Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,84
leave?”
“Definitely,” I said with a smile. “Big ol’ baby. I’m going to miss you, too.”
“I have to drop by the shop to sign some forms for the show. I’ll be in and out. Why don’t you come with me to say goodbye?”
A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”
“You don’t have a lot of time left to be ready, kid. Plus,” Dane began to whisper, “there’s another pool about whether you leave without saying goodbye. I don’t want to lose $100 to the guys. If you come now, I win, and I’ll give you some of the profits.”
I crossed my arms. “I want half or I’m not going.”
“Half? Are you crazy?” Dane looked genuinely affronted and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Absolutely. Half or I stay put.”
Dane threw his hands in the air, looking for all the world like he was praying for patience. “Fine. You get half, but we’re leaving now, okay?”
Shrugging, I pushed aside the remaining laundry. “Whatever.” I did want to see the crew, even if the thought of running into Reagan made me queasy.
In Dane’s truck, I played with the radio and checked my phone. I tapped my foot and locked and unlocked the doors until Dane finally looked at me and asked, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m just worried about going into the shop.”
“Because of Reagan?”
I tossed him a ‘no duh’ look.
“You have every right to be pissed at him, Chan Chan,” Dane said. “I’m still pissed at him.”
I picked at a cuticle. “That’s the thing. I’m not even pissed at him. I don’t know if I was ever really pissed. I’m just hurt because I thought it was real. It felt real. He made me believe it was real. So it just hurts so much that he made the choices he did, you know?”
Dane coughed a little, and then tossed me a sheepish look. “Not really. See, I was sort of the Reagan in my situation. I did a lot, either on purpose or by accident, to test Christian’s trust. He was the one who’d been willing to try for me, and I...I’d never had to try before because I’d never let myself believe I deserved it.”
“Are you saying Reagan didn’t deserve me?”
“Nope.” Dane pulled off on the wrong ramp. Maybe he was so invested he’d missed the turn? But we could still get to the shop this way—it would just take us ten minutes longer, and we’d have to pass through the rich part of town. “Reagan’s one of the best people I know. But in all the time I’ve known him, he’s never dated long-term. I don’t think he was used to having to put in the effort of sharing his life that way. So I’m pissed at him for not figuring that shit out before you got hurt.”
I stared at the street signs we were passing. It was hot for August, and everyone was out in as few clothes as they could get away with. Women with long, tanned legs walked in pairs while men with their dress shirt collars unbuttoned hurried for shade. We were passing through the art district, and it seemed too apropos considering the conversation we were having. Suspicion began to prick at the nape of my neck.
“I wish he’d figured it out, too. Where—where are we going?” At this point it was clear that Dane wasn’t heading toward the shop.
Instead, he pulled into a small parking lot of one of the more prestigious local galleries. There was a poster put up that showed a painting of eyes that I was all too familiar with. Reagan Dallas: Beneath the Surface.
“What the hell are we doing here, Dane?”
Dane leaned back and shrugged. “You’re always going to regret not talking to him. Reagan pulled his piece from that dickwad Ian’s collection and set up a small showing of new stuff here. The crew is inside. Two birds, one stone, or something like that.”
Frustration bit at me. “I’m not even dressed for shit like this!” I gestured to my laundry day jeans, loose and full of holes, and the band t-shirt I was in. “You could’ve at least given me a heads-up!”
“Who the fuck cares what you’re dressed like? I’m not much better and I’m going in. And,” he said, dangling the keys, “I’m taking these with me. So you can stay in the truck, I guess, but it’s going to be hot as balls in about two minutes.”
“You’re such an