Page 55

With a light tremble, her fingers lift toward my arm, and I brace myself for the first touch like some pathetic kind of sappy idiot. The bristles meet my skin within the curve of a rose, a careful stroke that tickles more than I care to admit. Color blooms across the outline, vivid against the black ink, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady. There’s a brief pause after her first stroke, as if Meg expected a reaction, and it takes years of control and concentration not to give her one. Once again, her words come back to me as if they’re on fucking replay in my skull.

I’m not the artist. I’m the canvas. Well, she’s the artist now, and I’ve given her free rein to decorate me however she sees fit. To create another layer, another disguise on top of all I’m already carrying, and I’m simply letting her do it.

The second stroke is firmer, the third more poised. Soon, Meg forgets to be angry and starts chasing the shape of the petals, cleaning the brush in the filthy water glass on my bedside table as if this is the most normal thing in the world. It isn’t. Nothing about Meg sitting on my bed in tiny satin pajamas, painting my arm in the echoing silence, feels normal. It’s incredibly private and intimate in the worst way. Arousal creeps in, one that confuses me all over again. What is it with this girl?

“You’re good at this,” I murmur after a while, needing to break the silence before I do something stupid like groan. A blush the same shade of red as her brush colors Meg’s cheeks.

“Don’t patronize me,” she snips back. I bite down on my inner cheeks to withhold a smirk, my arm shifting slightly. “And don’t move. You’ll ruin my masterpiece.” This time, I can’t withhold the small huffed laugh that punches through my lips. The corner of her mouth twitches too, but thankfully, she doesn’t look up. The nightmares have loosened their grip on her shoulders, the easing happening with every line she fills in, every flick of red and gray, every quiet adjustment of my forearm in her warm hand.

At some point, her fingers curl around my wrist to turn my arm, and the touch sparks all the way along my veins. I close my eyes, reveling in how her warmth douses the block of ice that resides in my chest. There’s a version of Meg who grits her teeth and elbows her way through life, wielding stubbornness like a weapon. That’s not the woman holding my forearm now. This one colors within the lines, breathes low and evenly against my bicep, calmly nudges closer until there’s no space left between us.

I struggle to remain upright, the idea of leaning into her warmth all too intoxicating. I could stamp the artwork she’s creating all over her own body, smearing red paint over her chest and throat until our mouths meet. I’d breathe her in, gripping her jaw and pressing our combined weight into the mattress. I imagine the first flick of her tongue against my lips, the soft moan that would fill my ears, and instantly cut myself off.

This has to stop, right now. Yet I don’t move an inch. Eventually, Meg sits back to study her work, a small smile breaking through despite herself.

“Better?” I ask. A small huff of laughter leaves her parted lips, her shoulders lower than when she started. The glint in her blue eyes is back, and this time, it’s directed straight at me.

“If this is some ploy to get me back in the shower,” she starts mischievously, her teeth sink into her bottom lip. I swallow hard, images of her naked, wet body slamming back to the forefront of my mind. My cock thickens instantly, all blood rushing south.

Meg can’t want me like this. Not because I’m taken and all shades of wrong for her, but because she doesn’t know the depths of my depravity. She doesn’t know the ways in which I’ve been cruel to her, to no avail.

Sensing my hesitation, Meg backtracks, putting a few inches of space between us again and reverting to a safer conversation.

“Will you keep your music down now?” She blinks up at me. I hold her gaze, unable to look anywhere else. I could easily say yes. I could let her have that peace, and prove I’m capable of one decent quality, but I won’t. I live my life by very few, simple vices. Art, music, weed, Everest. And selfishly, I know I’ve already sacrificed more than enough to have earned those small freedoms, least of all my own identity. Agreeing to give up one of the few pleasures that keep me happy is something I refuse to do.

“No,” I reply coldly. Meg balks instantly, her mouth dropping open.

“Seriously?!” she hisses, her anger snapping back into place with far too much ease. It’s better this way, better to keep a wedge between us.

Glancing down at my painted arm, the roses look alive now, skulls lifting out from beneath the red in shades of gray. There’s an attempt at shading, heavy-handed in places and delicate in others, but overall, not bad. Meg might not think she’s meant for art, but I’ll admit, she’s got something. She stares at me, waiting for some sign of surrender that I refuse to give, before sighing and snapping the paint tin shut.

“Unbelievable. You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mutters to herself as if I wasn’t meant to hear it, but I absolutely do. My brain trips over itself. Cute? Me? I remain still, and not wholly by choice. My limbs numb, her compliment fizzling beneath my skin. Accepting it feels like all kinds of wrong, but there’s something else there too. A naïve boy deep down who simply likes the idea that the girl next door might like him.

Oblivious to the conflict she’s caused in my mind, Meg stands, crosses the room, and snatches the music controller before I process her intention. Then she stuffs it into her cleavage with all the defiance of a woman who is used to fighting her own battles. Every thought in my head throws itself off a cliff, my mouth going dry. Her tenacity calls to me on another level, clashing against my own. Tearing the door open, intent on seeing her mission though, I say the first thing that comes to mind in order to get her to stay.

“Sometimes, I get the impression my brain hates me, too.” Meg halts, her hand tightening around the doorframe. She keeps her back to me, but her head is cocked in curiosity. “The dreams, nightmares, whatever you want to call them. The therapists will tell you they’re trying to make sense of things you haven’t let yourself feel yet. I just think there’s no escaping our demons.”

The room seems to go still, aided by the breath locked in my lungs. I didn’t mean to say that much, but it scraped its way out of me anyway. Perhaps it’s not inconceivable to want to relate with someone as fucked up as me. Meg remains still, and I keep talking.

“I saw the student forum, you and that guy. I think you should go for it.” I’m not sure why I said it. Probably because I need a way to shut whatever this is down, to reset the boundaries that have slipped way too far today.

Meg’s body turns slowly, the hallway light catching one side of her face and leaving the other half in shadow. She looks at me like I’ve grown another head, and I’ll admit, encouragement isn’t my strong point. Self-destruction, though, I’m a master at that. Pushing to my feet, the room tilts slightly, either from the weed or the remnants of her touch against my skin. I stop on my side of the threshold, actively deciding not to cross into her space. Her gaze drops to my chest, then to my painted arm, then back up to the open expression on my mask. For one single moment, I let my mask slip.

“I know what it’s like to yearn for someone you can never have,” I breathe, Everest’s name filling my head but I refuse to let it spill past my lips. “It’s a fate worse than death. Excruciating and slow. Take whatever glimpse of happiness you can get and enjoy it for the rest of us.”

Meg’s lips part, no answer coming out and I didn’t expect one. There’s nothing else to say. She unknowingly sought me out in the throes of a nightmare, and I’ve offered her a piece of my soul no one else gets to see. We can draw the line there, and I can free myself from thinking of her. Of her smiling at Thiago like her entire world starts and ends in his eyes, of her naked and furious in the shower, of her touching my arms as if I’m not the monster lurking in her shadow.

There’s the faintest shift in her blue gaze, something lodged between understanding and pity, and my mask slams back into place. That’s enough touchy feeling shit for a lifetime. Reaching forward with my painted arm, my hand dips into the front of her dusty pink top and retrieves the stolen controller from between satin and skin. Meg’s breath catches, my dick throbs, and before she can stammer, slap me, or ask what the hell that was, I step back and shut the door in her face.

I stare at the wood for one second, controller in hand, heart beating far too hard for a man who just gave advice he has no intention of following for himself. Then I turn the music back on, louder than before. There’s no hope of drowning out the thoughts of her now, but I can at least keep her at arm’s length. Letting her get that close to me was a mistake, because now I’m starting to understand her. I’m starting to empathize with her, and in doing so, the depths of my self-hatred are intensifying.

I wanted to punish the girl Everest loved, but instead, I just kept finding the girl Harrison hurt. That I’ve hurt.

Chapter Twenty Eight

My phone displays the grand old time of five a.m. and I give up. Sleep is a luxury for people with a clear coincidence, and by that logic, I’ll never get a decent night’s sleep ever again. I swear I used to be a good person. Someone who fell in love and held onto that notion, no matter who or what tried to pry it from my distorted, broken fingers. My heart used to be full of Everest and nothing else. Now it’s tainted, dying inside my chest with all the hurt I’ve caused and suffering I don’t know if I can survive.

These are the conclusions I’ve come to while sleep has continued to evade me. My thoughts are blaringly loud, even with my music off. Next door, Meg is sleeping safe and sound, oblivious to how the forgiveness she didn’t know was giving through each brushstroke of paint on my arm has tormented me all night long.