Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,50
Solid. Always there.
Maybe those three things were the same to another person, but to me, they meant that even though I’d spent my life thinking about all of the things that had been missing from it, I already had so much more than I could have expected.
Maybe I didn’t have a dad, but I had enough.
I had my mom and Lane and Sam.
I didn’t need to seek approval from someone who’d toss me away—Lorna, whoever my biological father was—I already had everything I needed.
Except . . . Charlie.
God, I’d known her no time at all, and yet I knew that if I didn’t have her in my life, I would always have an emptiness inside me.
“All along, I thought I was empty. This toxic pit of unworthiness, but now I see . . .”
“That you’re not.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ve been a fucking idiot for a really long time.”
Lane grinned. “You’re thirty now. Usually we Thompsons grow out of our idiocy by at least twenty-nine.”
“I guess I’m special.”
“Always got to one-up me.” Lane punched my arm. “But also, I hope you’re special enough to realize that while our Maury Povich-style biological father situation isn’t ideal, it also doesn’t define us.”
“Why does this conversation suddenly feel like it should be filled with cotton candy and sunglasses-wearing cats?”
“Because we’re awesome?”
“Or something.”
The door leading into the apartment opened and Sam poked his head out. “Are you guys done with the heart-to-heart? Because real food is here, and I want to see the Statue of Liberty.”
I stood, pushed past him. “Not gonna happen. You have to buy the tickets months in advance.”
Sam made a face. “All my dreams, ruined.”
“At least tell me that not all of my dreams of New York thin crust are ruined,” Lane said, following them inside.
“Pizza will be here in an hour, along with more beer, chips, guac, and salsa.”
Lane sprawled on the couch, feet dropping onto the coffee table. “Thank God. I need man food.”
I snorted, shook my head. “Do you guys want to go out? I’m sure we could find something to do.”
“What had you planned on doing?” Sam asked, resuming his former position on the opposite end of the couch.
“Honestly?”
Twin nods in my direction.
“I’ve been working nonstop. I was going to eat and drink and then go to sleep early.”
“Nope.” Sam shook his head. “That’s not it.”
“Um, do you have ESP or something?” I said, sarcastically.
“Nope,” he said again. “Why?”
“Because that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why you think you can read my mind.”
“I can’t read your mind, dude,” Sam said as though I was the one being an idiot.
I set the empty water bottle on the kitchen counter then plunked my ass on the couch as the filling of the Sam-Lane sandwich. “God, you’re annoying.”
“Glad I haven’t lost that talent.” He grinned. “But seriously, the three of us have been friends for how long?”
I grunted.
“I’ll save you from doing the math. About twenty-two years, yeah?”
I nodded, along with Lane making a sound of approval. The three of us had become a trio when Sam had moved into the house across the street the summer between second and third grade. Lane, going into eighth, had been on baby-sitting duty and supposedly irritated by hanging with the “babies” but we’d gotten thick as thieves. Until Lorna and my fuck-up.
But no more of that. I deliberately shoved down the guilt. They were here now, and I was going to enjoy the time we had.
No looking back. Only forward.
Easy to say. Hard to do.
“And in that twenty-plus years of friendship, I’ve only seen your face look like that”—he waved a hand in my direction—“when you’re moping over a woman.”
“I’m not moping over Lorna,” I snapped.
“Yeah, I know that. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have gone over to your brother’s place three nights ago and tried to sleep with him.”
My jaw dropped open. “What?”
“Yeah. That”—more hand-waving—“tells me everything I need to know about you and Lorna . . . or rather you and not Lorna. So, who’s the girl? Is she hot? Have a nice ass—”
“Don’t talk about—” I snapped, before realizing what I’d just admitted.
Lane got that look on his face, the Cheshire Cat expression that made me want to smack him.
Sam just laughed outright. “I knew it. Come on, dude, what’s her name?”
I had a choice here. I could keep my cards against my chest, could put them off and try to change the subject—which wouldn’t work—or I could let them in. Let my friend and