The Dirty Series 1(135)

As identical as we are physically, however, our personalities are the opposite–we’re as different as night and day.

I’ve always been hesitant; he’s always been the go-getter. It’s not that I don’t or won’t go after the things I want, but in general, I’ll think it over for a while whereas Chris never does.

“What would we need to test it on?” he says, arching an eyebrow.

“Girls.”

Chris scoffs. “You think girls aren’t going to like a tattoo? You’re crazy, man.” The tattoo artist cracks a smile, but he doesn’t look up from his work.

“Well, certain girls.”

That’s another difference between Chris and me. His attention tends to….wander. Chris dates a new girl every week, and they’re typically the kind who like to get right down to screwing in the backseat of someone’s car or their parents’ spare room.

I’ve dated a few girls, and it’s always been a long-term kind of thing. At least, as long-term as it gets during high school. Date someone a year and you’re practically married.

Which, it turns out, is too boring for some people—namely, my last girlfriend, Sarah. She liked that I could afford to take her on all the fancy dates she wanted. What she didn’t like was that I wouldn’t sneak out with her as often as she wanted.

Not that my Dad would know, or care.

Unless it’s on a day when he decides that he does, and then there’s hell to pay.

Whatever. I’d rather not go through the hassle of buying my way out of some underage drinking charge.

Or worse.

Christian has been going to parties most every weekend, and I know he’s doing more than drinking at those things. I can see it by the hazy glaze in his eyes some mornings, even if he won’t admit it to me.

Even my fun-loving father doesn’t get behind drugs.

This weekend, Chris is throwing a party at one of my father’s rentals in the city. It’s a massive penthouse that’s currently between renters. What’s convenient is that Dad leaves tomorrow for a five-day business trip to survey some of Pierce Industries’ factories in China, so there’ll be plenty of time to have the place cleaned after the party.

It’s not the state of the penthouse carpet that has me worried. When I asked Chris earlier this week what type of party he was planning to have, he looked away before he answered.

“Just drinks,” he lied.

It won’t be just drinks.

“What are you going to do, Eli? Are you too much of a delicate flower to go through with this?”

“No,” I say, shooting him one of my “I can be as cool as you” looks. The tattoo artist makes a few more strokes on the design, and then it’s finished.

Chris is right. It looks cool as hell.

And maybe it’s lame, but I want to impress him.

“I’m doing it,” I say confidently.

Chris reaches out with his free arm and gives me a fist bump. “I knew you would.”

“It looks sick,” I say, as the tattoo artist wipes down Chris’s arm with rubbing alcohol and begins applying Vaseline to keep the new piece de resistance moist.

“You’re damn right it does,” Chris says, bending his neck down to get his first real look at it. “Just think, Eli. You’ll finally be edgy. How will the ladies resist?”





Chapter One





Quinn



I’ve been in New York City for five minutes, and it’s already spitting on me.

Literally.

The moment I step out from the terminal into the taxi line, the heavy gray clouds that have been hanging ominously low over the city open up. The roof over the taxi stand isn’t worth a damn against the rain, which is being driven by a squally summer wind, and of course I’m not wearing a raincoat and I don’t have an umbrella.

The last thing I’m going to do is drag my oversized suitcase, stuffed with the clothes and books I couldn’t bear to leave behind in Colorado, onto a city bus.

All I want to do is get to my new apartment, but the city is not playing fair.

What a welcome.

I straighten my shoulders in a display of resilience. The one positive in this situation is that my traveling outfit consists of a black tank top and yoga pants, far better than the thin, pale pink t-shirt a woman three places ahead of me in line is wearing. She doesn’t have a raincoat, either.

The line inches forward, and finally it’s my turn to get into one of the waiting taxis.

I yank on the handle of the back door to the cab, only to discover that–of course–it sticks, and I narrowly avoid falling backward into the man waiting behind me in line. With another jerk on the door handle, it finally releases and the door opens on squeaky hinges.