in one of the belt loops of my jeans and tugged me toward him. “You could also say you’re terrified I might ask you to come to Italy with me.”