The dulcet tune slips into silence, footsteps draw near, then bare chest fills the doorframe. Lukas raises his brows as he looks down at me, taking in the pillow I’m clutching for dear life. Worry siphons into his white-and-black eyes. Cupping my face, he asks, “What’s wrong, cupcake?”
Throat closing, I say, “Do you have a pen?”
“A pen?” His brows knit, and he turns, looking into his bedroom. It’s beautiful. Guitars cover the umber walls. A sleek black piano rests on a short stage beside an elegant black harp. Stairs opposite the stage lead up to a loft with his bed, and I’m not even surprised he likes to sleep up there, looking down on his own bedroom.
It definitely fits his character.
“I…think I have one somewhere around here.” He faces me again, swiping his thumb along my jaw. “Why, sweetness? Have your pens run out already? Did I buy you too many notebooks and too few sparkly gels to write in them with?”
“N-no. Right… I’m sorry. I should have brought a pen.” I lift my hand and drop my eyes. “I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind…writing your name on my hand.”
His eyes widen. His grip on my jaw flinches, tightening. “You want me to sign…you?”
“I’m sorry.” I try to escape, but he’s got me captured. “It’s stupid. It’s late. My brain is mean to me at night.” My eyes sting. “I thought it might help something.”
“Shh.” He draws me in, forces my eyes to him. “Hush, Clara.” Insanity sparks, desire congealing. “You want me to write my name on your skin?” He pushes my hair back over my ear. “And not only do youwantthat, but it will also help your brain be kinder to you?”
My lips tremble. “Right now, I need the reminder that you don’t hate me. That you want me around.”
Even though wearen’tintimate at all.
You’ve already told me that you’ve never been in an intimate relationship before, because it scares you.
I think it scares me, too, for different reasons that culminate in a similar way.
You’re scared your horrible parts won’t be lovable.
I’m scared I’ll only be tolerated because men like my body.
I’m terrified that no one will ever love me enough for who I am inside.
Please. Remind me that I’m important to you because I’mme, not because you care at all about how I look.
He swears. “Yup. Okay.” His breaths harden. “All right. Um.” His hand shakes as he releases my face, turns on his heel, and marches toward a desk strewn with papers. “Come in. Close the door. Unless you hate that, then just come in, but leave it open. It’s fine.” He jerks open the desk drawer while I contemplate leaving the door open…and opt to close it.
At a glance, Lukas’s room isn’t messy. But at a further glance, yes it is. It’s justso bigthat the clutter on his desk and the pile of clothes tossed over his couch seem smaller.
Once he finds something to write with, he marches back to me, shackles my wrist, and pulls me toward the couch. Shoving his clothes onto the floor, he sits me down.
An odd sensation runs through my veins as he pulls the cap off the permanent marker with his teeth and spits it in his lap. “Where?” he asks.
With this kind of enthusiasm, I think I could ask him to sign an autograph for me every day, claiming I’d like to surround myself with his name. He’d do it, gladly. From there, I could figure out an excuse to go to the post office and get them to my mother. But I’m not sure I want to.
I’m not sure I want to abuse his kindness, or his desperation. I don’t want to lie to him like that.
Especially not if all hisattention cravingsboil down to a wish that he might be loved for who he is, even though he also…hates himself.
We…
We’re the same, aren’t we?
In a lot of strange but powerful ways.
I offer him my wrist. “Please. So I can see it.”
He brings my pulse to his lips first, pressing a hard kiss into my veins, then he whispers, “Hold still for me.”
The marker glides with practiced fluidity across my skin, and I fight the urge to shudder until he’s done. The scent of ink fills my chest when I force down a breath, and I grimace as my father’s demeaning words resonate in my skull, disgusting. Staring at my wrist as Lukas puts the cap back on his marker, I say, “Why did you approach me? At the party.”
