She shifted to the side, telling him, “Including where the brothers get their tats.”

His chest got tight because he saw panties and under them, at the top right corner of her ass, in from her hip, down from her waist, a bandage.

Carefully, she pulled her panties down over the bandage as he stood immobile and watched.

Still silent and watching him, she peeled the bandage away.

“I got a ring,” she whispered. “This is your promise.”

Without moving a muscle, Joker stood there staring at the gooed-up red flesh in which, smaller but fucking magnificent, was the card he’d designed for his tat guy to ink on his chest.

But it was on his girl’s heart-shaped ass.

“I’m not a tattoo person but I thought… Joker?”

She ended on a call to him because he’d dropped his arms and turned on his boot.

He threw open the door and yelled down the hall, “Party’s over! Get out!”

He heard a “What the fuck?” and a guffaw but that’s all he heard before he slammed the door and turned back.

“Sweetie, that was rude… oh!”

She cried out because he was stalking.

She was backing up.

She had a hand up and was looking at him closely as she moved.

“Does this mean you like it?” she asked.

He didn’t give her an answer verbally.

But a while later, when he was not doing his usual watching her pussy take his dick but instead his eyes were locked to his card on her ass as she took his fucking on her knees, her whimpers muffled by the covers where her face was pressed, he figured she got the message.

* * *

He figured she also got his message when she sat next to him, babbling about wedding plans, co-workers at LeLane’s, her and her girls’ predictions of when Malik would pop the question, as he laid back in the chair, the buzz sounding as his tat guy worked at his chest.

Like the joker card, it was his design, so he could change the deck to whatever the fuck he wanted it to be.

So the card the guy was inking slanted over his heart next to the joker was the queen of hearts.

And butterflies.

* * *

The back door flew open and Carissa flew in carrying the handles of a LeLane’s paper bag in one hand, a massive stack of magazines tucked in her other arm, her purse over her shoulder, and wearing her khaki’s and LeLane’s polo, Converse on her feet.

Joker was at the stove.

Travis was unsteady on his feet as he ran to her, shouting, “Moomah!” then he took a header, landed on his hands and knees, tipped his head back and giggled.

“Googly,” she greeted, dumping bag, magazines, and purse and cutting her eyes to Joker. “Please tell me you’re browning the ground beef.”