Asher insisted on going first, mostly because he knew how I felt about blood and needles.
“Can I hold your hand?” I asked, sitting on the stool below the tattoo chair, holding his hand before he could even answer.
His eyes were on me the entire time, without a hint of pain, as the buzzing single needle pressed dark ink into the underside of his perfect, hard biceps.
“Why the moon?” asked the tattoo artist, as she set the needle down, the full moon in beautiful black and gray staring at me. It was small, but it felt real, like we could live there.
“I want to be more than the moon on your bones,” Asher said, eyes unblinking from mine.
“That’s pretty, what’s that from?” the tattoo artist asked.
She picked the needle back up and went over a few spots in a lighter gray.
“It’s a song I wrote,” I said as Asher’s hand gripped harder.
A few minutes later, after securing his tattoo in plastic wrap, the tattoo artist tilted her head at her handiwork, then let a slow smile find her lips.
“You’re all good, Romeo.”
Asher lifted his arm, admiring the moon with a quiet grin.
“Where do you want yours, Juliet?”
I raised my tank top, drawing a small circle over the right side of my rib cage.
“You sure? That’s directly over the bone, and thin skin—one of the most painful places my needle can go.”
Let’s set this summer fling in stone
I want to be more than the moon on your bones
’Cause when you wrap your arms around me tight
It’s a galaxy come alive at night
Long distance hurt to the bone. That was the whole damn point.
“I want it right here,” I said, keeping my finger pressed on my rib cage with my song echoing in my ear, the lyrics ripping me apart.
Asher tilted his head in my direction as my eyes watered like a tidal wave—an ache I’d pressed down the entire week. He leaned forward and gripped both my hands in his.
“What’s wrong?”
“I hate this,” I cracked, hot tears rolling down my cheeks.
The tattoo artist widened her eyes and pressed her lips together. She tiptoed to the back of the small studio, clearly not wanting to get in the middle of a teenage meltdown.
Asher cupped my wet cheek and pulled my forehead onto his.
“Mags, we have two more nights. Let’s not do this until we have to, okay?”
I felt his chin quiver.
“I don’t want to do this at all,” I whispered.
“Me, either.”
The tattoo artist reclaimed her stool, with the purple stencil of the moon in her hand.
“You two done having your Armageddon moment, or do you need more time?”
I sucked in tears and traded places with Asher. He squeezed both my hands, knowing my threshold for pain was pitiful.
“No boy is worth crying over,” the tattoo artist said, smirking directly into Asher’s glassy eyes before turning back to me.
I looked at her softly, with sympathy, studying her hardened edge—an edge that my mother embodied. This tattoo artist had either never met a guy worth crying over, or she’d made sure no guy would ever bring her to her knees again. All I knew: Asher Reyes was worthy of every tear stuck in my throat.
She leaned over my rib cage, placing the stencil paper on my skin and wetting the other side. She pressed down, dried it, then pulled the stencil back, smiling at the placement—a little temporary purple moon that would become gray and black and beautiful. She pointed the needle sadistically in the air.
“Save the crying for what my little friend is about to do to you.”
I held the tears inside. My body turned numb, preparing itself for the undertow that would engulf my skin in two days. Asher and I had gotten good at goodbyes, but this one coming felt like a question mark, not an ellipsis.
38
THIRTY-FIVE
THE BACK OF ASHER’S HAND traced my rib, fingers on my tattoo as his legs held my body. I had no idea if it was the middle of night, or the break of dawn. Our skins were salt-soaked and flushed; our bodies tangled up around the silk sheets. My stomach rumbled, a reminder I had burned thousands of calories over and under Asher, and eaten absolutely nothing.
“How do you like your eggs?” Asher asked, with his mouth against my ear.
His beachy hair stood straight up, making him look sillier than he could ever be.
“Sunny-side up,” I said against his top lip, as I ran my fingers through his hair.
He kissed me hard and fast and rolled off the bed with a wink.
I studied his gorgeous naked body, bending over a leather Louis Vuitton weekender bag. He pulled cotton briefs out of the bag and tugged them over his toned glutes. I clicked the smart pad next to the bed, finding a button for the blinds. A purple sunrise lit up the room. It was morning.
I grinned like a giddy child, tugging the duvet over my reddening cheeks, as if it was the first time I had seen another person naked.
Hours later, as he walked me to the car to say goodbye, Asher tugged me back to his chest for one last kiss. Our lips parted, and we stood with our foreheads pressed together in front of Summer’s car in the front yard.
“So, any chance you don’t want to leave?” he asked, smiling.
I want to stay forever.
“I mean, I don’t want to leave, but my sheet music, my lyrics, my guitar—everything is back in the city.” I sighed, hating being rational. “And I don’t exactly have a lot of time left to deliver you perfection.”
He delicately tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Fair. I’m going to head back into the city Friday. My co-pro is organizing this thing at his townhome in Brooklyn. A bunch of people who are involved in On the Other Side will be there.” He tugged me closer to his body. “Come with me? Schmooze, meet some music people? Raini will be in attendance, and it would be nice to put you two in the same room.”
I went to say yes, but then I hesitated, hearing my manager’s words echoing in my head—a reminder that my career was in Asher’s hands. As swiftly as Asher had given me my dreams, he could take them away.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
I shuffled, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was going—bringing up distrust toward a man I had only ever deeply trusted.
“I don’t know if we should be seen together in public…or if this is a good idea while we’re working together. I just…” I trailed off, silenced by the way his brows pressed together.
Asher was visibly stung, and he had every right to feel that way. I had kissed him in the water, I had pulled him closer to me, I had taken off his clothes just as he had taken off mine.
“Well, you really are being managed by the best, aren’t you?”
He kicked the gravel below his feet, keeping his eyes on his tennis shoes. I took his hand in mine, and he didn’t squeeze my fingers back.
“I have everything to lose here, Asher.”
“And what makes you think I don’t?” He stared directly into my face, waiting for my answer.
“Asher, you’ve made it. You’re an Oscar winner. You have an entire career to rest your decisions on. I don’t. What if we move forward and this doesn’t work out, and you…”