Love, Ally by Hannah Gray

eleven

Cole

“Shit, man. That tattoo of the hot angel is fucking huge,” Knox says, leaning over me. “Your back is damn near covered, and yet you have none on your abdomen or arms?” Scratching his chin, he eyes it over again. “Wait, is this huge-ass angel Ally?”

“Holy shit, it is!” Weston laughs. “Fuck, man, you got it bad!”

“Piss off,” I grunt.

“All right, all right. Anyway, why no tats on your stomach, chest, legs, arms, face? Do you have any on your pecker?” Knox laughs. “That would be painful as fuck.”

“No, asshole, I don’t have my dick tatted, Jesus. And I don’t know why I don’t have any anywhere else. But I am getting one today, right here.” I point to the inside of my upper arm.

The ones on my back cover shit that I don’t want to see. That’s their purpose—to hide the past. The rest of my body doesn’t have any scars on them. So, the way I see it, it’s fine to be left alone.

I hand the piece of paper to the tattoo artist, and he looks at it and glances at me. “You want Love, Ally with the letters X-O under it?”

I nod. “Yep. In that writing. Exactly that writing.”

The letter that I had from Ally was what got me through the days while she was gone. Reading her words, knowing they were for me, carried me through. Making life a little less painful.

“He’s so fucking whipped,” Knox whispers to Weston. “So. Fucking. Whipped.”

“You’re just jealous because Sloane won’t touch your wiener,” Weston answers, watching me carefully, giving me a knowing look.

He’s never talked about a girl, but something tells me he’s got some scars from one, just like me.

“What’s your future wife going to say”—Knox laughs—“when she sees you’ve got a chick’s name on your arm?”

“Well, considering she’ll be my wife, I think she’ll be fine with it,” I state matter-of-factly.

“Ohh shiiiit,” he says under his breath before pretending to whip the air.

“Laugh it up, fellas. One day, you’ll be doing this same fucking shit.” I give them a pointed look. “Then, you’ll understand.”