“I like the art, the meaning. I like the idea of people wearing their skin as an expression of themselves.”

“Are you any good?”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. I take a liberal sip from my glass. It actually tastes far better than I thought it would. It’s my first time having champagne. I don’t know the brand, but Veuve Clicquot sounds pretty fancy.

“I think I’m pretty talented. I’m not being stuck-up or anything, just that I know how to analyze my own talent. I’ve spent a lot of time studying drawing technique and all that.”

“So, what, you opening your own shop?”

“No, it doesn’t work like that. I’ve got to apprentice for an established artist, first. They need to vouch for me to get my license. Then I can open my own shop.”

“When do you start?”

“I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” I say.

“Think you’ll get it?”

“I hope so.”

He grins. “What did you think of my tattoos?”

“I didn’t notice them,” I lie.

“Bullshit. Let me tell you something.”

He gestures at me to sit in one of the expensive-looking chairs on the balcony. I do, and he sits after.

“Tell me what?”

“When I first step into the cage, I instantly notice certain things.”

“Like fighting is similar to art. Please.”

“Fighting is an art, Pen. I notice whether he’s a lefty or a righty. I notice which leg he puts his weight on. I notice if he’s strong in the thighs, or strong in the calves.”

“How can you even tell that?”

“The way he stands. Is he putting his weight on the balls of his feet – which suggests calf strength, which means he can change direction quickly – or does he rest more on his heels? That suggests he’s got upper-leg strength. He can push, bully, kick.”

“You notice all of that, huh?”

“Fucking right I do. I notice if he watches my eyes, or if he watches my fists. I notice if he inhales through his mouth, or through his nose.”

“What’s your point, Pierce? The intricacies of fighting technique are boring.” I flash him a quick smile.

He grins. “My point is that this is what I do. I notice it. So, if tattooing is what you do – or what you want to do – then you’ll notice it, for sure. So, don’t lie to me. Tell me what you thought of my tattoos.”

I hold my breath, leave him hanging. He’s got this small smile, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I relent. “The wolf on your shoulder is detailed, intricate. It’s not a stencil, but a personal design. The ears are slightly out of line – I’m talking perspective here. The eyes may be a little close to each other, but I’m guessing that effect fades the closer you get. The shading on the fur is imperfect; with wolf’s fur, or any animal, really, you can definitely achieve more depth and volume with better technique.” I pause, look into his bright eyes. “Did you design it?”

He laughs. “I did.”

“You should have let your artist make some corrections.”

“She tried to,” Pierce says.

“But you didn’t want her to?”

“No.”

“And the serpent on your chest and stomach… that looked like it started out as a snake, but turned into a dragon.”

“Yeah.”

“That was also too poor to be a design from an artist. You drew that, too?”

Pierce is wearing a broad smile. “Hell yes, I did.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re not very good. Also, the perspective is off once the body of the serpent starts to turn into that of a dragon. You’re style changes, too. It’s inconsistent. The snake is quite realistic, with scales visible, and the dragon is more symbolic, artistic, with only hints of shape and texture. Why the snake-dragon?”

“Got bitten once.”

I recoil a little. That’s not something you hear every day. “Where?”

“I was backpacking through Indonesia one summer. It was a king cobra. I had a fever dream where the snake turned into a dragon.”

“I meant on your body.”

“My thigh. Too fucking close to my balls, I’ll tell you that.”

I move swiftly on. “The ram and owl you have on your knees are actually really good,” I say. “I’m guessing those were pro designs.”

“They were.”

“No story behind them?”

“No. They don’t all have meaning.”

“They should,” I say. “In my opinion.”

“Not a good attitude for an aspiring tattoo artist.”

“Ha!”

“You’ve got a good eye, then, considering you were ten meters away from me. I mean, if you can tell the quality of a tattoo on my skin at that distance.”

I shrug. “Like you said: We artists notice these things.”

“Fucking right we do.”

“I also saw that you’ve also got an incomplete tattoo. I’m guessing it extends from your pubic region down to your thigh.”

“Inside thigh,” he says, patting his left leg.

“I couldn’t figure out what it was.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you what it is. I’m sure that’ll eat you up.”

I wave it off. “I really don’t care what it is. So, why a wolf on your shoulder? You didn’t tell me about that one.”

For a moment, the expression on his face changes. But then the same smug self-satisfaction returns. I’m positive I’ve just witnessed a momentary break in the façade. Maybe it is an act, after all…

“The wolf was my father’s favorite animal.”

I swallow. “And?” I ask gently.

“He died when I was young.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. Walked into that one…

“It’s not a big deal,” he says.

I reach over to the bottle, and pour myself another full glass of champagne. I take a big sip, grinning. I’m feeling it, the buzz. It feels good. I like this sensation.

“So you got daddy issues, then?” I tease. I’m feeling a bit prickly now.

“Just to remember him.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged a person who fights for a living to be sentimental.”

“The best fighters have the strongest emotions. It’s where the strength, the drive, comes from.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, nodding. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling confident. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time tonight, I seem to have the upper hand… I seem to be in control of this conversation.

“My mother and father divorced a few years ago,” I say. I feel like I’m balancing the scales, making the conversation fairer. After all, he told me that his dad died.

“I know,” he says.

I blink. “How?”

“My mother told me.”

Inside me, I feel a kind of irritation begin to bubble like the champagne is in the glass I’m holding. Am I wrong to feel that this is too personal information for him to have known via my father’s girlfriend?

“She told you that?”

“Yeah. You’re uncomfortable with that.”

I don’t miss that it’s a statement. “It’s personal,” I tell him.

“I also know you don’t have a good relationship with your mother.”

“So?” My voice betrays my tension. I don’t like that he knows these things about me. I don’t like that I didn’t know he knew.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just want you to know what I know about you.”

“Oh, you’re doing me a favor are you? So I don’t tell a lie or something?”

He shrugs again, and it pisses me off.

“No,” he says. “But I’d want to know what you know about me. I never want to be at a disadvantage. Isn’t it the same for you?”

“There’s a thing called discretion.”

“Discretion is fucking overrated,” he says. “So, what has your dad said about my mom or me?”

“Nothing!”

He frowns. “Really?”

“Disappointed?” I fire. I’m biting back now. But he doesn’t react the way I expect him to. Instead, he just looks at me for a while. His eyes go to my lips, then to my neck.

He leans forward, and he presses his forehead against mine. I don’t know what to do. I’m at a loss for words. I’ve never been this close to a boy before. Not like this, anyway.

“Have you always got your claws out?” he asks, his voice low. I can smell the champagne on his breath. It’s so intimate, so close.