Chapter 93 (2/2)

“You’re quite drunk, aren’t you?” he asks and opens the door for me.

“A smittle—a small . . . a little.” I laugh.

The crisp winter air feels amazing and refreshing. Zed and I walk through the yard and end up sitting on the broken stone wall that used to be my favorite spot during these parties. There are only a few people outside because of the cold. One of them is throwing up in the bushes a few yards away.

“Lovely,” I groan.

Zed chuckles but doesn’t say anything. The stone is cold against my thighs, but I have a jacket in Hardin’s car if I need it. Not that I have any idea where he is. I can see his car is still here, but he’s been gone for over . . . well, two beer-pongs-plus.

When I look over at Zed, he’s staring off into the darkness. Why is this so awkward? His hand moves to his stomach, and he appears to be scratching the skin. When he lifts his shirt up slightly, I see a white bandage.

“What’s that?” I ask nosily.

“A tattoo. I just got it done before I came here.”

“Can I see it?”

“Yeah . . .” He shrugs his jacket off and sets it down next to him, then pulls back the tape and bandage.

“It’s dark over here,” he says, pulling out his phone to use the screen as a light.

“Clockwork?” I ask him.

Without thinking, I run my index finger across the ink. He flinches but doesn’t move away. The tattoo is large, covering most of the skin on his stomach. The rest of his skin is covered by smaller, seemingly random tattoos. The new tattoo is a cluster of gears; they appear to be moving, but I’m going to say that’s just the vodka.

My finger is still tracing his warm skin when I suddenly realize what I’m doing. “Sorry . . .” I squeak and jerk my hand away.

“It’s fine . . . but, yeah, it’s sort of like clockwork. See how the skin appears to be torn right here?” He points to the edges of the tattoo, and I nod.

He shrugs. “It’s like when the skin is pulled back, what is underneath is mechanical. Like I’m a robot or something.”

“Whose robot?” I don’t know why I asked that.

“Society’s, I guess.”

“Oh . . .” is all I say. That’s a much more complex answer than I expected. “That’s actually really cool; I get it.” I smile, my head swimming from the alcohol.

“I don’t know if people will get the whole concept. You’re the only person so far that gets it.”

“How many more tattoos do you want?” I ask.

“I don’t know, I don’t have any more room on my arms, and now my stomach, so I guess I’ll stop when there isn’t any room.” He laughs.