Me: I can’t. The guys are taking me out somewhere. It’s a surprise.
Rae: They know you hate surprises, right?
Me: I don’t *hate* them.
Vera: Yes, you do. Remember the birthday surprise we tried to throw, and you hid in the bathroom for the first thirty minutes.
Me: It was very overwhelming.
Vera: Because you hate surprises.
Me: I’m sure it will be nice.
Rae: Is it a sex club?
Me: I hope not …
Rae: God, I hope so. I would be so jealous.
Vera: How’s that boyfriend?
Rae: Side eye …
Me: LOL!!
Vera: Hahaha!
Rae: Keep us updated and make sure you memorize everything. I want to know it all. Every ridge, vein, and length.
Me: OMG! It’s not a sex club!
Rae: But if it is …
Me: Then every ridge and length.
Rae: You’re the best.
Me: Kisses. And we’ll FaceTime soon. I have stories.
Rae: Ugh. How you gonna leave us hanging like that.
Me: Byeeee.
Vera: Bye bitch. I hate you for that cliffhanger … but have fun!
“Ready to go?” Parker asked.
I looked up from my spot at the table, transfixed by the way his white T-shirt pulled tight across his chest as he shrugged on his navy flannel button-up.
“Is that drool?” Oren swiped my chin, and I jerked back, slapping his hand and delivering a death glare.
“Yes, I’m ready whenever you are,” I answered Parker like I hadn’t been caught ogling him.
His smile was full of arrogance, and I rolled my eyes, stuffing my phone into my purse and shoving Oren out of the booth so we could stand.
“Damn, Nova. I may start drooling over you. And that ink? Nnng.” Oren grunted.
I looked down at my relaxed, holey jeans rolled up for my Doc Martens, and my black Alkaline Trio concert tee. The shirt was cut off above my belly button, but the pants reached my waist, so it’s not like I bared too much skin.
Except for the back, which had thin strips of the shirt tied to hold it together, baring the tattoo running the length of my spine.
Parker twirled his finger, directing me to turn. I held my breath when I heard his steps get closer, pulling my hair aside to bare my back. The rough pad of his finger started between my shoulder blades, where I knew the head of the phoenix rested. My muscles contracted, sending prickles of awareness down my spine as if chasing his touch as it trailed over the letters that went all the way to the small of my back. He’d seen it before, but every time he got the chance, he stroked his finger along the words.
“I am the storm,” he whispered.
It had always been one of my favorite quotes about the devil telling the warrior she wasn’t strong enough to handle the storm. I imagined being a bloodied and beaten down person struggling to stand, finding their footing only to take an aggressive step forward and baring their teeth, growling the quote back.
“Did you design it?” Oren asked.
“Of course.”
I’d been camping in the desert with stretches of red rocks looking more and more like fire as the sun set. It’d been the anniversary of the day the court case closed on my trauma, and I’d stood on the cliff, looking out at the vast world—alone—but strong. I’d felt like a phoenix rising from the ashes, daring the devil to question me again.
I’d sketched it up and found a tattoo shop the next day.
“You’ll have to design my first tattoo,” Oren declared.
“You don’t have any?”
“Have you seen any?” he asked like it was obvious.
Which I guessed it should have been, considering he strolled around the bus in the least amount of clothes. Sometimes even just a hand when he ran from the shower to his bunk.
“It’s baby fresh skin, baby. Just waiting for your artwork.”
“Maybe. My art is expensive,” I taunted.
“I’m wounded,” he pouted, holding a hand to his heart. “Would you like another kiss as payment?”
“I’ll design one if you never lick my face again.”
“Score.”
“You ladies ready to go or what?” Ash asked from the bus door. “Car’s waiting.”
We piled into a black SUV with another one behind us for security. The guys assured they would be discreet and were going off the beaten path, but we got into Nashville this afternoon, and the fans could be crazy. I sat sandwiched between Oren and Parker with Brogan driving and Ash in the passenger seat.
“You look good,” Parker said, leaning over close enough for his words to brush hot against my ear.
I turned enough to take him in from the corner of my eye, giving a sly smirk. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
He huffed on his nails and buffed them on his shirt, puffing his chest out.
I couldn’t help but laugh, and butterflies took off in my stomach. The other night caused a shift between us. We’d been on this knife’s edge, balancing precariously between confronting all the issues that lay between us and all the desire threatening to bubble over. That kiss tipped us a little closer to the simmering fire.