— Chapter 68 —
The Other Kind of Gun

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E L L I O T

Spending my mornings at Jesse's store and back-to-back nights working the bar at Joe's, I was never not on my feet. Jesse trusted me at the store on my own now. Taking her tasks on top of mine meant that I was responsible for getting everything done before she came to take over in the afternoons. I didn't mind; didn't complain. All the tasks kept me too busy to lose myself in my own head, and that was always a good thing.

Joe's, on the other hand, wasn't entirely business-as-usual. Even though the Stray Dogs were disbanded, and nothing was stopping them from coming by, it was clear that most of them were veering on the side of caution. Those who showed up didn't show up in vests, or in groups large enough to draw the attention of the police. All in all, things were going slow.

The only moments I could cut myself a break came with Noah's presence.

He'd been... different lately.

When Han held a gun to my head that night at the races, there was a look in Noah's eyes that I'd never seen before. Pure dread. That time, instead of being indifferent to dying altogether—I was horrified. I feared that I'd die and the last thing I'd see would be Noah's terror-ridden expression staring back at me. I was terrified that Noah would have to see me shot to death in front of him. I was terrified at the idea of having to lose him.

Then he went to New York. And I thought the distance would be good—that it would somehow help me figure out why I cared so much. Why Noah's terror-ridden expression kept haunting me; why the idea of having him ripped away from me felt so suffocating.

I didn't like the answer I was getting.

Love.

I couldn't feel love for him.

I couldn't allow myself to feel love for him.

I couldn't allow myself to admit feeling love for him.

But after talking to Noah and spending the night with him back at the apartment, I noticed a shift in his behavior over the next few days.

He insisted on driving me everywhere, to and from work. He never sat more than a few feet away from me at the bar—even when the bikers around him were lost in conversation, his shadowy eyes would always linger on me, as if he were making sure that I was still there. He'd give me his jacket if it were cold. He'd sit with me on my breaks, ignoring his friends when they called him over to smoke in favor of giving me company. And when I asked him why he was doing all of this, he'd shrug off the question—or insist that it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Convincing Noah to keep letting me take my shifts at the convenience store was the trickiest part. He didn't have to say it out loud, but I knew he didn't want to run the risk of having me run into Han again.

I told him he didn't have to worry. Han had fallen off the map—he'd been gone for so long that I'd already begun to forget his face.

At the end of my shifts at Joe's, once the bikers were gone and the bar was shut, Noah drove me home. Not back to my father, but back to the apartment—because even an apartment in the throes of renovation felt more like a home than anything my father had to offer right now.

Noah cooked me dinner every night. Something new, every night. Ravioli, steak, fried rice, soup. I fed Fuckass with whatever cat food we could find in the fridge while Noah plated up a warm dinner, never letting me go to bed on an empty stomach.

I think I liked that most.

For someone so big and tough, Noah was oddly fastidious, cooking with love and attention to detail. It showed through in everything he made. Every time.

"Thanks for coming in!" Jesse smiled at me from the counter of the store as I waved her farewell at the end of my afternoon shift. "Looks like your friends are waiting out there for you. Have a good day, youngster."

"You too," I answered, apparently too distracted to ask what she meant by 'friends' in that goodbye.

Fortunately enough, I didn't have to ask—because the first thing I saw when I walked out of the store was a truckload of Stray Dogs sitting in a shiny, black-lacquered pickup by the footpath.

Chains, sitting in the driver's seat, honked the horn exactly three times. Noah stood leaning against one of the back doors, while Shooter stuck his head out of the passenger window, cupped his mouth and called, "Let's go, loser! We're going on a crusade!"

Noah adjusted the dark shades at the bridge of his nose and gave away an irresistible grin at the sight of me approaching. He was a sculpture of black fabric and sharp angles in the evening sunlight, a light breeze ruffling the gentle waves of his dark-brown hair.

"What's going on?" I asked, energized by his presence.

Noah took the duffle bag off my shoulder for me and tossed it to Shooter to store away, giving the biker something to do that didn't involve listening in on our conversation.

"I did some thinking, and I realized that you've never actually seen much of the Stray Dogs outside of Joe's." Noah tsked. "Well, ex-Stray Dogs now, but you get the gist."

"Where're we going?"

He elaborated, "There's a bonfire not far from here. Chief's still grumpy about disbanding, so we're trying to boost everyone's spirits in the best way we know how: burgers and beer. Everyone's going. You'll like it, promise."

A small smile tugged on my lips. "A bonfire sounds nice."

Shooter poked his head out of the window. "Yeah, speaking of burgers, Chief wanted these coolers there like yesterday, so if you two could continue your conversation with your flat asses seated in this truck... that'd be great."

Chains scolded him. "Less yapping, more mapping," he said, turning his friend's attention to what looked like a map sprawled out on the dashboard.

"Why couldn't you just Google this shit?" complained Shooter.

"You think I plan on letting those government pricks track me? Hell no. Besides, this bonfire is in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and I can't read the trails while I'm driving."

I embraced their bickering as I got into the truck. "Hi, guys."

"What it do, baby?" Shooter greeted. Chains gave me a two-fingered wave while Noah finally got himself seated in the back with me. Lingering scents of marijuana smoke in the pickup were masked by a flimsy peppermint air freshener hanging off the rear-view mirror.

With the quiet rumbling of an engine, the four of us finally got going.

Shooter and Chains argued like an old married couple for the duration of the trip. Noah came to the rescue—he gave me one of the buds to his earphones, drowning out his friends through rock classics and warm conversation.

Shoulder-to-shoulder with only our hands resting in the space of leather between us, there were moments when Noah's fingers would graze mine. Half the time, I thought the sensations stemmed from my own overactive imagination. Other times, I wanted nothing more than to grip Noah's hand in mine and put a rest to our endless yearning.

It should be so easy, I thought, bitterly sinking my teeth into my lower lip. We've kissed so many times before—how am I this freaking shy when it comes to holding his stupid freaking hand?

I must have stared at those same hands for the rest of the drive.

===

N O A H

If he doesn't hold my hand soon, I'm going to implode.

I'd never been so flustered over something so seemingly insignificant. Elliot's little finger kept skimming my thumb, every lingering touch a jolt of electricity straight to my head.

His hand was so different from mine.

For starters, his skin was ice-cold, which wasn't out of the ordinary considering how impossible it was to get Elliot warm at all (so maybe a bonfire would do him some good). And unlike my own hands, which were larger, tattooed, and had more prominent veins, Elliot's were slender, marked with signs of labor, and showcased knuckles much more defined than my own. Pretty.

Neither of us ended up finding the courage to hold on to the other, so I spent the rest of the drive cursing at myself in silence.

You're an idiot, my inner self told me, and I hate us.

Eventually, as we strayed far away from city roads, Chains pulled our truck into a stretch of shadowy forest. I knew where our path led out, but the fact that the trees completely obstructed any sunlight from overhead gave me nervous chills. The road was rubble and dirt, shrubbery extended as far as the eye could see, and the only break from the darkness came once we'd finally pulled into an expanse of parkland. Chains left the truck behind a few other cars on the uneven ground. Elliot perked up in curiosity to catch a better look at his surroundings.

"Chains, come help me with this cooler," Shooter called from up back, while Elliot and I got out of the pickup.

From the looks of things, the party had already started.

A good half of the Stray Dogs were already here­—some even with their families and kids. I could already spot a barbeque smoking off not far from where the foundations of a bonfire were being thrown together. Away from any surrounding trees, and close to the freshwater lake glittering in the distance, there were enough logs of firewood leaning against each other that the whole structure needed two bikers to douse the thing with firelighters. The sun was just starting to bleed into the flowing water. Music was bouncing from two large speakers on the back of someone's truck.

Elliot breathed, "What is this place?"

"The old Stray Dogs discovered it back in the day," I spoke with pride. "Not many people know about it, which is exactly why it's so great." I pointed to the lake's expanse of still water. "That lake over there? Feeds into a river that'll take you right to the coast if you follow it for long enough."

"Careful, Taylor," teased Shooter as he walked off with Chains, coolers heavy between them. "Some people say you listen close enough, you can still hear the screams of all the people who died here. Ritual sacrifices and shit, man."

Elliot's eyes widened slightly. "He's kidding, right?"

I sighed. "Don't listen to him. It's just some shit a few bikers made up to freak out the prospects. The only person to die here will be Shooter—once I get close enough to strangle him."

"I heard that!"

I nodded to Elliot, a playful grin on my lips. "Let's go."

Our first stop was the grill. I promised Rusty that Chains and I would shoulder the responsibilities of making the burgers, so long as he brought his barbeque with him. Chief hadn't come around yet, but we didn't wait up for him as Chains tossed me a spatula. With enough meat, bread, sauces and cheese to give a small army high cholesterol, it wasn't long before we were stacking food onto paper plates.

Elliot was only around for the time it took handing out burgers to the groups of kids that had come rushing our way. I didn't pretend not to notice his smile full of dimples as the kids paid him back with fist-bumps and high-fives, before scampering off back to their parents.

I was caught staring at him by Chains once or twice.

Elliot disappeared sometime after that, sucked away by Shooter to help out with getting the rest of the stuff from the pickup.

The bonfire was well and truly burning now. A group of bikers had gathered around it for warmth, laughing and drinking and entertaining their kids.

Chains opened up a new cooler after tearing his shirt off to get a break from the heat. He rubbed his hands together and started laying out a new row of plates on the table beside me.

"Let's get this party started, fuckers," he said after the sun finally set, once a line of bikers had started to form by the smoking grill. "There's a pot brownie and half in my system and I'm planning to beat the munchies before they start. Toss me one of those."

Handing him one of the bags of bread, I gave Chains his cut of meat and watched him slap a burger together, drowning it in copious amounts of sauce. I swore I saw his eyes rolling back into his head as he swallowed his first bite.

A few bikers behind him laughed. One called, "Save some for the rest of us, dude!"

"Where's Elliot?" I asked Chains, taking his lead with tearing my shirt off. Between all the hot smoke, the loud music, and the headache that was slowly starting to creep into my head, I couldn't spot the brown-haired bartender in the crowd.

"Saw him helping out with the drinks," Chains said, giving burgers to the people waiting in line. "Want me to get you a beer or something?"

"Don't worry about it," I said. "Has he had a burger yet?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Says he'll wait 'til later. He's not hungry."

"Not hungry?" I frowned. But he hasn't eaten anything all day.

"Hey, Edge!" A biker, Dash, shouted, "You coming 'round the campfire later? Tricks brought her tattoo gun tonight. The boys are gonna go fucking wild!"

I grinned over at him. "Shit. Tell her not to use up all her ink, yeah?"

"No promises, man!'

The voice of a familiar old grouch spoke up behind us. "Smells good around here. Nice to see you fools haven't burned the place to the ground."

"Nice of you to show up, Chief," Chains joked, passing out burgers. "Hope it wasn't too hard convincing yourself to get up off the couch, eh?"

"Very funny. Real comedian." Chief passed him an unimpressed glare, setting down a carton of beers. He pointed out, "You boys just take advantage of any opportunity to walk around with your shirts off, huh?"

Shooter laughed from the front of the line. "Well—I don't know about Edge, but if Chains ever wants to get hitched, he's gonna need to overcompensate for that personality of his somehow. A little eye candy couldn't hurt."

"Ha-ha." Chains licked the sauce off his fingers, wiped his hands against his pants, and stuck two middle fingers up in the air. "Get fucked. Shithead."

Shooter only laughed, strolling off with his burger.

"Come on," I muttered to Chief, noticing the very prominent Stray Dogs vest against his back. "You voted on it with us. You know you can't be wearing that—none of us are."

His answer was curt. "You want this vest? Pry it off my cold, dead body."

"It's this kind of stubbornness that'll kill you," I grumbled. Regardless, I let him have his way, choosing to address the more pressing issue. "Where's Wilder? He got the coolers?"

"Should be here any minute," he told me. "I sent Rusty to go wait for him."

The plan was simple. Wilder's friend finally got the guns over the border. How? Well, that wasn't my job to know. Quite frankly, I didn't care. What I did know was that those guns had been packed into coolers just like ours, and were currently in a van headed straight to the bonfire.

"Gotta hand it to you, son," Chief remarked between us, "I love this idea of yours." The sarcasm was dripping in his tone. He let out a dry laugh. "We should've handed out flyers. 'Get a beer, burger and a Beretta, courtesy of the Stray Dogs'."

"I take it you fellas haven't seen the cops sitting out in the lot?" said Cig from the front of the line, taking his plate from Chains.

Cops. That drew my attention.

"What fucking cops?" I questioned.

"Some police cruiser's been here for a while," he snorted, clearly unaware of just how quickly it could all go sideways. "It's painful to watch, man. Poor guys can't arrest any of us, so they've resorted to parking tickets and defect notices. I think the boys just about pissed themselves laughing at 'em."

Chains chuckled. "At least you know your plan for disbanding worked."

I turned a glare to Cig. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

"Didn't think it was important." He shrugged and sipped his beer. "They haven't been arresting nobody."

Chief rubbed his temples and let out a gruff exhale. "I'll call Wilder. Tell him to take a detour—go around. But someone needs to deal with those police officers."

I could feel my headache getting worse. Considering every option, my eyes darted around looking for anything that could come in clutch. Eventually, my gaze landed on the silver-haired biker beside me.

"Chains, how long until that pot brownie kicks in?"

"Uh... like twenty minutes?"

"Great. I need you to—"

"Woah there, big guy. Wait a minute," he stopped me, putting his hands up in surrender. "I want nothing to do with this."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I know exactly what you were going to say," he argued. "You want me to go cause a misdemeanor, right? Hell no. I'm not living out this high in the back of a cop car, no way."

"You're not going to get in with anything serious, alright?" I promised. "They'll throw you in the back of the cruiser and take you back to the station. Worst case scenario, you'll spend a night in holding and get slapped with a fine. Look, I'll cover it, alright?"

"Respectfully, I'd rather drag my balls against a cheese grater."

Chief put down the rest of his burger and sighed. "And that's my appetite gone. Great."

I pulled Chains aside. "Look, I don't think those officers are here by accident. If Wilder gets here and they find the guns, all of us are going down. Take one for the team and get rid of them, alright? I'll owe you one."

His lips pursed into a thin line.

"I hate you," he finally conceded, rubbing his eyelids. "Alright, fine. Fucking hell. I'll do it. But I want two grand—and your parking space at Joe's."

"Done."

The two of us shook on it. Chains sighed to himself and mumbled, "I should've asked for more. The things I do for you, man. Ridiculous."

Passing Chief control of the grill as Chains put his shirt on and left in the direction of the cruiser, I said, "Here. Take the spatula. Cover for me."

Watching me leave with two burgers stacked on a paper plate, Chief called, "Where do you think you're going?"

"You and Wilder can take care of the rest," I assured him. "I'm going to find my bartender."

He sighed.

"At least put a shirt on!"

I spotted Elliot by the bonfire. He was sitting by Shooter and a few other bikers, trapped in what looked like a good conversation by the warmth of the crackling flames. Shooter's niece, a shy four-year-old named Kassie, seemed to have picked him out as the favorite of the group. Standing up on her tippy toes to reach, she was grasping fistfuls of his hair and tinkering with his earrings. Elliot didn't seem to mind. He bumped her on the tip of her nose and smiled when she broke out in a fit of giggles.

Happiness suits him, I couldn't help but think, walking over to take the empty space beside him.

I didn't seem to possess the same charming magic that kids seemed to love in Elliot. The second she saw me coming, Kassie ran back to her uncle and hid behind his shoulder.

Elliot's cheeks beamed at the sight of me. "I was just going to come by the grill looking for you."

"Guess I saved you a trip," I said, taking a seat on the log and offering him the plate. "Here—I'm sure you're hungry. Don't worry, I made them myself. Didn't give Chains the chance to burn anything."

He chuckled. "Thanks." Taking a burger each, Elliot nodded over to something behind me and tilted his head. "Speaking of Chains—where's he going?"

I craned my neck to spot the Stray Dog making a beeline for the police cruiser.

"To do something really stupid for a whole lot of money," I confessed. "Long story."

The dimples lit up on Elliot's face again. We bumped our burgers together and got to eating, and I made sure to let him know I was flattered when he managed to scarf the whole thing down in three bites.

"What happened to your shirt?" he pointed out, noticing the fact that I was very bare-chested.

"What?" I teased. "You don't like the view?"

"No! No," he stammered, cheeks going pink. "No, that's not what I meant. It's um, it's a very nice view. Very nice. Just thought you might be cold."

I couldn't help a laugh. While everyone else was distracted, I inched closer to him and murmured by his ear, "I know what you meant. Keep those thoughts clean, Alley Cat."

Elliot went every shade of red.

"Yo, Edge!" Splitter laughed from a bit further down by the bonfire while Elliot and I were talking. Sitting in a big group of bikers, I could spot someone leaning back on a log while Tricks was busy tattooing their lower leg. "You gotta come see this, man. We're betting on who's got the dumbest tattoo."

"Red's pretty much a shoo-in!" Someone else made sure to mention. The group broke out in a fit of laughs.

Shooter stuck his head over Elliot's shoulder to mention, "It's between a tattoo of Pickle Rick, 'PINKIE' on someone's little finger, and a dog on a surfboard. If you're asking me, I'd bet on the dog."

Elliot laughed, pausing only to take a sip from a non-alcoholic beer. I watched him touch his tongue to his top lip and couldn't help the notion that popped into my head.

He noticed me staring, uttering sheepishly, "What."

"What?"

"You have that look in your eyes," he explained, "the one you usually get when you have a bad idea."

"Funny—you've got the look on your face that tells me you're about to follow along with it."

"Depends on the idea."

I peered over to Tricks' tattoo gun and mused to Elliot, "Well, I was just thinking... I never did get you back for that hickey, Darling."

He didn't meet my eyes, no doubt recalling the events that unfolded between us in the truck at Lucille's party. "I'd argue that you did."

"What happened in that truck was no comparison to the humiliation your little stunt put me through," I chuckled.

"Humiliation?" He pouted, letting go of his lower lip. "You paraded that hickey around like a pre-schooler with a gold star."

"You didn't exactly put it somewhere that was easy to cover up."

Elliot huffed. Choosing to give it some contemplation, he took a moment to gather his thoughts.

"Okay," he breathed, giving in. I could see the curiosity glimmering in his eyes, even if he was trying to put on a brave face. "How do you suggest we get even?"

The answer to that one was easy.

"Get a tattoo with me."

His eyes shot wide open.

"That's not even," he spluttered, "that's crazy! I told you I hate needles."

Grinning, I nudged his shoulder and proposed, "Then we'll do a little one; somewhere that'll fade. I hold your eyes closed for you if you want." Elliot didn't look so convinced, which is why I added, "And hey, tell you what—if you do this with me, I'll let you pick what tattoo I get and where."

"Really?" Doubt wove itself into his tone. "Anywhere I want?"

I put a hand over my heart and said, "Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."

He rubbed his cheeks and groaned.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but... fine." Less than thrilled, he grumbled, "Nothing obscene though, alright? And it better not hurt."

"You won't regret this," I promised, knowing perfectly well that there was a good chance he'd regret it immensely. That didn't wipe the massive smile off my face, though.

Shooter laughed at us, watching me lead Elliot away by his hand. "Oh, this I've got to see."

Tricks was just finishing up with another biker when Elliot and I got there. Gesturing for the other bikers to get out of the way, I plopped Elliot's less-than-eager figure down in the middle of the group.

"Got one for you right here, Tricks," I announced.

The bikers around Elliot rumbled with excited chatter, some laughing while others gave him encouraging thumps on the shoulder. Elliot looked like he wanted to die.

Tricks, a professional tattoo artist from the inner city, was a young woman with an abundance of tattoos on her pale skin. Tightening one of her curly, black pigtails, she rested an inquisitive gaze on Elliot.

Replacing her previous needle with a sterile one, she asked me simply, "What's he getting?"

I leaned down to her and whispered my request out of earshot. Elliot's dread got worse with the knowledge that I'd be keeping it a secret. Tricks chuckled lightly.

"You sure?" she asked.

"Oh yeah."

The tattoo artist traced her tongue over her black lipstick and began, "Elliot, right? Can you hold your lower lip down for me please? Like this." She pinched the two ends of her lip with her fingers and pulled it down to show her bottom teeth.

Elliot looked mortified.

"Sure you don't want to back out?" I asked him, choosing to give Elliot the opportunity to run while he still had it.

"No way," he stuttered, putting the brave face back on as Tricks put on a fresh set of black gloves. "But just so you know, I'm gonna make you regret this."

Not possible.

But I smiled and said, "Can't wait."

Elliot pulled his lower lip down as Tricks sat closer to get a better reach. I swore I saw him flinch when the tattoo gun turned on, its buzzing sound muffled only by the chattering of curious bikers around us.

"Be gentle with him," I told Tricks innocently. "It's his first time."

The group around us burst into laughter. The pretty bartender put up a middle finger.

"Keep still for me," Tricks reminded him.

Elliot tensed up completely as Tricks finally got the needle into his inner lip. His eyes squinted shut. His brows pressed together, his cheeks creased into lines, and he stomped his foot against the pain as a broken squeak left his perfectly still mouth.

Bikers were leaning in to watch from every angle.

Tricks only got through a single letter of his tattoo before wiping down any extra ink, deciding to let Elliot have a short break. He took it gratefully, shaking out his hands and squirming in his seat.

"How's that feel?"

I didn't think he had the words to answer me, face permanently set in a grimace.

"Don't worry, kid," joked Dash, who patted Elliot on the shoulder. "Once you get one of these, you can't stop. Pain's just temporary, you know."

Shooter laughed. "Pretty soon he'll be walking around with a full sleeve!"

"Not on your goddamn lives," Elliot croak out, covering his mouth with his free hand.

Tricks got back to work as Elliot pinched his lip down again. He did much better this time, managing to get through the next two letters without fidgeting so much. I ended up holding his hair back and keeping his head still as Tricks got done with the second last letter, which seemed to calm Elliot down a little bit.

He took another break before Tricks came back around to do the last letter. All in all, it only took a few minutes, even if Elliot reacted as if it were primordial torture. I chalked it up to a smaller pain tolerance and stroked my fingers through his hair while Tricks finished up.

"All done," she announced, wiping off Elliot's lip.

The group around him quickly huddled around to see. "What's it say?" asked Elliot, anxious to find out what he'd been put through so much pain for.

"One word, four letters, kid," Shooter admitted. A few bikers chuckled as they read the word tattooed in tiny letters across Elliot's lip. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't angle it to read it for himself.

With Shooter's answer, I saw every possibility flash across Elliot's hazel eyes.

"I said nothing obscene!" he cried out to me, jumping to the worst possible conclusion. The other Stray Dogs started laughing like there was no tomorrow. "What is it?" he asked them desperately.

I snapped them all a glare. "Hey—I'll kill you fucks if you tell him."

The warning effectively shut them up. Elliot whined.

Tricks spoke up as she changed her needle again. "No liquor and no kissing for the next two weeks," she instructed the bartender. "Non-alcoholic mouthwash is your friend."

Needless to say, I hadn't considered the 'no kissing' part.

"You took that like a champ," I promised him. Elliot's breath hitched in his throat as I cupped his chin in my hand, grazed my thumb over his lower lip, and gave myself a view of the tattoo hiding in his mouth. The sight of it spread warmth through my chest.

I mentioned, "Nice work, Tricks."

The tattooist nodded. Looking around, she asked, "Who's next?"

Elliot shot up off his seat and gestured to me, speaking with his mouth covered by his hand again. "It's your turn. Sit down."

"No problem," I said. Taking the spot across Tricks, I looked up at Elliot through thick lashes. "Deal's a deal. You can tattoo anything, anywhere. What's it gonna be?"

Elliot looked to Tricks and thought about it for a moment.

"Can I do it myself?" he then inquired. My attention shot up to him.

Tricks asked, "You want to try the gun?"

"If that's okay."

She thought about it for a moment. "So long as you know what you're doing, knock yourself out. My wrist's sore, anyway." Passing him the gun, she mentioned, "Just make sure to put on some gloves—they're in the box by the bag."

Shooter made sure to check. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Elliot gave me a look, sitting down in a chair beside me. "Believe it or not, yes. I do."

Stunned, my attention never lifted off him as he slapped some black gloves on and took a look at my bare chest. I didn't doubt his talent—I'm sure he'd picked up some artistic skill after all his experiences with graffiti. The thing that really got me was the way his hazel eyes trailed down my skin, taking in every tattoo and every blank space he could find.

Just like that, I was starkly aware of the fact that we most certainly weren't alone right now.

While Elliot was preoccupied, Jaws made sure to state, "This right here is an art gallery, man." Gesturing to the dozens of art pieces on my skin, he grinned and said, "Edge is real picky about his tattoos. You don't go to the Louvre and fuck up the Mona Lisa now, do you? This is basically the same thing."

"No pressure," joked Splitter from somewhere up the back. Apparently we'd gathered a crowd.

Elliot pressed a finger to a bare space near the bottom of my ribcage, on my right near where my elbow would meet my torso. "Is here okay?"

I smirked down at him. "Sure. Anywhere you'd like."

The tattoo gun whirred to life. Keeping my gaze trained on Elliot, he pushed the hair out of his eyes as he got to work, slight pinching sensations beginning to flare through my nerves. I didn't have half the reaction to it that Elliot did—in fact, I rather enjoyed it, sitting patiently while Elliot brought his masterpiece to fruition. The only problem, aside from my own raging headache, was the fact that I couldn't focus on anything other than the skimming of his hands against my skin. Despite being gloved, they left traces of him with every delicate touch of his fingertips.

Had he ever focused on me this hard for so long before? Surely not. All the attention had me feeling like I was about to pass out.

"How's it going?" I asked him, trying to get my mind to focus on literally anything else.

"I'm almost finished. Keep still."

One other downside to the situation was that I couldn't quite make out what his tattoo was. Either it wasn't done yet, or his hand was in the way, or it was just upside down and I couldn't see it clearly. Tricks seemed to be intrigued, though—between giving Elliot pointers and helping him out with the gun, she made sure to tell me that "It actually looks pretty good."

Eventually, as Elliot cleaned up my skin with a tissue, he turned the tattoo gun off and moved back to admire his work. Satisfied, he tore his gloves off.

"Let us see, man!" Dash shouted, climbing over one of the chairs to get a good look. A lot of the other Stray Dogs followed suit, and it wasn't long before I had about a dozen heads peaking over to catch a glimpse.

I lifted my arm to take in Elliot's handiwork.

The first thing I admired was how he'd done his best to match the theme of most of my other tattoos—simplistic, minimalist. The actual tattoo itself looked like three small boxes stacked on top of each other, but the few tiny dots of ink he'd placed inside and around said boxes told me that it was so much more.

My eyebrows knitted together. "Are those... are those sugar cubes?"

Tricks grinned. I caught the dimples on Elliot's face as he looked up at me with a mischievous grin and patted the side of my cheek. He leaned in to elaborate, voice like warm honey.

"It's because you're so sweet, Sugar."

It was those same words that had the Stray Dogs around us exploding into roars of laughter.

My neck flushed red with heat as amusement sparkled in Elliot's eyes—he'd done that on purpose. Now, as my bikers were pissing themselves from the hilarity, some even bent over and in tears, I knew for sure I couldn't let Elliot get away with something so wicked.

But Tricks was busy covering the tattoo in plastic wrap, so my options were limited.

"You get a five-second head start," I warned him. "Run."

Elliot, laughing, bolted up off his seat. He made a desperate attempt to push through the crowd of theatrical bikers. I got up to go chase after him once Tricks was done, cutting his five seconds to a short three.

"Go get him, Sugar!" one of the bikers cried out, putting everyone else in stitches.

I caught up with Elliot about ten feet away from where we'd originally started. He let out a squeal as I wrapped my arms around his waist and hoisted him over my shoulder. It wasn't hard; he weighed nothing. Hitting the small of my back with his fists, Elliot kept laughing, slung off my shoulder like a ragdoll.

"You think you're so funny, don't you, Alley Cat?" I teased him, gripping tight onto his thigh so that he wouldn't fall. Heading for the lake, I looked back to ask, "How about now? Not so high and mighty back there, hm?"

"You had it coming, asshole!" He yelped as I swung him sideways. "Stop it—stop it!" he laughed, trying to catch his breath. He smacked my back again and joked, "You know, your ass looks really nice in these jeans."

"Oh yeah? You really think so?"

"Bubble butt," he wheezed. Too tired to fight it anymore, he cupped his chin in his hand and teased, "You walk into a room and your butt walks in five minutes later; how's that possible?"

Carrying him onto the sandbank, I found a sense of relief away from all the noise and the crowd of Stray Dogs. Close to a tire swing that'd been tied to a tree a long time ago, I kept walking in the direction of the shimmering water.

"You sure that beer you were drinking was non-alcoholic?" I joked to the bartender. "Maybe I'll throw you in the lake to get you sober. How's that sound?"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Say please."

"I'd rather die!"

I swung him sideways again. "Mm, I'm sure that water's real cold."

He caved, squirming in my grasp. "Don't throw me in the lake, for the love of god! Alright? Please don't throw me in the lake."

Satisfied, I hoisted him off my shoulder and laid him down on the shore. Elliot clutched his tummy, giving himself a bellyache from all the laughing he was doing. I did my best to keep the tattoo safe against sand, laying down the jacket that'd been tied to my waist and joining him on the ground.

He managed to compose himself for long enough to notice that I'd been staring at him—more specifically, at that infectious smile that was too rare to see on his cheeks.

"Are you ever going to tell me what I've got tattooed in my mouth?" he whined, pulling his lips open to try and see. Needless to say, he still couldn't read it. "It's something crude, isn't it? It really hurt."

"Guess you'll just have to read it in the mirror tomorrow morning," I told him, feigning innocence. "But it's nothing bad, I promise. Let me see it again."

Elliot gave me a doubtful look. Pulling his lower lip down, I got to see the tiny letters inked on just for me to read. The warmth in my chest spread again. It wasn't just warmth anymore.

Noticing my lingering stare, Elliot chuckled shyly and let go of his lip. "What?"

I shook my head.

"Nothing. I just... really wish I could kiss you right now."

The smile on his face grew a few points wider with my answer.

Compromising, Elliot moved closer to me and rested his head on my chest. We stayed like that for a while—together on the sand, muttering sweet nothings, admiring the moon in the sky and the stars caught in the lake while the world continued to pass us by.

If you asked any other Stray Dog at the bonfire, they would've said that the two of us were on that sandbank all night. They would've described the sight of Elliot and I messing around by the tire swing or splashing water on each other. They then would've told you that Elliot sat between my legs and told me stories while I smoked through a cigarette, cocooning us both in the warmth of my jacket. And they would've been telling the truth.

Because the word tattooed on Elliot's lip was 'FOUR'.

And it wasn't a four in the same sense of the '3' I had on my rib, or the '2' behind my ear, or the '1' at my wrist.

Four wasn't another one of my failures.

Four was a reason to live.

=||A/N||=

Fun fact: this chapter was very loosely thrown together and wasn't actually meant to exist :0