Parlor Tricks

I swore I would never get inked again, was still swearing when Jax put needle to flesh.

“Quitcher bitchin’.” Crumbs fell from Nate’s mouth. “You left your talisman in the trunk, which is now at the bottom of the lake with the rest of my friggin’ car.”

“Not my fault,” I grunted.

He swallowed everything but his outrage. “You were driving!”

“And having my guts rearranged by hellspawn,” I spat. “It was averse to water, so I went off the bridge.”

The protective tattoo sank beyond skin, settled deep, thrumming.

I didn’t tell Nate how it burned my compromised soul.

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