Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,29

I knew how hard my brothers worked not to overstep their bounds with me, even if sometimes it didn’t feel that way.

“Reagan’s been a little weird around you, too,” Dane said far too casually.

I held up my hand. “Stop right there. I already know you think he’s too old for me, and it would be a terrible idea because you and I work for him. There’s too much potential for things getting mucked up. So how I feel or how he might feel—and I mean might because that man is damned hard to read—it won’t happen. Reagan has made that very clear. So don’t worry about it.”

Christian was nodding along with every word I said, and I was starting to sink into my usual stewing that came from admitting I couldn’t have who I wanted, when Dane startled both of us by saying, “I think you should go for it.”

I choked so hard on my bite of bacon that Christian came over, prepared to Heimlich me. When I finally cleared my throat, my eyes were watering. “What?” Christian asked at the same time I snapped, “Are you insane?”

Dane shrugged. “You could do a lot worse than Reagan. He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” I admitted.

“Me neither,” Christian muttered, but he clapped my shoulder. “Dane’s not wrong, though. Reagan is one of the best men I know.”

Was this… a stamp of approval? If my two brothers, who looked out for me like it was their freaking job, said it was okay to pursue Reagan… how bad could it really be?

I tried to remember all the reasons I couldn’t, but it always came back to one simple thought: no matter how much he wanted me, he’d keep pretending he didn’t. If I were looking at every factor, I’d have to admit that I was still hurting over his rejection, even after all this time. I wasn’t that same kid barely graduated from high school anymore. And who gave a fuck that he was my boss? Get Ink’d wasn’t exactly a normal place of business. Maybe normal rules didn’t have to apply.

My chest burned at the thought of pushing Reagan into admitting his feelings—because all of those longing stares he sent my way when he thought I wasn’t looking had to mean something. My mind reeled with a rush of fantasies I’d stored over the years, all starring him.

“I’m...going to go hide in my room and make plans for tonight,” I said. “This is too much for this early and being this hungover. Thanks again for last night, and for breakfast—I’ll admit I no longer feel like death. Just like a car ran over me.”

“Glad we could help,” Dane said, so full of sunshine I kind of wanted to punch him.

As if giving me permission to chase after the man of my dreams was at all helpful. I needed more than permission—I needed a how-to guide for seducing a reluctant redhead without fucking everything up.

Trevor: Where are you?

Channing: Out with some friends.

Trevor: Partying two nights in a row? When will I get my turn?

Channing: Not blowing you off. I only turn 21 once, got lots of people wanting to celebrate. I’ll get back to you, okay?

Trevor: Okay. What bar is tonight’s choice? I know some good suggestions.

Channing: We’re just at The Blitz again. Ha, I know, not original. Probably not gonna do a crawl tonight.

Trevor: Cool. Don’t forget to let me know when I can take you out.

What my friends didn’t know was that every drink they bought me, I’d persuaded the bartender to switch out for a non-alcoholic drink. So I was sipping on a “vodka” cranberry that was really just juice mixed with soda. It was a win-win. I didn’t have to worry about getting smashed two nights in a row, and my friends got to feel like they were treating me to a raging twenty-first party. Because not only was I not feeling up to getting drunk again, but I knew my friends. And I loved them, truly, but they were terrible at making sure we had a DD.

Brad was next to me, ordering another round. Only this time it was shots. The bartender raised an eyebrow and I shrugged. One shot wouldn’t hurt and I’d come up with some way out the next round.

“Anything but tequila,” I said loudly at Brad.

He laughed. “Two Picklebacks,” he told the bartender.

I cringed. “What in the hell is a ‘Pickleback’?”

A new voice cut in. “It’s Jameson followed