LANA
“I’m not going in there.”
Rhett grinned from where he leaned against the doorway of the tattoo shop. His sunglasses were perched low on his nose like he was auditioning for the role of Bad Decision Incarnate. “You scared?”
“I’m not scared,” I said, arms crossed. “I just don’t willingly enter places that smell like commitment and regret.”
“Cute,” he said. “Come on. Just watch. I want something small.”
“You’re the last man alive who should be getting more tattoos.”
“And yet here I am.” He opened the door and the bell above it jingled like it was laughing at me.
The place was dim and moody, filled with inked-up people who looked like they fought demons for sport. I stuck out like a sore, overdressed thumb. Rhett greeted the artist like an old friend, fist bumps and rough laughs. I
