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“Not really, just making conversation,” I lie.
Again.
Deciding to go for a different tactic, I twist my body to face him. He mirrors me and I get a whiff of his delicious smelling cologne with its spicy top notes and zesty undertones, a luscious combination. I fight everything not to let my eyelids droop and breathe him in deeply. “Do you know where we’re going tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“And?” I press, feeling decidedly unnerved by the silent, almost calculating way he’s looking at me.
“You’ll see when we get there.” He taps on the blackout divider behind his head and it slides open to reveal the driver. “How long?” he asks.
“Five minutes, Scar,” the driver responds.
“Scar?” I question.
“That’s right. I’ve got a few of them.” He shrugs, like that’s no big deal.
“How? What happened to you?” I ask, remembering very clearly the jagged scars across his pecs that he bared in the dance studio a few days ago. He scowls, his eyes darkening to a black so bottomless that I wince.
“That is none of your damn business.”
For a moment, the air between us is fraught with the burden of our past hurts and I have an impulsive need to lean across the divide and press my fingers against the ridge of one the scars I see peeping out from beneath the open collar of his shirt. He looks down at where I’m staring, and his inked fingers come up and fix the button, hiding the scars once more. It’s only then that I notice a fresh tattoo on his inner wrist. I gasp at what I see.
“Zayn, is that a…?” I stare, reaching for his arm and tugging it towards me, forgetting the fact that we’re not friends and I can’t just grab him like this. “…A penny?”
My fingers pull back the sleeve of his shirt and suit jacket enough to get a good look at the tattoo on his wrist. It wasn’t there earlier today. He must’ve had this done between the end of our practice session in the studio and now. My heart squeezes painfully, and I look at him in confusion. “Why do you have this tattooed on your wrist?” His jaw muscle ticks, and I can hear his teeth grinding over one another as he looks at my finger gently moving over the gold one pound coin tattooed there. “Zayn?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, and I’m shocked by the anguish I see there. “To remind me.”
“Remind you of what?”
“The price you pay for love,” he says bitterly.
