Chapter 7 #9
The little pig. The driver takes a sharp turn and Rava's body tips over, swaying.
No. No, no, no.
Yeah.
His head lands right on my shoulder. My first instinct is pure panic.
Move him.
Push him off.
Do something before my brain starts doing that thing again. This is exactly the kind of small, harmless thing that isn't small or harmless at all when it's him.
His hair tickles my jaw. He makes this tiny sound in his sleep as he adjusts, like he's getting comfortable on me.
I should wake him up.
I should tell him to move.
I don't.
Instead, I shift just enough to make it easier for him, rest my head back, pretend it's no big deal.
That's the last good thing I'm allowed to have.
Just a sleeping man.
43) Marks Over The Marks
(Both POV’s included)
Rava
We finally make it to our floor, and we stop outside the room. Gio slides the keycard in, the little light thing turns green, and he pushes the door open.
I follow him in with Lorenzo right behind me.
Holy shit.
It's huge. Like, actually huge.
Bigger-than-my-Canadian-apartment huge.
Everything shines. The floor is so polished I'm scared to step on it.
I laugh a little. Okay, a lot.
Because this is like a movie set view. It's exactly the kind of glass rich people lean on while they drink whiskey and talk about stocks and serious stuff.
The lights are warm, the furniture looks expensive as hell, every little detail is screaming one thing. Money.
I can't believe we're actually staying here.
It all looks so perfect and expensive that for a second I feel like someone's going to walk in, look me up and down, and say, "Sorry, sir, you don't belong here."
And I’d be able to say, "Well, this hotel is actually mine."
Because it is.
There's a big double bed against the wall, and just beside it, a single one.
Naturally, I assume the double's for Gio and Lorenzo, since they're family, so I move toward the single to drop my bag.
"Espana, baby! WOOHOO!" Lorenzo shouts, spinning once like a lunatic before throwing himself onto the single bed with a dramatic fall, like he's claiming territory.
No.
No, absolutely not.
There is no way I'm just casually sharing a bed with him. I will die and haunt this beautiful hotel room.
I keep staring at Gio.
He'll say something. He has to.
He can't seriously let his dumbass cousin leave us with one bed.
"Don't even think about it," Lorenzo says, kicking off his shoes. "I'm not sleeping next to Gio. The guy spreads out like a damn starfish. Last time I woke up with his elbow in my ribs. I'd rather sleep in the hallway."
My mouth opens slightly.
"I... I don't want to sleep next to Gio either."
Gio snorts without even turning. "Nobody's begging you to."
Lorenzo stretches, totally unbothered.
"Well, you're out of luck. You were too slow. This bed's mine now."
I glance back at the double bed, then at Gio.
One bed.
One option.
Gio finally looks at me. "Guess we're stuck."
Yeah.
We're stuck.
Keep saying it like that and I swear I'll glue your face to the wall, Fontana.
You're being such a bitch about this.
Gio
Lorenzo's bouncing on the mattress like a fucking kid.
"So, what's the plan, gentlemen?" he grins.
"Pool? Drinks? Conquer the town?"
I shrug, leaning back on my hands. "Don't know about you," I mutter, "but I'm gonna crash."
I feel Rava's head snap toward me before I even see it.
He's judging me with his eyes. "Wow," he says, sarcastically. "Real tough guy. Comes all the way to Spain just to nap like a seventy-year-old."
I turn my head slowly, meeting his eyes.
I like that. I like that he doesn't baby me.
He gets pissed at me.
He talks back.
He rolls his eyes.
He has the guts to call me out, to talk to me with zero respect when he thinks I deserve it.
Maybe I have a problem, but I kind of love that.
Everyone else either fears me, wants something from me, or shuts their mouth. I want to hit back. I want to grab him.
I want to ruin him with my dick.
But of course not. I just sit there, pretending I don't want to destroy him just to have a reason to touch him. I just smile.
Lorenzo laughs, throwing his arms behind his head.
"Yeah, Gio. Lighten the fuck up. We're in Spain, man, not a nursing home."
He pushes up off the mattress and stretches with a loud groan.
"Alright, you boring assholes. I'm hitting the pool," he says, heading toward the bathroom.
"See if you can figure your shit out while I'm gone."
The bathroom door closes.
Now it's just me and Rava. He looks pissed.
Annoyed with the room.
Annoyed with the bed situation.
Annoyed with me.
Do I blame him? No.
Am I gonna do anything to fix it? Also fucking no.
Because what's there to fix, really? This is the whole point, isn't it? He's not supposed to want this as much as I do. He's not supposed to want me as much as I want him.
That's the balance. That's the punishment.
And no, it's not fun.
I'm not some masochist who enjoys talking like this about the person I like. I fucking hate this.
I fucking hate him for making me want this. And deep down, I know I hate myself even more. He looks like he's thinking about all the ways he could kill me without leaving a trace.
Good. But then he exhales sharply, like he's giving up. "Fuck this," he mutters.
I glance over. He grabs his bag and opens it fast. "I'm going to the pool too," he says. "Pretty much anything sounds better than staying locked up in here with you."
Okay. That's my boy.
The words hit harder than I want to admit, but it's also exactly what's supposed to happen, right?
This is the script. This is the plan.
He's meant to be annoyed with me. He's meant to keep his distance. I'm the guy he can't stand. That's how we keep it safe.
If he hates me, or at least thinks he does, he won't get close enough to find out I'm already gone for him.
So yeah. His words hurt. But they also feel like confirmation.
Everything is going according to plan.
Until it doesn't. He pulls his shirt off and I nearly groan out loud.
Oh, fuck me.
Fuck me sideways, raw. The moment I see it, that fucking back, that ink sprawled across his back like black veins crawling under his skin, cyber tribal, jagged and chaotic, bleeding into each other, I fucking lose it.
It dips low, just barely disappearing into his pants. I swear to God I want to tear those off with my teeth and follow the line all the way down with my tongue.
My dick's already hard.
This idiot, this polished, perfect little fucking poster boy with his buttoned shirts and bookish glasses, has a goddamn cyber tribal back tattoo??
Something that raw?? Something that hungry??
I want to press him against the fucking wall and bite into that tattoo until he screams.
Forget what I said. I want to fuck the ink into his skin.
I want to leave marks over the marks.
I want to grab his hips and pull him back onto me until he forgets his own name.
I want to hear him beg while I choke him.
God, he's art I want to destroy. Beauty I want to wreck with my mouth, my hands, my dick, over and over until we both cry.
But I can't say that. I can't do that.
So I spit out the first lie I can think of. "What the hell is that mess?" I say, sharply. "You look like a video game character from 2005."
He shrugs one shoulder like it's no big deal, like we're talking about a fucking haircut.
"Got it last fall," he says casually, tilting his head just enough for me to get a clearer view of the ink.
My throat's dry. I don't say shit. I can't. I'm gone.
Completely hypnotized.
My eyes just saw God or a crime, I'm not sure which, but I definitely feel blessed and cursed at the same time.
I can feel the blessing in my retinas.
They did not deserve this. I wasn't supposed to see that. That should be illegal.
Up until now, my thoughts were contained.
Messy, yeah, but contained?! I'd built this little bubble in my head where I kept everything under control.
And now that bubble just fucking exploded. Shattered.
And I know the pieces are sharp, sharp enough to cut both me and him if I don't find a way to tape it back together fast.
I nod slowly, my eyes still glued to the damn thing, those black lines slicing across his spine, sharp and fucking gorgeous.
He goes on, too calm.
"Noah said it would look good on me. Thought my back was the right canvas for it."
"...Noah?"
He hums. "Yeah. My best friend. He's a tattoo artist. Kinda begged me to try it. Said the placement would be insane on my skin. So I let him."
I don't say anything.
Noah. Best friend. Tattoo artist.
So this Noah, this conveniently talented, overly familiar best friend, he got to touch Rava's back for what, five, six hours? Got to sit behind him, up close, pressing his palm flat between those perfect shoulder blades to test symmetry.
Got to brush ink over that smooth, golden skin and say dumb shit like "Hold still" or "Just breathe."
He got to see Rava's jaw tighten when it hurt.
He got to see how good it looked when he sat shirtless and tense, letting someone else fucking mark him.
Fucking kill me. My throat burns.
I want him under me right now.
Now.
I'm so jealous of that Noah guy I might fucking cry.
I roll my eyes, mask it with a snort. "Yeah. Well. You look like a try-hard."
He grins.
"You look like you're trying really hard not to stare."
Fuck.
He knows. He knows. I look away.
My dick is raging, straining against my pants like it wants to rip free and go after him on its own.
He smirks, walks to the door, and doesn't even look back. I stand there, trying not to rip the room apart.
Because the truth is I don't think I've ever seen anything hotter in my fucking life.
And I can't touch it. I can't even want it.
So all I can do is destroy it. Or let it destroy me.
Rava
The bathroom door swings open and Lorenzo steps out, sunscreen all over his face, wearing nothing but swim trunks.
He spots me with a towel in my hand and no shirt on and instantly lights up.
"Okay, thank god one of you isn't boring," he says, looking straight at Gio.