by Austin Bates
"I'll think of you when the moon is full, my dulcet love," Damien said loudly, the sound carrying through the bar. Someone snorted, and Damien raised his glass in a toast. "To love and the idiots who believe in it."
The bar shook with the cheers and banging glasses, and Damien downed both drinks in quick succession. The table closest to him laughed and clapped, so he bowed unsteadily. The room was starting to spin a little, and his lips were numb, all good signs.
"That was an interesting speech. Byron, wasn't it?" one of the guys at the table said.
Damien straightened up and squinted, trying to get the world to hold still for a moment. "Are you accusing me of memorizing lines that will get me into any old pair of tight pants? Because that absolutely sounds like me." Grinning, he propped his hip against the table, setting down his glasses.
The guy was hot. Omega lingerie model hot. He had dark hair styled to look like he hadn't spent hours on it and eyes so breathtakingly blue that they glowed. He smiled at Damien, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. "It's a good line," he said, ducking his head and peeking through his lashes.
"Is it?" Damien asked, leaning forward a little. The guy smelled like the same unisex cologne Damien had worn in high school, subtle and musky. It smelled sweeter on omega skin, like the air of the bakery the night he and Tommy had taken Missy and Vivian to the prom. Too many kids dressed up in masks and falsehoods.
"It's a great line," the guy said, leaning closer. His lips were pink and plush, and Damien was willing to bet that they'd taste tart and fruity like a ripe strawberry.
"That makes me very sorry I can't stay," he said, straightening up. "I'm here with the boys from the station, and I can't just skip out on them." He gestured to the table, and Mica waved back, the little line between his brows deepening into a dark canyon. One day it was going to set up that way, and he'd look just like Lucas 'No Smiles' Brown.
"That is very sad," the omega said, staring up at him. "Maybe later? I'm in town for a week." He pressed a business card into Damien's hand. "My name is Brad. Call me."
"Wild horses couldn't keep me away, sweetheart," Damien said, stroking one finger down the guy's baby soft cheek. He looked at the card, flipping it through his fingers a few times with a papery click as he walked back to the table. "If that was true," he whispered, "you would have hung up by now. Son of a bitch." Shoving the card into his pocket, he threw himself down into his chair, grabbing a glass of beer and downing it.
"Okay, that's enough of that," Mica said, pushing the pitcher out of reach. "Let's take a walk."
"It's cold outside," Damien said, pouting into his empty beer glass.
"You'll live." Mica pulled him to his feet, surprisingly strong for an omega.
The drink was really hitting him now, and he unintentionally hindered Mica's attempts to get him out of the bar when his legs refused to cooperate with the standard “one foot in front of the other” rhythm of walking.
The cold air slapping him across the face did an excellent job of clearing his head. The warmth of the alcohol still burned in his stomach, but the world settled enough for him to focus. "Are you taking me home? That's so sweet, Salatini."
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Mica said, dragging him along as they walked down the block toward the station.
"Besides the fact that I've apparently been kidnapped?" Damien tried to dig his heels in, but his body betrayed him, following the smaller man around the corner without hesitation.
"You've been drinking more than usual." Mica wasn't looking at him, staring off across the street. "Even the Jakobsons have noticed that you're not your usual charming self lately."
"Well, if the Jakobsons have noticed, there must be something wrong," Damien said with a sneer.
"Pretty much."
The night was crisp, their breath puffing out in front of them as they walked. There were no stars, clouds sitting heavy against the mountain peaks. It was the kind of night that Damien could remember loving because it made it easy to sneak out of the house. The shadows shied away from the street lights, leaving pools of darkness between the islands of painful brightness.
"You don't have to tell me," Mica said, and Damien snorted. "I just want you to know that I'll listen if you want to talk."
He reached over and ruffled Mica's long black hair. "I know." Staring at the unmarked skin on the back of his own hand, he sighed. "Did you know that Dominic Allen has a tattoo?"
"He was a Marine." Mica shrugged.
He shook his head. "Two tattoos, then. He has one for his old fire team."
"In North Carolina? I've heard of teams doing that. Usually," Mica said wryly, "they're drunk."
"When I was in California, there was a guy who had a tattoo for every team he'd served with. Sixteen seals connected by flames. I always thought he was nuts." Damien flexed his fist and shoved his hand into his pocket. It scraped against the business card, and he traced his finger along the edges.
"What's nuts about it?" Mica asked, his eyes burning holes in the side of Damien's head. "They obviously meant something to him. People get tattoos to commemorate important events."
"What if you don't want to remember?"
"Then you don't have to get a tattoo," he said gently. "Is this about that guy, the one with all the tattoos?"
"I've heard tattoos don't take over scar tissue very well," Damien said, leaning down abruptly to roll up his pant leg. "Do you think I should get a tattoo over this?" He ran his hand down the raised, twisted scar that ran from his knee to his ankle.
Mica watched him, his eyebrow raised. Damien hadn't tried to hide the scars since he came back to Golden. Most of the town knew what they were from. He'd gotten used to them, but it was different to look at the ridges and shadows and remember the things that had put them there.
"We should go get tattoos. All of us," he said, letting his pants fall back down. "That way we won't be left out."
"What makes you think I don't have a tattoo already?" Mica steadied him as he swayed, staring at the little omega with a scandalized look.
"Mica Salatini, are you telling me that you broke your Italian mother's heart and tattooed that perfect skin of yours?" Damien squinted at the other man's trim body. "I don't believe it."
Mica grinned, a sly, secretive twist of his lips. "That doesn't make it untrue."
"That's it. I'm calling Kieran, and we're going to go get a fucking tattoo. I refuse to be the only one without one." Damien fumbled in his pocket only to remember that he didn't have his phone on him.
"Four-leafed clover on his left butt-cheek," Mica said. "And again, he was very drunk."
"When he got it, or when he told you about it?"
"King," he said, putting his hands on his hips and looking distinctly unimpressed. "How many times have we showered together?"
Damien thought about it, numbers spinning through his brain like water down a toilet. "More than I can count."
"You can't tell me that you've never checked out any of the guys in the station."
Damien stared at him, and Mica blinked.
"Not even once? Not even to make sure nobody was hurt?"
Shoulders tucked tight to his ears, Damien curled in on himself. "Between you and Lucas, nobody would make it out of the engine with so much as a paper cut before we all knew about it. Where I grew up, it was bad manners to let your eyes wander," he spat.
Sucking a deep breath in through his teeth, Mica looked away, his eyes flickering over the old buildings and quaint, historic streets. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, I get that."
They were at the station now, the warm lights inside glinting off the engine hardware in each bay. They turned and started back toward Jerry's in silence.
"We should get matching tattoos," Damien said when he couldn't stand the quiet one more second.
"We can talk about it when you're sober."
"I'm serious, Mica. We should get something awesome, just for engine #15." Damien fumbled with his belt. "I can get it on m
y hip. Have you ever seen the kind of scars a steel-toed boot makes? They turn out all uneven," he said as he failed to get the buckle to release the leather.
"Whoa there, cowboy. How about you keep your clothes on?" Mica said, grabbing his hands. Damien swayed a little, his eyes heavy, and Mica cursed. "I'm going to call you a cab, okay?"
Damien shrugged. "Not that far of a walk." He took a step to demonstrate and stumbled off the curb, almost landing them both in the gutter.
"How about you sit down?" Mica's small hands were callused and surprisingly strong as he held Damien against the concrete.
"I don't have my phone," Damien said, patting his pockets. He needed to make a phone call. He pulled the business card out of his pocket, flipping it back and forth in his fingers. "I left it at home."
"Do you have your keys?" Mica asked. "No, not you. Yeah, we're just down the street from Jerry's in front of the bridal shop."
He dug his keys out of his jacket and jingled them at Mica. "Keys. I don't have my phone."
"What do you need your phone for?" Mica asked, leaning over at an angle that made Damien's neck hurt.
"Need to make a phone call."
Mica sighed and handed over his cell phone. "The cab will be here in five minutes, so hurry up."
Damien smiled.
***
"Where to?" the cab driver asked as Damien settled into the back. Mica leaned in the passenger window and rattled off Damien's home address. Vaguely impressed, Damien patted him on the shoulder, still hanging half out the back door. "Just get him home. I think he's sober enough to make it into his apartment."
"I'm not that drunk," Damien muttered. They both ignored him.
"I'll get him there," the cabbie said, starting the engine. "He's got money, right?"
"Credit card," Damien said, leaning his head back against the seat. His stomach was churning. "I'm not that drunk."
"Sure you aren't, buddy."
They pulled away from the cab, turning down the side street that led to Damien's apartment complex. Damien pressed his temple against the cold window and sighed.
"Hey, you got anything else going today?" he said, rubbing his sweating palms against his jeans.
"If you're paying, I've got all night. Why? You wanna stop for takeout?" The cabbie stopped at the intersection before Damien's stop and stared at him.
"Not exactly," he said, giving the guy the address.
"La Junta? You sure you wanna go all the way out there? That's a hell of a drive." He entered it into his system. "It's going to cost you a pretty penny, too," he said, turning the screen so that Damien could see the estimated cost.
Shrugging, he dug out his credit card. "I gotta get there before 2 am," he said.
"That's plenty of time." The cabbie swiped his card and waited for the box to beep at him, then shrugged. "Buckle up, buddy. I'll wake you up when we get there."
"Not sleepy," Damien said. The cabbie turned the radio up.
Three hours should have been plenty of time for Damien to rehearse what he was going to say, but instead, he found himself remembering things. The smell of Tommy's hair when they'd sleep out in his backyard, staring at the stars until they couldn't keep their eyes open. The way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks as he ran through the sprinklers in the sun. His laugh echoing through the basement game room when he kicked Damien's ass at video games.
So many little moments that Damien had done his very best to forget, and now he found that they were just hiding, waiting for today to come out and torment him all over again.
"Hey, buddy. Wake up." Someone shook Damien's shoulder, and he jerked upright. "We're here." The cabbie gestured at the storefront across the street, and Damien turned to look.
The shop was bigger than he'd expected. Tommy obviously wasn't the only artist working there. The front window was lit up warmly by an outside light, the shining swirls of the gold Vivid Ink logo glowing in the dark like a beacon. Inside the shop, the walls were covered in colors and shapes.
Damien's breath caught. Just inside, a familiar head of blond hair was bent over a table. Tommy glanced up, smiling at someone that Damien couldn't see. It was wide and wonderful, and it showed off the slightly crooked tooth on the left side of his mouth.
Climbing out of the cab, Damien signed the electronic receipt quickly, adding a hefty tip. "Thanks for the ride, man."
"You gonna make it home okay?" he asked, glancing from Damien to the shop.
"I'll be fine," Damien said, taking a single step toward the shop and stopping at the edge of the light.
A woman had ducked out of the back, her hair streaked with so many colors that Damien couldn't even guess what it was originally. She was laughing, and she leaned against Tommy's back to peer over his shoulder. Damien clenched his fist and looked away.
The cabbie was still there, staring at him sympathetically. "You need anything, I'm on duty till six," he said as he climbed into the taxi. "I'll give you a discount."
"Thanks," Damien said faintly, his eyes drawn back to the light of the window like a moth.
The woman was sitting behind the counter now, her feet kicked up on the glass. She was pretty, he supposed; if you went in for that sort of thing. She had a nose piercing and a lip piercing, metal glittered all the way up her ear and over her eyebrow. The longer he looked at her, the more piercings he noticed, until he was seriously impressed with the quantity of metal she was carrying around. Getting through airport security must be a real problem for her.
She reached over and rested her hand on Tommy's arm, her thumb stroking against the red ribbon that twined around the broken robin there. Damien growled under his breath, his feet taking him across the street before he'd even realized he was moving.
The little bell over the door chimed cheerfully as he stepped inside. The girl glanced up curiously, her eyes widening as she took in the width of his shoulders.
Tommy didn't look up from the equipment he was carefully cleaning. "We're closing in fifteen minutes. You're welcome to come back for a consultation tomorrow," he said, metal clinking as he set a part aside and reached for the next one.
"Am I?" Damien said.
Tommy froze, the blood running out of his face until he looked as bad as Damien felt. "Damien," he whispered, still not looking up. "What are you doing here?"
"I want a tattoo."
The girl watched them, her eyes flicking back and forth like a ping pong tournament. Damien wanted to vault over the counter and put his hand over the spot where she'd had hers until all traces of her touch were erased. He bounced slightly on his toes, glaring at her.
"We're closing," Tommy said, swallowing hard. "There's definitely no time for you to get a tattoo tonight. You'll have to try again later."
"I don't know what kind I want yet," Damien said. "You were always better at the art than me."
"We have sample books you can look at," the girl said, brandishing a heavy binder like a weapon.
Taking a step forward, Damien swayed a little and had to grab the counter to steady himself. "I want a Tommy Laurence original," he said, his brows scrunched together so hard they were aching.
Tommy's head jerked up, and he stared as Damien shifted back and forth. "Jesus, Damien. Are you drunk?" He shot to his feet, rounding the counter with his fists clenched. "Did you drive three hours down the interstate when you can barely see straight?"
"Got a cab," Damien said. "I just wanted a tattoo, not more scars."
His hands warm against the chill of outside, Tommy cupped Damien's face in his hands, leaning in until they were nose to nose. Damien tried to pull back, but Tommy dug his fingernails into the sensitive skin behind his ears. Wincing, Damien dropped his eyes to Tommy's lips, lush and soft pink and only the barest breath away.
Tommy took a deep sniff and let go of Damien's head, crossing his arms as he glared up at Damien. "You're drunk."
"So? I don't have to be sober to talk about tattoos with you," Damien said, his eyes still on Tommy's l
ips. They looked slightly chapped. Tommy never had gone in for lip gloss like the omegas they saw on TV, so he hadn't tasted like berries or vanilla, just the slight mint of his gum.
"You do, however, have to be sober to get a tattoo," Tommy said, pointing at a sign on the wall. "Store policy."
Damien stared at the letters swimming against the black background of the sign. "That doesn't make any sense. All the best tattoos happen when people are drunk."
"Not here they don't."
Pushing his lower lip out, Damien glanced at the girl, hoping for backup.
She shrugged. "Sorry, big guy."
Damien shoved his fists into his pocket and slumped against the wall next to the evil sign. He'd come all the way down here for nothing.
"He looks like a puppy that just realized he was going to the vet, not the park," the girl said in a loud whisper.
"Anne." Tommy rubbed his temples, shaking his head. "You're not helping."
"I don't have my phone," Damien said, patting his pockets. "Can I borrow yours to call a cab?"
"Drunk and phoneless? This is too sad." Propping her chin on her fist, Anne pushed the phone across the display case at him. "You can crash at my place if you want to sober up and come back when we open. My couch folds out."
"You don't even know him, Anne," Tommy said, his hands on his hips. Damien picked up the phone, trying to remember if the cabbie's number ended in a six or an eight.
"It's obvious that you know him, boss. He's just drunk and lonely. Alphas get like that sometimes." She waved off Tommy's furious glare.
Maybe it had ended in a three?
"I have it under control," Tommy said, taking the phone out of Damien's hand. "Come on. You can sleep it off on my couch."
Anne didn't say a word, winking and flashing Damien a thumbs-up behind Tommy's back as the slender omega poked and prodded him deeper into the shop. "I'll lock up, boss," she called after them.
"It was nice meeting you," Damien said as Tommy pushed him through another door. "It's cold out here." His breath puffed out in front of him as he was herded across the parking lot.
