Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,44

date had been two nights before, and I’d spent basically all of the time since dreaming of him fucking me against that tree in the park instead of walking away like we had. Reagan made me want so many things, no matter how appropriate they were.

So yeah, I wanted to hang out with him. “Sure. What are we doing? Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself. And it’s a surprise. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

It was such a simple conversation but just hearing his voice had me flushing and eager to see him. “I’ll be ready.”

Reagan showed up precisely thirty minutes after the call with coffee and donuts for us both.

“They’re vegan,” he said as I opened the bag. “I know that’s not healthy and you’re not a full vegetarian, but I did a little looking into factory farming and this is an easy change I can make.”

He said all this while his eyes were locked on the road, as if he were saying “the sky is blue” instead of admitting that one small conversation we’d had weeks before had stuck with him so much. That he’d listened to something that was important to me and researched it. Giddiness danced liked butterflies in my stomach at this realization.

Not only that, but the donuts were fucking delicious. “Thank you,” I said with emphasis, so he’d know it wasn’t just for bringing food.

“Where are we headed?” I asked as he drove.

“I’m teaching a class across town and I figured you’d like to see me doing something that I care about other than tattooing.”

I reached over and boldly grabbed his knee. His thigh tensed beneath my hand, and I heard him inhale sharply. “I’d love to. Thanks.”

I was curious about his class and wanted to ask more, but the buildings we were passing were becoming increasingly familiar. Like most towns and cities, ours had a “good side” and a large, sprawling middle before rounding out with “the bad side.” My mother and I’d lived on the bad side of town. I’d grown up on these streets, where you had to work to avoid both gangs and cops. Looming in the back was a place I’d spent a portion of my time before ending up with Christian: The juvenile detention center.

And then Reagan made a turn into the detention center’s parking lot.

“Uh,” I said, all of my relaxation and good feels from the drive dissipating. “What are we doing here?”

“This is where I teach,” he said.

“I was not...a big fan of juvie. I don’t want to go back here, even as a visitor.”

Reagan parked the truck and turned to me. His expression was gentle and, thank fuck, not condescending or judgmental. “You don’t have to come in. But coming here helps provide me with perspective when I start to feel down or overwhelmed by life. I thought maybe it would help you out while you’re stuck in a place of not knowing what the next step is.”

Well, damn. I knew if I stayed in the truck now, I’d look cowardly. Reagan might not think so, but I’d feel that way, and that was awful to even contemplate. On the other hand, my stomach was already souring at the thought of going inside.

“I’ll come in, but Reagan, next time you’re going to bring me somewhere like this, you need to give me a heads-up. I don’t enjoy life lessons wrapped up in surprises like this. I have a lot of emotions—none of which are good or productive—wrapped up in this place. I’m kinda pissed you put me in this spot.”

He chewed his lip and looked at me. Reagan was dressed differently, his button-down shirt and slacks attractive but looking like a costume. I liked his jeans and t-shirts best. I focused on how he looked because my insides were twisting now at the place we were headed to and the fact that I’d just admitted I was pissed at him. This was quickly becoming the worst outing possible. My head hurt.

Finally, Reagan spoke. “Fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry—I hadn’t thought about it like that. Do you want me to call you an Uber? I can’t let the guys in my class down, but I don’t want you to feel pressure to do something you don’t want. I should have thought this through and not surprised you like this. I’m sorry.”

The hurt that had begun to cloister around my heart softened. Hearing him admit he’d been wrong went a very long way