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12
When I return downstairs,Dylan has changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and sits crossed legged on the sofa. The brightness of his tattoos contrast his dark clothes, adding the edge of exotic to the ordinary.
"I don't know how you'd ever hope to blend in anywhere," I say.
"What do you mean?" I indicate his tattoos. "Oh, I cover up sometimes. I look pretty fucking hot in a suit too, you know?"
His slips back into foul-mouthed do-I-give-a-fuck Dylan amuses me; they’re as big a contrast as the ink and the dull English summer day. I want to say he’ll never blend in because there's something about him that fills the world around with colour as bright as his tattoos. Is this how some people become famous and others fail? Do they have an aura like Dylan’s, sucking everyone in?
He tips his head at me. "What are you thinking about?"
"You."
"Oh...?" He moves and crosses his leg over his knee, stretching an arm across the back of the brown sofa. And gives methatlook—the one worming its way past my anti-male defence system blown apart by Dylan Morgan.
I poke my tongue out. "Don't presume I’m thinking anything good."
"Sky, I can read your face, and your eyes."
Ignoring him, I walk to the window and peer out. The rainy weather has taken hold, the bright world of yesterday muted into greys.
"It wouldn't be a summer without this," he says from behind. "What did you used to do here on rainy days as a kid?"
I turn back and shrug. "Stay home and read. Fight with my brother."
"None of those sound fun to me."
"TV?"
Dylan's eyes flick between the TV and me. "Do you like snuggling?"
Here we go again, Mr Random. "As in?"
"Cuddling with someone, relaxing, maybe watching TV together."
Like I did with Grant? Watching TV together with a Chinese takeaway was his idea of a hot date. His snuggling involved groping when he was drunk—or decided I was drunk enough. I scrunch up my nose but before I can respond, Dylan disappears, jumping upstairs two steps at a time. Seconds later he reappears with his comforter, the seashell covered pattern looking out of place in his inked arms.
Netflix and chill? There isn’t any Netflix here—but temptation is.
"Do you know how long since I've snuggled?" he asks.
"Umm...?" Actually, I can imagine. "Not rock star behaviour, I guess."
He narrows his eyes. "Reality stays at the door..."
"Okay. No, I don't."
Dylan resumes his seat on the sofa and picks up the TV controller. "Choose a DVD?"
There's something about Dylan that makes him hard to refuse. Apart from what my mum would call ‘devilish good looks’, he has an odd presence. The presence of someone used to people agreeing with, and never questioning, him.
The DVD collection stacked in the TV cabinet is eclectic and I attempt to find one he’ll hate.
"Twilight." I hold up the box and fix him with a 'don't disagree' stare.
After an initial tug of the eyebrows, he shrugs. "Sure. I've never seen that one."
"That's what I thought."
