Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(8)

Can do ?? let me know more details. I’ll draw up a design. I should have it ready next time I see you ?? at your otherworldly service, ass-kicker humanoid Donnelly – Donnelly





He has it ready.

Now.

I reread his most recent text like I imagined it. There were so many reasons I thought Donnelly would say he couldn’t. So many reasons why I thought he might brush me off in the end. His tattooing style is American traditional with bold black outlines and vivid colors. Fine line isn’t exactly his wheelhouse, but I’ve always loved his art ever since I saw him sketching on the tour bus.

I’m not sure I trust anyone other than him to do it.

Going to a tattoo shop and being recognized as Luna Hale—Daughter of a Sex Addict & Alcoholic—has felt like a crash landing onto the moon. Certain disaster will ensue. Like headlines where Celebrity Crush speculates what I got inked and where.

Sometimes I let the background noise of media and internet trolls go.

Sometimes it stays a little longer, like a buzzing against my ear, and it feels odder when my body is the focal point of the obsession.

Having Donnelly tattoo me is private and secret and mine before it’s anyone else’s, but I also know he lives in New York. He could’ve said no because of the time or travel. It’ll take multiple sessions to fully ink.

More likely, he could’ve said no because of my strict dad, who wasn’t happy about the other tattoos.

He said he would.

He’s coming over.

Now.

I want the tattoo—more than anything. But I also know I might be putting him in more hot water with my dad.

He’s already coming over, Luna. Inner-me is so very smart. It’s not like Donnelly is coming here specifically for me. He’ll already be here because he’s Beckett’s bodyguard.

Sulli and Beckett are best friends. I’m sure they’re doing some friend thingie tonight.

And if Donnelly is willing to take the risk…

I take a deep breath and type out a reply. 1000% still want to see it. Thanks a million, ass-kicker humanoid. I include a couple star emojis. Not thinking much longer, I just hit send.

His response is quick.

See ya soon – Donnelly





Popping up from my desk chair, I toss a few empty Fizz cans in the trash. The room is casually messy. Not like a hurricane came through. Just a light thunderstorm. Some T-shirts splay over the top bunk (Sulli’s old camp shirts), and running shoes are piled near the dresser (Sulli’s shoes). Weights are tucked under my bed (Sulli’s way-too-heavy-to-lift weights).

Until right now, I haven’t really noticed that most of the mess belongs to Sulli. This just makes us the perfect roommate match. She can be her messy self all she wants with me. I begin to smile.

Colored pencils scatter the surface of our desk, my contribution to the disorder, and I slip them in a tin canister, giving my laptop more room.

Stairs squeak outside, then a strong knock comes before the door creaks open. Is it him? I find myself on the tips of my toes, anticipation lifting me higher.

“Hey, roomie.” It’s Sulli. Drenched in sweat, my cousin brushes dark brown strands of hair from her face and enters our room.

Sullivan Minnie Meadows should have been my best friend since birth. All the signs were there. Even our zodiacs say, these two are a superb match. Her Aquarius to my Sagittarius. She’s only two years older. We’re both girls. And she believes in astrology like me.

Only, we weren’t always the closest of the close. Cobalt boys—they snuck in there and claimed those spots. She has Beckett. I have Eliot and Tom.

But Sulli and I just needed the right cosmic event in order to circle around and become the friends we were always meant to be. She’s retired from competitive swimming. No longer pressed for time. And I have all the time in the world now that I’m out of high school’s death clutch.

“Hey, hey.” I dump the last of the pencils in the tin. “You doing a thing with Beckett?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Sulli grabs a teal bath towel from our closet. “Did his brothers tip you off or something? Or maybe you’re just magical and know all the fucking things.”

“Not magical, unfortunately,” I sing-song, leaning on the desk. Singing makes most awful realities sound better. More fantastical. I guess that’s why I do it so much. That, and it’s just fun. “But I do know some things, I guess. This time because of Donnelly.” I pick up my phone. “He texted. He said he’d show me the tattoo sketch while he’s here.”

Sulli comes over and elbows me. “Fucking finally.”

I can’t help but smile.

She gathers her sweaty hair in a messy bun, towel under her armpit. “Haven’t you been waiting for it for eternity?”

A week. It doesn’t seem like that long, in the grand scheme of infinite time, but I might’ve mentioned it every day to Sulli.

“An eternity isn’t long enough,” I say quietly, quoting a passage from The Chasm of Elsewhere, a short story I wrote. I’m not sure if it’s any good, or if that line is overused and cliché, but it came to mind.

Sulli hasn’t read The Chasm of Elsewhere. Only one person has. Her confusion is a blip before she says, “An eternity is way too fucking long for me. If Kits made me a necklace or a drawing or something, I’d probably be calling him every fucking day asking for status updates.” Eliot and Tom joke that Akara and Sulli are the physical embodiment of the outdated Facebook poke.