“That’s Logan’s girlfriend,” he answers, without me even having to ask. The girl disappears into the bookstore.

“Looks like your type. Young and sweet, right?”

“Not quite.” His response is flat, and I can tell I’ve struck a nerve.

I follow him into the tattoo shop, back to the scene of the crime, but I don’t know why I do it. I just want to see this through, I guess. Behind the counter, a younger man with colorful tattoos along his arms watches me with interest.

“Good morning,” he says carefully to me, watching Murph for a reaction.

“Morning,” I answer. I find it funny that it’s almost noon and they greet everyone like it’s the crack of dawn. It might be nice to live a tattoo artist lifestyle. Being a night owl must be mandatory.

“Uh...Logan, this is Savannah. She’s…” He pauses as he glares at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed.

“I work for his foster mom,” I say, thinking that I’m helping him out, but somehow the already silent room grows quieter.

Logan slowly turns toward Murph. “Your foster mom?”

“She’s not—she’s my aunt, really. A friend. You don’t know her,” he stammers, and I see Logan smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Savannah.”

“Same,” I answer with a smile. I can’t remember the last time I was ever so social. I’ve just found a new way to torture Murph. His discomfort with introducing me to his coworkers is too enjoyable not to indulge in. He takes off for the back of the shop, but I choose not to follow him. Instead, I call out as I walk out the front door.

“Thanks for the ride!”

I can hear him grumbling something from the back as the door closes, and I can’t wipe the smile from my face.

“Who was that?” Logan is following me around like I have something sweet to give him.

“No one,” I answer, gruffly. I thought giving Savannah a ride on the bike would soften her up a bit, make her a little more pliable so I could dig a little deeper into her defenses. I was becoming more and more desperate with each passing day to break that girl open and make her spill her secrets. But it was starting to feel like the more I fucked with her, the more she fucked right back with me.

All week, I could feel her eyes on me. Sometimes with scrutiny, like she wanted to shoot me in the back, but then sometimes I’d catch her staring, her eyes lost in some far off fantasy like we’re fucking in her mind. Those looks I don’t mind so much. I had drifted off in a few of those little daydreams myself. Bending her over the kitchen counter. My head between her legs in the laundry room, sneaking around so no one could hear us.