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"How about The Smiths?"
"I'm not wearing eyeliner no matter how many times you ask."
I laugh and blush at the same time. Mmmm. Brendon in eyeliner. What a beautiful mental image. "How about Garbage or Hole? Something angry with instruments I can hear?"
He gives me a slow once over. "Why do you scribble lyrics on everything?"
I look up into his eyes. "Why do you have ink everywhere?"
"I asked first."
"I guess, I want to make it mine."
"But it's someone else's words."
"But when I put them together, they feel like mine. Besides, did you ever hear of someone getting lyrics they wrote as a tattoo?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"I did them once."
"Name. Dropper."
He shrugs, playing coy. "A huge pop star known for how much she hates her exes."
"Bullshit." It really is. "Why do you have so many tattoos?"
"Same reason."
"You want to mark your body?"
He nods. "Honestly?"
"Yeah." I press my lips together. He's going to tell me something he doesn't tell anyone. I need that. Every drop of it.
"At first, I wanted to piss off my mom. To prove to her, and myself I guess, that I'd never be a khaki wearing, golf playing yuppie."
"Did it work?"
"Yeah. She wrote me off right away."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was for the best. It hurt less when they..." His voice trails off. Like he doesn't believe it.
It must hurt. Even if things were tense. Just thinking about Grandma—it makes my entire body heavy. Which is why I'm currently rocking a nice state of denial. As long as I don't know the details, I can pretend things will be okay.
"It's more than that." I trace the lines on the back of his hand. His wrist. His forearm.
He nods. "It's a rush."
"And?"
"I like feeling in control."
Heat floods my cheeks. My chest. My sex. "Like you do during sex."
