Chapter 8 – “Guilty As Sin?” - Taylor Swift #2
“Your body is too pretty for me to practice on,” I say before I can think hard enough to stop myself.
Fuck . “I mean—I don’t…” I groan, face flushing with embarrassment.
“I’m not going to risk scarring you forever in the same way I don’t care if I accidentally give Leo or Everett a fucked-up tattoo. ”
I stare at my hands, feeling stupid.
“Augustus,” she says, waiting patiently until I find the courage to meet her gaze.
Elena’s smiling, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was making her blush.
But I do know better. It’s my brother who makes her blush.
“I know what you meant,” she continues, turning back toward the sky with that same smile on her face. “Plus, we both know you love my tits.”
I groan, wiping a hand down my face as she laughs at me.
She has no embarrassment when it comes to her body or the way she catches me looking at it. I have infinite levels of humiliation that my best friend is well aware of how attracted I am to her.
After a moment of silence, Elena says, “I want matching tattoos. ”
“That worked out poorly for Leo.” I sigh, lying down next to her, the grass beneath me soft, the sky above vast and endless.
“Don’t worry, Augustus.” She smiles sweetly.
“I’m not an evil succubus here to suck out your soul, force you to fall in love with me, and then disappear without a trace.
” I watch her from my periphery as she looks toward the stars again.
“Plus, you’re my best friend. I’m never going to look at a representation of you on my skin and wish it wasn’t there. ”
I stare after her, speechless. Only three thoughts filter through my mind as I get lost in the depths of her endless brown eyes:
God help Darby Andrews if she ever shows up in town again.
I’m already in love with her, have been all my life, whether she forced it or not.
I want her on my skin, too.
Elena pats the ground on her other side. “Come sit over here.”
“Why?”
She raises her opposite hand. “I want you to practice. Give me a tattoo on this arm.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Something that reminds you of me.”
I smile to myself; it’s not the first time I’ve thought about tattooing Elena’s skin. I fucking dream about it, in fact. The idea of permanently marking her gives me a sense of satisfaction I’m desperate for. If I had it my way, I’d tattoo my name on her right now.
But she’s not mine. I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t want to fuck up her skin for eternity.
My skill level is phenomenal for my age and experience, but it’s not good enough for her yet.
She’s too perfect—too pristine—and the first time I ink her, I’m going to make damn sure it turns out as flawless as she is.
I sit up and crawl over her, trying not to think too hard about the way it feels when her thigh grazes my groin. I suck in a sharp breath as her body presses beneath mine, because that’s another thing I only allow myself to imagine in my dreams.
Late at night, when I’m in bed, sometimes even when I know she snuck into my brother’s room across the hall, I fantasize about her wrapped up in my sheets instead, my hands on her hips, my lips on her neck.
I dream of her on top of me, of the way her body moves.
What sounds she might make when I do something right, how eager I’d be to let her teach me how to please her and only her.
I hit the ground next to her hard enough to rock me from my reveries, and I find my mind drifting toward anything that’ll remove the evidence of my thoughts from my body.
The joggers I’m wearing leave nothing to the imagination.
Elena’s not looking at me, but her arm swings out to the side as she places it in my lap, and I have to roll out of the way.
She was heading straight for my hard-on, and that would’ve ruined the night for both of us. I groan as I tumble onto my back, dodging her touch. Elena perks up at my movement, head whipping sideways to look toward me. “What are you doing?”
“There was a bug.” I swipe at my thighs, inconspicuously hiding my dick before sitting up again. She gives me an unconvinced look before tossing her arm onto my lap again. I grab the pen, tapping it against her skin.
Part of me wants to draw butterflies because that’s what I felt in my stomach the day I met her, what I still feel every time I make her laugh.
Or possibly a human heart with a hole through its center, blood seeping down the sides, because that’s how it feels every time I see her with my brother.
Stars because it feels like I exist among them when I’m with her.
Books or poems because those remind me of her, too.
I consider roses because that’s her middle name, but I quickly scrap the idea because I know it’s not her favorite flower.
She told my brother that before, too, but it was a bouquet of roses he gave her on her birthday. She pretended she loved them, and I know she didn’t.
I picked her a bouquet of violets from the very field we’re sitting in now. This is our secret place, a haven we don’t share with anyone else, but also, I know violets are her favorite flower. It’s a fact she has shared with my brother countless times, but he doesn’t bother to remember.
The design flows from my fingertips then and, deep in concentration, I don’t know how much time passes in silence, but neither of us seems to mind.
I’m focused on creating art on her skin; she’s focused on the movement of the sky.
It’s this peaceful silence, this comfortable darkness we always find together.
The world is quiet when I’m with her. Nothing else exists beyond us and the moment we’re in.
It’s what convinces me we’re meant to be.
That’s a thought I keep locked deep inside, because at the end of the day, no matter how safe she feels with me, how much I make her laugh, or how desperate I am for her, she belongs to someone else.
But the most authentic version of her is mine, even if it’s only friendship, and I’ll never risk that. I’ll never take away her safe place, her comfort and her peace, even if it means I’m forced to live in the reveries that only exist inside my mind.
“Finished,” I say, clicking the pen closed and placing her arm back across her body. Her eyes were closed, but they fly open as she lifts her hand and admires my work.
“Violets?” she asks, turning to smile at me.
“They’re your favorite.”
“I love that about you,” she says. “You remember everything about me.”
“Nothing about you is easy to forget.”
“I love you, Augustus.” She smiles, tracing her fingers over the flowers along her arm.
“I love you too, Elena,” I respond, knowing the words are the same, but we’re saying two completely different things.