Your Biggest Fan

30. ROXANNE

Chapter thirty

“Why is Ghost playing tonight?” Noah asks me, looking up to no good.

“Because it’s Halloween and people think that it’s a scary—”

“Go on…” He pauses, slowly leaning toward me like a vampire homing in. “Finish that sentence.”

I chomp angrily on a Twizzler from the package Stephanie left in the back seat, resisting to smile at his stupid trap. Even if I walked into it.

“It’s not a horror movie.” I wave the remainder of my candy at him. “As I have repeatedly informed you—despite your doubt in my superior movie knowledge—Ghost is an epic love story. Not a horror flick.”

Noah’s eyes dance under the outdoor lights, unconvinced. “We’ll see about that.”

It’s barely after 10:30 PM and Predator is close to its end, so continuing the tradition in some way, going to the Drive-Inn on Halloween seemed like the best thing to do to close the night. Plus, Noah still had never seen Ghost before and this was the chance to pop his cherry.

The moon is perfectly full tonight, a giant glowing orb in the sky above the movie screen, as Noah slides the passenger seat as far back as it can go to stretch out his long legs, resting one ankle across his knee. In his lap sits a crumpled bag of popcorn, while I’ve got the half-eaten bag of Twizzlers wedged between my thighs. I needed to chew on something that wasn’t the inside of my cheek.

We drove by all the signs advertising snack bar combos before pulling into our prime spot dead center before the towering screen, but we stopped at the gas station before making our way to this side of town because paying for an overpriced Drive-Inn Pepsi wasn’t on my wishlist for the day. Noah needed to get to a bathroom to wash off his knuckles, anyways.

They’re still pretty swollen, and the purple is getting darker by the second, but he doesn’t seem to mind the pain anymore—or he got better at hiding it. I’m still unsure how he’s going to get his ring off his finger without squeezing it over the swelling. He’ll probably have to use pliers to break it.

“Team Alien or Team Predator?” I quiz once the speakers mounted on our windows start to crackle with the credits. Noah doesn’t even hesitate for a millisecond.

“Team Alien, hands fucking down. That thing is an absolute killing machine. It can burst right through your chest like tissue paper. Alien wins every time.”

I shift in my seat, grinning from ear to ear. “Okay, valid. But don’t underestimate the Predator. He’s got strength, speed, plus the shoulder cannon.”

“Yeah, but none of his weapons would do shit against the Alien!” Noah fireworks, raining popcorn as he gestures to the screen. “That acidic blood would melt right through any net or spear. And the Alien is too fast and unpredictable. Game over, shoulder cannon.”

“It does have acid blood,” I concede, twisting my lips. My mind races, searching for a counterargument. “Okay, maybe the Predator wouldn’t have a chance against the Alien.”

Noah grins and tosses a piece of popcorn at me, happy to have won me over to the dark side.

“But the Predator does have cooler hair,” I muse, fishing out a Twizzler. I can’t abandon ship completely.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He laughs, rearranging all 6 feet into debate posture #2. “The Predator’s hair is the only thing it has going for it. But the Alien?” An awed whistle. “Have you seen that sleek black dome? The Alien beats the Predator on both strength and overall awesomeness.”

“Have you forgotten he can turn invisible?” I scoff, priming my verbal missiles for round two. “As for the Alien’s head shape? Looks like a giant, ugly bug.”

“The Alien’s sleek head is beautiful, not ugly like some bug.” He caps it off by sticking out his tongue at me.

“A bug that can be easily squashed,” I throw back. “The Predator would stomp it flat.”

“Until that acid melts right through its foot. Face it, the Alien is built to kill. And bugs are cool.”

“No one is afraid of a bug.” I plunge my hand into his popcorn stash. “What is an Alien gonna do that I can’t handle?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Noah hums, one brow ticking up as he tracks my popcorn pilfering. “Run around in your room at the dead of night and then plant its offspring in your chest?” He tuts. “Predator has nothing against a face hugger.”

I shove a kernel in my mouth. “And the Predator will be there to protect me from the Alien in my room because he would squash him like the little bug he is.”

“In your dreams, maybe,” he mocks, leaning closer. “In the real world of mine, the Predator gets stomped.”

“Well, in my world, the Predator defeats the Alien and gets all the ladies. So, there .”

Noah’s laughter rings out, his breath brushing over the curve of my bottom lip. “Does he? He gets all the ladies?”

“You don’t get his raw animal magnetism. Those tusks really drive a girl wild after he oils up pre-battle.” I wink at him, and the side of my pinky lightly grazes against his knee, his cologne turning my brain into scrambled eggs.

He must feel it, too. Our banter dissolves into silence and wandering eyes, me trying to figure out how an argument about space aliens has both of our chests heaving, a sweat dripping down my neck, and the fire behind his eye flickering in the light of the Drive-Inn screen.

His tongue swipes his bottom lip. “Are you saying you’ve got a thing for the Predator? Is that what you want me to believe?”

I hit him with my best poker face. “Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t think I have a thing for the fucking Predator.” He laughs again, reaching for another handful of popcorn. A few stray kernels scatter across his jeans. “I think I’d rather go for the Xenomorph.”

I scrunch my nose in disgust. “I’m not surprised you like weird, acid-bleeding, ugly ass bugs.”

“I hang out with you, don’t I?”

The Twizzler slips from my grasp. Dick .

He brushes off the loose kernels from his thigh, then closes the gap between us. His face hovers inches from mine as he pinches my chin between his fingers, turning my head from left to right.

I keep myself from checking if my red lipstick still stains his lips by watching the two kids outside chase each other across the lot.

“Yeah, you know what?” His words tickle my cheek. “The Xenomorph might even be more better looking than you.”

He presses his thumb into the center of my chin before slouching back against the passenger door, eyeing me while he sucks butter off the same digit.

“You take that back!” But he just laughs through his chewing, eating his popcorn at an infuriating steady pace. “The Xenomorph is not more attractive than me.”

“Not even close.” Noah’s grin stretches as he sits there. “If it were including you, that isn’t even a competition. But between the three of you, I’m choosing a Xenomorph. I’d rather date an Alien than be an Alien’s dinner.”

“Outrageous,” I mutter, skin burning up.

“Come on, Roxanne, I’m right.” He reaches for the cup holder and takes a sip of his Coke. “You know the Alien isn’t so bad. Not as good looking as me of course, but way better than your Predator crush.”

The fact that he thinks a slime, acid-bleeding creature is attractive makes my stomach churn. But his confidence is admirable.

“I think you’re sad that you don’t have a shoulder cannon.”

“I don’t need a cannon on my shoulder to impress girls like your invisible bodyguard. Just ask any of my adoring fans, of which I have plenty.”

My heart pounds hard in my ears as his eyes hold me prisoner. “You’re right. I guess you wouldn’t need a cannon when you have your amazing ability to spew bullshit at an alarming rate.”

“I don’t spew bullshit. How dare you assume as much?” He flicks another piece of popcorn at my face. “No, I tell women exactly what they want to hear. They eat it up. I’m one sexy guy, after all.”

“Oh my god. You haven’t said a single thing that makes sense tonight.”

“I don’t have to make sense. All I have to do is get the girl. And right now, it seems like I’m winning.”

My head snaps toward him. What the hell does that mean?

He keeps staring at me, tonguing the inside of his cheek, looking far too fucking amused as the screen in front of us shifts from black to white to blue. Then Noah moves in.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his left elbow coming to rest on the back of my seat. “What exactly makes you think the Predator could be more attractive than all this?” He gestures down himself, then slides his right hand over my steering wheel.

I gape mutely, pulse racing over those veins in his hands bulging as he grips the wheel. “I, uh... well, I mean...”

“Is his hairline better? More toned muscles? I want to know what makes you think he looks better than me. Am I missing the raw animal magnetism?”

“ You’re not ,” I blurt, my face going completely red.

“Why, Roxanne, did you just admit I’m more attractive than the Predator? I must say, I am shocked.”

I dart my eyes to his. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. Your blush gives you away.”

“I’m not blushing. You’re blushing,” I mumble, knowing I sound ridiculous. I turn away fully, begging the world to suck the blush off my face as his breath whispers across the space between us like a gentle breeze.

My body keeps burning up, lips tingling in anticipation. Of what? I don’t know, because he’s only teasing me. Even though there’s nothing teasing about the way he kissed me over an hour ago, and the way his calluses feel as they trace along my jawline and turn my chin back to him.

“If I’m blushing”—I swallow—“it’s because the Predator was on the big screen.”

He shakes his face that’s inches away from mine, all hints of joking gone from the way he’s looking at me. I wet my lips, and that heat—that charge, that spark— that was there before, it’s back, and it’s stronger than ever.

The opening title sequence blasting helps shock me back to life.

“You’re missing the opening,” I whisper half-heartedly. On screen, the blurry images of a museum flicker by, but even I can’t face it, attention too fixed on my breath, on his breath.

His thumb traces down the line where my neck meets my shoulder. “Do you want me to watch the movie?”

I don’t think I can form the words I want to say. I’m paralyzed by nerves, frozen by something that feels so much more than curiosity. This night will be a memory that I relive forever—something I’ll keep revisiting.

I wonder if he feels that too.

My tongue stays in its knots as my mind races a thousand more miles a minute while his breaths come out hot and sweet against my skin, and I want to scream.

I want him to kiss me, to hold me.

He’s going to kiss me.

But, damn it, I want him to watch one of my favorite movies. That feeling of seeing someone experience something you love for the very first time? I want that with him.

“Watch the movie, Noah,” I finally warn, every atom straining toward him. His gaze drops to my mouth at the sound of his name, and I want to pass out.

When he looks back up, his eyes are as dark as a bottomless pit. “Okay.”

Any lingering debate about the Predator is silenced in the face of the entire movie.

He backs away while a taunting smile stretches across his face like taffy, my head shaking as I thank whoever is up in the sky above that the move started. I'm stiff as a board, thunder waves in my ears, and unable to look at him anymore. I drown it out by pumping my stomach with more Twizzlers and focusing on the plot unfolding onscreen.

And I was totally fine. That is until we got to the Unchained Melody pottery scene. A scene I somehow put out of my memory when deciding to make him watch the movie, and it was only a little (extremely) uncomfortable watching such a steamy part with my hot bandmate.

Especially with my hand deep inside said bandmate’s popcorn bag between his legs.

As the scene dragged on, I was doing surprisingly okay until I felt Noah look at me. I kept my eyes forward as I anxiously chewed my popcorn, trying not to think about the little space between us.

I know he’s silently thinking ‘ah , so this is why you like this movie .’ It’s hard enough pretending like I don’t want to ditch everything and have him kiss me like the two we’re watching on the screen are. You know, like we did two hours ago.

But sitting in my car, our elbows touching on the middle console, it’s feeling impossible.

Thankfully, the scene doesn’t last much longer. Damn did it reawaken my love for Patrick Swayze, though. I always knew he was objectively hot before Ghost , but the way he carries his body in these scenes, the way he moves and smiles? Yeah. Holy freaking hotness.

Glancing at Noah, his bruised hand holding the popcorn bag, and his other fishing out a kernel, I’m reminded of the way I used to look at him. The way I noticed his ring on the bar top when he ordered a drink, how I knew he was a heartthrob, even though I never really understood or noticed it myself. Now I notice him. All of him.

When we get to the part where Willie Lopez meets his demise on the dark city street and the demonic arms emerge from the pavement to drag him down to hell, Noah slowly turns his head toward me. He’s skeptical, and as the sinister music swells, he raises his eyebrows and glances between me and the screen.

“Yeah, you still think this isn’t a scary movie?” He gestures at the movie. “Demon arms literally dragging a dude to hell seems pretty terrifying to me.”

I wave a hand. “Definitely not. This is still totally a romance movie.”

“A romance with demons, hauntings, and getting killed by criminals?”

“That’s all plot advancement for the love story. This movie is about eternal love conquering all obstacles, like… death and murderous thugs.”

“Obstacles like the gateway to hell opening up?” he argues, looking amused.

“Like the gateway to hell opening up,” I echo and offer him the Twizzlers bag. “Now hush. We haven’t even gotten to my favorite scene yet.”

He fishes out a Twizzler, and his attention flies to the screen, even more so now. He leans forward, genuinely curious about what could be better than ghost arms dragging a man to hell.

Thirty minutes later, his question is answered. The fuzzy speaker fills with orchestral music as Molly sees Sam’s ghost for the first time. A beautiful halo of light illuminates Sam as he appears before her, finally able to say the words he never got to in life.

“Molly, I love you.”

I instantly sniff.

Noah glances my way as a tear stings the corner of my eyes and makes its way down my cheek. This scene never gets easier. It’s not that the whole “eternal love” message of the movie makes me all gooey and romantic, but it does make me feel good.

It touches me that Molly gets that chance to say I love you one last time, and the fact Sam is allowed to say a proper goodbye, it gives me hope.

There it is again—that stupid, dangerous emotion.

I swear I hear Noah sniffle too, and I look over, wondering if he’s touched by the tender moment, or emotional collateral from sitting next to my weepy mess.

“That,” I answer, wiping the tear away with the back of my hand, “is my favorite scene.”

He smiles back at me, though he never takes his eyes off the screen, too busy watching Sam ascend into the light. The credits start to roll, but neither of us make a move to leave once all the cars parked in front of us start blinding us with their brake lights, ruined momentarily by real life chasing our heels.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he says eventually. “Glad I could watch it with you.”

My own smile spreads, the emotional high of the movie still lingering. “Me too.”

Noah’s usual up-to-no-good grin flashes white in the darkness. “I was thinking, since tonight has been so great, we should make it permanent.”

I eye him warily. “Should I be afraid to ask what you’re plotting?”

“I don’t know,” he says, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Maybe you letting me give you that tattoo we talked about?”

I groan, sinking lower in my seat. “Ugh, I’d hoped you’d forget about that.”

“Not a chance, sunshine.”

“Can’t I pay you back in money instead like a normal person?”

“Hell no.” He swivels to face me, arm on the console between us as he leans in. His eyes are nearly black in the shadows. “I just know you would be a great canvas.”

I sigh, knowing I can’t get out of this. “Fine, but it’s still my call on where and what.”

His face brightens, victorious. “Sure, as long as I get to be the one to put it on.”

I bite my lip, wondering what it’s going to feel like to get stabbed by a needle a hundred times. “This could be worse than touching a reptile, but at least a tattoo won’t slither.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” he teases. “I promise it’ll be quick and easy. You might even like it.”

I shut him up by cranking the engine, tires crawling over the gravel as we left the Drive-Inn. It’s midnight now, but I didn’t want the night to end.

I was actually... having fun?

I park along Noah's hushed street, and once he assures me a million times that his parents aren’t home, I cut the engine. Popping my door open, I hop down, shutting it behind me with a smack. The sound rings out in the sleeping neighborhood and the cold air that hits the thin fabric of my dress makes my feet walk faster up his driveway and towards the front door he’s already holding open.

On the drive to Jackson Manor, I envisioned what the inside of his house would look like. I’ve been here before, obviously, but I didn’t pay too much attention the first time because the lights were dim, and I was more focused on surviving through my mania of panic.

I knew the inside was large, maybe filled with fancy mob paintings like the one you’d see behind Tony Montana’s desk. There definitely had to be a big dining table with white cloth down the middle that was far too long for two people on the opposite ends of the table to actually be comfortable having conversation.

Oh and candelabras. Lots of them. Dripping with cobwebs.

Maybe I was a little dramatic and stuck in my vampire fantasies.

Standing in the foyer’s warmth, reality bitch-slaps my imagination.

The decor is painfully neutral and impersonal. Beige walls. Blank surfaces. Not a family photo or personal touch in sight. After my mental images of gothic grandeur, it’s like walking into a hotel lobby. Cold. Lifeless. And that hurt my heart a bit.

The insight makes his need to be the loudest in the room click into place. Even with space to spare, this house must feel empty and lonely.

Though, compared to my mom’s take out boxes, loose kibble, and cigarette smoke, his house is fucking Disney Land.

“Come on,” he urges, taking the stairs to the left of the door two at a time.

As I climb the carved mahogany staircase, my fingers trailing the smooth banister, I note the abstract oil paintings—instead of portraits—in chunky gold frames lining the way. Stuffy old money portraits worth a fortune. Even the floral runner lining each step probably cost more than my mom’s house.

I follow behind, the stairs creaking underneath us too loudly. Noah’s bright presence is kind of jarring against this stiff backdrop.

At the top, the hall stretches out in both directions, and he waves me on to keep following, pushing open a door at the left end. When I step inside, I see everything that is Noah.

So, we’re actually doing this in his bedroom? Great.

Sadly, there’s no coffin, but a real legitimate made bed right in the center of the room.

Maybe he hangs upside down in the closet.

I’m surprised by the lack of half-naked girls, his walls mostly dominated by posters of bands, skateboarders, and records tacked up. There are a ton of street signs too, like he collected them off the side of the road or stole them himself.

I wouldn’t put it past him to do the latter.

I’ve never been in a boy’s bedroom before unless you count Tyler’s, whose room resembles a white-walled box with a single stuffed giraffe hanging from over his bed. I don’t know what I was quite expecting, but I thought it was going to be way more messy. There’s not any dirty clothes on the floor, used dishes stacked up high on tables, or wrappers and pizza boxes.

Noah Jackson makes me look like a damn slob.

He slides his jacket off, even folding it up neatly atop the dresser, nodding his head towards the bed. “You can sit there if you want.”

Being told to sit on Noah Jackson’s bed was certainly not in the cards for me this year. It seems too big of a deal to do that, like once I do, it will be something I can’t come back from.

While he starts digging through a bottom drawer in his dresser, I follow his posters instead, absorbing everything inside his four little beige walls. I pick up a Magic 8 ball on his night stand and give it a shake.

“ Outlook good. ”

Dammit . Looks like I am getting this tattoo after all.

At the dresser, he clears his throat once I reach the window across from him, and I turn around to see him holding a small wooden box with a bottle of black calligraphy ink, a green square machine with wires dangling out, squared paper towels, a tiny paper cup meant for mouthwash, and what I assume to be tattoo needles in their packaging.

This hardly seems sanitary but yeah—you know what? I’m feeling crazy.

A small squeak flies out of my mouth when I spot a George Michael poster tucked behind his dresser and I bite down a little too hard on my cheek to keep from smiling .

Heh. How cute.

“Where are we doing this exactly?” I ask, feeling way too awkward to be asking that inside a boy’s bedroom.

“Where do you want it?”

That didn’t make it any better.

I look down at my dress, rubbing my sleeves with my hands. There’s no way in hell I’m stripping down or going topless so he can ink my back or arms. And he’s out of his mind if he thinks he’s getting anywhere near my chest too.

“My hip,” I decide. That seems like a good, safe spot, because I can hide it if it looks like shit and my mom won’t risk seeing it.

It’s far enough from any inappropriate areas too. Not that I think he’d try anything. Although the way his eyes dart to my hip makes me second guess.

“I have shorts on under this, dumbass,” I add sharply. “You’re not getting me in my underwear.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Yeah, the glimmer in his eyes makes me doubt that. “Hip is fine. Go ahead and lift your dress up to right there.”

He gestures about mid-waist. I hesitantly grab the hem of my slit, blood pounding in my fingers as I roll the fabric up a few inches to reveal the bare skin of my hip and my black cotton shorts beneath.

Tucking the dress into the belt around my waist to keep it bunched up, the room starts to feel way too hot all of a sudden. I keep my eyes on the George poster as he steps forward, dropping down to his knees to examine the spot.

“Nice blank slate here,” he says, and I feel the cold wetness of a wipe on my skin. “What kind of design are you thinking of?”

This, I knew. “A wishbone.”

He looks up from his knees, wonder pinching his brows. “A wishbone? Why?”

It’s too sentimental to admit that it reminds me of private childhood moments with dad. A symbol of hope. That maybe one day life might grant me a wish come true.

All I say is: “No reason.”

Noah seems to read the volumes in my silence. “Alright, wishbone it is.”

He gently wipes a dry paper towel over my hip, then blows a soft stream of air over the damp skin, making me simultaneously shiver and burn up at the same time. He grabs a pen from his box of supplies next, bites the cap off and holds it between his teeth, then stretches out my skin with his thumb and carefully starts to draw the wishbone.

I watch the sharp tip gliding across my skin just to the right side of my hip bone. It feels so gentle, almost like he’s tracing the outline with the tip of his tongue.

My eyes start to wander, beginning at his mouth, at the pen cap between his teeth, at his pink tongue pointing the top of the cap against the roof of his mouth, and his pouty bottom lip wrapped around it. It’s the kind of thing that seems so simple, but something that when he does it, I could spend all day staring at.

My eyes fall down to his arm tattoos, fully visible in his t-shirt now. Some look done in a parlor, while others I know are home-done stick and pokes. I wonder which method hurts more, but neither stopped him from getting more done, which means the pain that my anxious brain is screeching about can’t be that bad.

After sticking the cap back on he pulls away, leaning back on his heels. I peer down at the petite little outline on my skin. It’s simple but cute. Perfect, honestly.

My eyes travel back up to meet Noah’s and I nod down at him.

“Alright, lay back flat and let me work my magic.”

He stands and pats the dark green comforter, and if my heart could speak, it would say that getting my hip tattooed by Noah Jackson might be one of the most exciting things that’s ever happened in my life.

It beats fast as I ease onto my back, the bed sinking softly beneath me, and I hike my dress up a little more to make sure he has room to work with until it’s right above my belly button. Staring up at the ceiling, I take deep breaths as I wait for him to prep the equipment, sticking little wires into that electrical looking box on top of his bedside table.

Shit. This is really happening.

His face comes into view as he leans over me, using gentle pressure with his warm hand to shift my knee, slowly rolling my hip outward to extend the canvas taut. My heartbeat is jackhammering so violently I worry it will throw off his lines.

“You ready, Wishmore?”

Shitshit.

I close my eyes and give a quick, sharp nod before I can chicken out. Even though giving up authority over my own flesh and bone feels terrifyingly meaningful.

The first long inhale expands my lungs as his thumb strokes the blank skin where ink will soon draw blood. Noah’s shadow disappears from eyelids as he shifts, his knees pop, and needle meets skin.

The second inhale feels tighter when his free hand presses against my stomach to steady himself—or me.

By the time the third inhale rolls around, I’m gritting my teeth at the first wave of searing affliction ricocheting down my leg, and digging my nails into his blanket, squeezing the fabric between my index and thumb to distract myself. The buzz of the tattoo gun seems unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

“Um, can we put some music on or something?” I rasp out, needing a distraction from all… this .

“Oh, yeah.” The machine switches off to make the room even more deathly quiet, and I already feel the blood drip down my skin, pulsing and extravasating coldness. “I don’t have much here, been keeping it all at the garage, so all I have is this 2 Live Crew tape that Daniel told me to listen to.”

The carpet creaks as he stands, shuffles around to dig through his drawers, and then he’s moving across the room to click buttons.

“2 Live... Crew?”

“You’re definitely not going to like it.”

I snort. “Apparently I’m trying new things tonight.”

He hits play, and instantly, the room is a blast zone of explicit lyrics detailing the intricacies of loving someone for a long time and, uh, horniness. At full volume.

My eyes balloon as Noah frantically tries to hit the pause button, his face turning the brightest shade of red I’ve never seen. His finger stabs the eject button, muttering a hasty, “shit, I’m so sorry, not that one,” before flipping the tape and fast-forwarding while my mouth crinkles at the corners as his cheeks hold back a breath.

He looks ten seconds away from jumping out the window and transferring schools.

“Here,” he sighs in relief, as some other song starts to play, one that sounds an awful lot like Jimmy Hendrix’s guitar. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tattoo gun buzzing back to life, Noah’s eyes are back to being soft as he kneels between my knees to continue inking my skin. The hand not busy with permanently scarring me comes to rest lightly on my hip, fingers splayed over the jut of my pelvic bone.

I didn’t understand the warning because the song sounded fine at first.

Little did I know it was for the lyrics. It's too vulgar and shocking for a pain pulsing moment like this, but it’s better than nothing. It gives my mind something to latch onto beside the dozen pinpricks running up my hip.

What song would exactly set the mood for hey i’m getting tattooed in a teenage boy’s bedroom ?

That’s a mixtape I’d have to make myself.

Over the initial shock of it, the anxiety that worked its way through my body thins a bit, my teeth finally unclenching, and I tip my head back. The details of Noah’s room start to come into focus as I study all the band posters, seeing the top of his table covered in scraps of sheet music, some crumbled up and others marked with edits in pencil. I was even wiggling my toe in my boot along to the beat of the song without realizing it.

I’m relaxing into the vibration, the discomfort numbing into a dull ache while he keeps working quietly, intently, pouring all his creative energy into marking me.

Scoring skin instead of sheet music.

Noah bends a little, smiling up at me. I smile back because he looks so pretty it’s insane. His face is inches from a place I never expected him to be, and occasionally his eyes flick up to meet mine, making my entire body glow with a rush despite the needle’s bite.

Goosebumps start to join in when his thumb slides lower until it finds soft flesh, and he stops to rub small, tingling circles there. Every point of shared heat between skin and needle burns, my heartbeat matching the pace of the tattoo gun.

“How’s the pain?” he asks, tongue in cheek.

“It’s not too bad. I mean, it’s not great, but…”

My heart kicks up into my tongue as his hand resumes its slow drift along my hip, making it hard to think straight. I drag my eyes back up to the ceiling so the want to push the lone curl from his forehead isn’t there—so he won’t see the red staining my cheeks.

There’s no use. Noah always sees everything.

“You can handle it though?” The sly grin is audible as his thumb caresses a particularly sensitive spot.

“I’m fine,” I reply, sounding embarrassingly breathless. I don’t need to see his face to visualize the wicked delight there at reducing me to this nervous mess.

“That’s not what I asked. Can you handle this?”

“I can handle it.” I think.

Feeling this way from something as unsexy as skin mutilation should not be a thing. And yet I bite back a wholly inappropriate whimper. His low chuckle makes my stomach loop the loop.

I squirm when the needle hits nerve-rich bone, rattling up my spine, encouraging my stomach to do more flip-flops when his thumb traces along the edge of my shorts. My skin gives underneath the pressure as his finger dips beneath the hem, making my pulse trip faster than the vibrating needle.

“Are you going to keep doing that?” My teeth catch a breath when the needle runs over another tender spot.

“What’s the matter, Rox?” He turns his head to start on the wishbone’s other side. “You seem more sensitive than usual.”

To emphasize this truth, he drags his pinky nail down the alert skin of my lower abdomen. A voice in my head screams that this is far from standard tattoo procedure.

My cheeks burn even more when he calls me Rox .

That thumb slides further down, nearly teasing the band of my underwear, and I clear my throat to cover a gasp, my hips pushing against the bed much against my will.

The needles dig deeper and I try to keep the noise level down, too mortified by how much I’m enjoying this torture of a red-hot line, how badly I want his hand to slip lower, how much tension is in my thighs. And I can’t stop my left leg from spreading even wider, my body acting as if the ache of need is going to be fulfilled by those firm, artful fingertips, my lungs almost choking on the sweet taste of relief.

Needing it to end, I grab his wrist to stop him.

“You—” I lick my dry lips, scrambling through the fog. “Maybe focus more up here?”

I tap the bone still waiting to be finished up. The needle can’t be worse than the sting of wanting someone with every fiber of your being.

“If you say so.” He swallows so loudly I can hear it over the machine. And Noah, in his own charming way, proceeds to not listen.

For the millionth time, his thumb brushes my skin with light touches, and the thrill beads sweat above my brow. Whether it’s the soft touch contrasting with the cut of the needle, or the cool breeze infiltrating beneath my waistband from his breath, my body hums as if on the edge of infinity.

I’m feeling, but whatever it is, it isn’t pain.

His thumb dips lower, causing me to twitch. The back of my hand presses to my forehead, soaking in the sweat while my fingers rub faster at the pinched blanket in my fist.

“You’re sitting so good,” Noah says, and god the thrill those words send down me should not be legal. My lungs are already hardly able to take in air as his breath puffs against my skin.

“It kind of tickles,” I murmur. Maybe talking will distract myself from the way he touches me. How much freaking time is left?

“It does, does it? Tickles too much to take?” He shoots me his most wicked Noah Jackson smile, like some sort of devils lure.

It does nothing for me. Absolutely nothing.

“It really tickles,” I confess in a hushed whisper, shifting to get comfortable.

“And you’re just going to lay there and take it, I see.”

“I don’t have any other choice, do I?”

“No,” he breathes a laugh out his nose. “Ticklish anywhere else?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“How about this?” He licks his lips and blows on the tattoo, the cool of his breath mixing with the heat of my skin, a combination of winter and summer that feels so good.

I attempt to stay still, and one would think that the once freezing and flaming pain would be enough to keep me distracted, or the loud cassette screeching his hip hop music, but concentration is a rare commodity in the forcefield of Noah. There is nothing I can focus on other than his fingertips pressing against my lower back as he grips the side of my hip.

It’s simply too much to bear—too painful to think, too delicious to feel. Nothing is ever simple with him. I could be drowning in Lake Lickrage, but my attention would still all be solely on him.

My heart jumps in time with my breath, and all of my organs turn into goo, melting underneath the black ink and his air.

“Noah, please, ” I mumble, eyes squeezing shut.

“Please what?” He pushes his thumb against my hip, sending a feeling down low.

Real low.

He presses his thumb harder when I don’t respond.

“Please...” I’m not even sure what to say or why I feel so damn weak right now. The sight of him leaning over my lower half (nearly-naked, lower half, by the way) is a lot.

His hands on me too? I’m dizzy .

His tongue slowly traces around the inside of his lips, staring right at me through my body as he’s kneeled between me. It’s cut short when he pulls away with a soft tsk from his tongue.

“There.” He sets the tattoo gun off to the side as he blows against the wishbone again, cooling the sting. “All done.”

My body pools into his bed. Burning like a swamp of fucking sweat drenching the sheets while lying here. I may as well have been run raw by the gym and then sat in the sauna for twelve hours.

After a few minutes of collecting my bearings, waiting for him to back out from between my legs, my heart rate slows down enough to speak.

“Is it really done? Can I look?”

Noah isn’t a vampire. He is a fucking witch that sucks the life out of you.

The soul sucker chuckles. “Yeah. You can look.”

I lean up on my elbows, and my eyes meet the tattoo. Even in my exhausted state I smile hard, my heart swelling with joy as I take in the final result. The skin is agitated by the abuse, but the lines are thin black strands, perfectly mirroring each side, almost looking like it was drawn by the finest brush.

“Whoa.” Running my fingertip along the edges of the design only makes it more incredible, feeling like the perfect fit. “This is actually really good.”

“You think so?” His smile grows wider. “I like to think that I have a knack for it.”

He hushes any retort from me with a wink and rises up from his knees, pulling his t-shirt all the way up to his chest to show me another tattoo on his hip. “How about this one?”

This fucking… Asshole .

I try not to stare as I come up close and personal with the light blue veins running underneath new pale skin and wiry muscle.

“Oh, yeah.” I clear my throat, taking in the inked image of a lit match. “When did you get that?”

“A year ago.” His long finger taps the tattoo, and I force my eyes upward. “It was a band thing.”

As he edges nearer, close enough to give a better view of his hip, using his thumb to push his jeans down a little, I struggle to keep my breathing at a steady— normal —pace. I wonder how it feels to touch each thin line and curve of the flame.

I lean in to see the details. Obviously. “What does it mean?”

“A promise to all my girlfriends.” My brows pinch and he drops his shirt, leaning down close enough that the tips of our noses are nearly touching.

“A promise to all your girlfriends?” I laugh, pulse thudding in my throat.

“Now you.” His whisper falls hot on my lips, and he looks down at the wishbone. “Is there any meaning behind yours?”

My fingers scrabble to pull down my dress to cover myself back up, my heart racing out of the new wound as I get a whiff of Noah’s boy smell. Our faces are so close, I feel him breathe on my skin, each exhalation a stroke. A touch.

A touch that passes me life, only to suck mine right back out. I’m not just breathing and breathing him in—he’s taking me into him, deep into him, into his pulse, into his bloodstream. He’s pulling me down into the depths of his body as if he needs every last bit of my life force.

“What does it promise them?” I ask, each syllable a struggle against the throbbing ache centered where my body meets his sheets.

My vision blurs into watercolors when his eyes snap up to meet mine.

“You didn’t answer my question. Tell me yours.”

“A—ah... it’s nothing.” My fingers knot the blanket, shifting until the grind of his bed hits the middle of my thighs. “It’s just a wishbone. No meaning.”

“Nothing? You could’ve fooled me.” Our noses are touching now, the bed giving in underneath the weight of his hands on each side of my hips, caging me down. “I don’t think I believe you. Tell me the truth.”

He tilts his head to the side, and I’m sinking ship into his eyes, using his bed as a life raft.

“I told you, it’s nothing. Just a wishbone. That’s it.”

The soul sucker keeps luring me into him, and my sore hip heats up more when the sides of our noses graze. My heart beats so furiously in the space between my legs I can hardly take it.

I don’t know what Noah is—soul sucker, vampire, a siren who lures his prey—but I know he isn’t from this realm. I'm trying so hard to resist, to not give in to him, to ignore these ‘how far can I push you’ games he always plays, wanting him to want it more.

But he’s… so close . So. Freaking. Close. I can taste his breath, the sweat around his barbed wire tattoo, his soap stinging my nose.

“Is it nothing?” His gaze drops to my lips. “I sure as hell want it to be something.”

Lub dub . I have a feeling we’re not talking about the tattoo anymore.

I breathe in deeply as my lips continue to move ever closer to his…

My whole body is tingling with excitement.

I can’t deny it.

This isn’t nothing.

My breath starts to become shallow.

I can’t answer his question.

What did he ask me?

I want this… I know I want this.

No . I know my body wants this.

“I can see it, you know?”

What?

“Your pupils are dilated. Your eyes keep looking at my mouth. You can’t fool me,” he whispers, that voice so thick.

So damn thick I want to choke on it.

Our lips are close to touching and I'm about to have a tantrum that he won’t slam all the way to home base. His head tilts down a fraction so that the space between our mouths is almost nothing at all, and right when I think he’s finally read my thoughts, he tells me those five words I can’t stand: “Tell me what you want.”

That takes me all the way back to the dugout.

“Do you think you can do whatever you want with me because you gave me a tattoo and I’m in your bedroom?” I scoff with such great displeasure that I’m proud of myself for being able to ignore the way he stares at my mouth.

“Maybe,” he laughs.

Right when I think I’ve won, he strikes. He leans down, brushing his lips over the skin of my neck, forcing me to tilt my head back and sending every emotion straight down to my toes.

My nails dig into my now crossed arms as I fight to breathe.

“I know what you want,” he whispers, lips skimming over my pounding pulse. “I can see how badly you want it...”

I nod, unable to lie. I can never lie.

Holy hells, take over and kiss me already .

Doesn’t he see I’m quite literally melting in his presence and he is doing absolutely nothing about it? He’s letting himself graze his lips across my skin as if I'm a song he needs to savor, as if I want this to be slow.

And I don’t. I need this now. Now .

I swallow, about to fucking burst.

“Maybe a kiss isn’t so bad.” I reach out and fist the center of his t-shirt, just enough to pull him back up so that our lips are in front of each other. “Maybe just to shut you up.”

We’re both leaning in for it—me scooting back against his mattress, and him crawling with me while I hold onto his shirt like a leash. We both settle into the center of his bed when my laughter dies in my throat at the sound of heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs.

They grow louder, angrier, as they reach the second floor, and before we can react, the door handle turns violently, and the heat of the moment is shattered by the forceful intrusion of the bedroom door.

The handle collides with the wall, making us both jerk over in surprise.

Filling up the doorway, a towering man dressed in a beige suit is fuming, his face beet-red and eyes so wide I can barely see his lids. The room gets replaced with his anger, face seething with such an enormous amount I can feel my skin hiss with it.

“What the hell is going on here?” he barks.

Noah shot to his feet, that carefree look on his face dropping entirely. “I didn’t know you guys were back already.”

The man’s eyes, who I assume to be his stepdad, sweep across the room. From Noah’s boombox still playing vulgar music, to the box of tattoo supplies on the nightstand, to him, then to me, and back to him. He seems to grasp the situation in an instant.

“I thought I told you to knock it off with the tattoos,” he growls.

“Yes—”

I never get to hear Noah finish his sentence. The stepdad’s face twists as he snarls something about being at the mayor’s house tonight and hearing that his son has been messing around with the mayor’s daughter, his cold stare never leaving him. Apparently it put him in hot water at work.

Is he still messing around with her? was a fleeting thought as he continued to shout and curse, then darted forward, each step a seismic event that shook the entire second floor.

He storms around the bed and takes Noah by the front of his shirt where I’d just held onto him, and slams him against the blinds, sending them crashing down between his son and the window.

I sit stunned in shock, and fear, hands flying to my cheeks while listening to the blinds rattle against his weight. This raging person is nothing like anything I’d ever seen before and it’s sucking out any of the air in this place.

I’m trapped between this monster of a man and my angel of a friend.

His stepdad’s voice gets louder and louder, shouting as he speaks. “This is your last warning.” He enunciates each word. “You really are turning into a fucking disappointment, Noah.”

Noah catches my eyes from around his stepdad, a silent plea carved into his emotionless face. The tilt of his head, the subtle movement of his lips forms a single command: “ Go .”

I scramble off the bed, yank my dress all the way down to my ankles, and edge toward the door, tattoo thumping in time with my heart now.

My body won't stop shaking as I walk around the bed frame, legs trembling as I manage to duck past the situation and race down the hallway for the front door.

Noah and his stepdad's shouting follows me. Fuck, it's so loud. So angry. I can't... I just can't.

I'm hunching up, trying to make myself smaller than an ant, arms wrapped around my ribs so tight as if I can protect my ears from their noise. But the pit in my stomach, the tightness in my chest—they're coming with me as I run down the stairs.

I didn’t like the tone of the voice, and I didn’t want to leave Noah alone, but I keep replaying his “Go” instruction over and over.

He would’ve been pissed if I stayed. I know I would’ve.

Honestly, Noah won’t want to see me for a while after that. That scene was way too personal for an outsider. He'd resent me for witnessing it—hell, I'd be mortified if any of my friends saw something like that.

The tattoo on my skin burns with nerves that are on edge once I shut the front door, wondering if I should have acted differently. I glance back up at the window above the garage. Their shadows aren’t there anymore at least.

Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better and lodges a rock in my throat. Either that means the fight is over and they reached a resolution, or it escalated and the fight was relocated to a more sound-proofed area of the house.

My legs keep carrying me forward, out of instinct and self-preservation. The weight of what happened crawls under my skin and clings itself around my spine, pressing down on my muscles. Then comes the cold film layer, wedging itself between muscle and skin, vibrating. Smothering. I'd seen a side of Noah he wasn't ready to show. It's going to eat away at our connection, and change everything. He'll be different after this.

I heave a mountainous sigh, my car key hovering at the lock when my ear catches on the soft snick of a lighter behind me. My body whips around to see a tiny ember flare to life, lighting up a pair of pale hands.

My boots, apparently smarter than my brain, carry me towards Noah.

We stand awkwardly in the middle of his lawn. I'm hugging myself so tightly to keep myself from flying apart when he doesn't look up, watching him suck in the cigarette smoke then blowing it down to the ground. I chew on my cheek as the silence drags on, threatening to burst into the story of how Stephanie once shit her pants at a concert to end it.

Oh, for fuck's sake . The guy probably came out here for some goddamn peace and quiet, to smoke and collect his thoughts in solitude.

I start to shuffle backward, ready to melt into the shadows, when his voice cuts through the night. "Roxanne, hold up."

My stomach sinks. So, we’re back to Roxanne again.

His voice is calm as ever while he pulls the rug out from under my feet, and he runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, flicking those eyes, dark as a moonless night, up to meet mine. “I wanted to let you know that you need to wash that twice a day with soap and water until it’s healed.”

I blink, struggling to connect the dots. “What are you talking about?”

“Your tattoo.”

“My tattoo?” I look down at my hip even though my dress is covering it. “Oh, right.”

I completely forgot about that in the moment that had just happened.

I look up at Noah again. “So… I should wash it to take care of it?”

“Yeah, you can wash it tonight. But don’t rub it too hard.”

Well, this is a complete 180. One heartbeat ago I was almost sure that we were at a climax of probably the most important moment of us, and now he’s back to being the Noah that I knew. The Noah more concerned with proper tattoo aftercare than whatever I thought might happen.

I’m such an idiot for thinking that this conversation would be anything more, was going to lead to something between us. I try to shrug it off. After witnessing the ugliness with his stepdad, he must be pulling away and keeping me at a distance like I knew would happen.

“Right, definitely won’t scrub my new tattoo raw.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Silence blankets us. It’s heavy and dense as I watch the cherry of his cigarette blaze red as he inhales, just like the way my heart is beating in my chest. My socks squeak inside my boots as I rock awkwardly on my heels.

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday,” he murmurs.

I scoff. That’s it? I think as he turns to walk away. He really expects me to go home and turn my mind off?

“Hey, Noah—” I call out, synapses pushing each and every panic button in my head. He turns around and quirks a brow. “Was that your dad?”

He nods at first, then shakes his head. “Stepdad.”

“Is… everything okay?”

“I handled it.” He shrugs, but his jaw is tense. “He’ll probably go sharpen his pitchforks and wait me out till the morning.”

I swallow, guilt tightening my gut. “Okay.”

His eyes... shit, they're different now. It's like looking at a stranger. Cold. Distant. Am I just another problem for him now?

Heat creeps up my neck, and I want to disappear, to rewind time and undo this whole mess.

My gaze drops to the ground, eyes tracing the grass as I think. If all of our moments keep getting interrupted, it must be for a reason. Instead of grappling with wanting him, maybe I should be questioning if it’s even healthy to want him in the first place.

I shouldn’t be trying to make him my lover when it seems like he needs a friend, first and foremost. What good would it do to burden him further by demanding he fulfill my needs?

It’s time to do damage control.

“I’m sorry about, uh, earlier,” I mumble, my face igniting like a stoplight. Word vomit percolates in my throat as I grapple for coherence. “I don’t really know what’s wrong with me, and if I’m being totally honest here, I think that maybe I have been throwing myself at you a little because I’ve been— and excuse my language —but feeling really desperate to get laid.”

Fuck.

“And I don’t actually know why I’m telling you this, and maybe that’s the point, because I guess the word spew is my way of airing shit out so we can revert back to normalcy?”

I clamp my lips shut but it’s already out in the open. I fantasize about the grass splitting open to suck me into the void.

There, I wormed my way into my own grave, admitting I was a pathetic, boy crazy girl who’s ruled by her hormones.

“Sorry, that was… a lot,” I amend, strands of hair sticking to my sweaty cheeks. “I mean, look, I know things have been kinda weird and intense between us lately. And I think maybe I got carried away, reading into moments that weren’t really… you know...” I trail off helplessly, gesticulating between us while keeping my eyes locked down on the decaying grass.

“Anyway, can we forget all this happened and go back to normal now?” I rush on desperately. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. I like the band too much for that. I also want to share that for the record, I don’t make a habit of throwing myself at boys.” I attempt a teasing smile at the ground. “You’re an anomaly.”

At that, I hear Noah huff a chuckle. The sound makes my insides flutter stupidly and my eyes finally lift to his dark ocean water eyes, which look less deep now.

His mouth pulls into a small, lopsided smile.

“Damn…” He looks up to the sky, his nostrils flaring as he flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the ground. “Then it sounds like we need to get you laid.”

My jaw unhinges and crashes straight through the grass into my self-dug grave. Did I just hear what I think I heard?

My mind can’t stop racing right now, thoughts tumbling down on top of each other. I don’t know what to say. I’m unable to speak as I stand here dumbfounded, and he looks at me like he knows he knocked the wind out of me.

Is Noah implying he wants to sleep with me? Or is he making a joke?

I feel my neck heat up, and my cheeks turn fire red.

Do I respond, do I play it cool, or should I run away?

His laughter shatters my spiraling deliberation. “Have you ever been to The Cat Skull?”

I mutely shake my head, still reeling.

“I think I should take you there,” he says. “I can show you.”

At the moment, I want him to take me there right now.

He can show me… what?

I nod. “Okay.”

That seems to be my answer for everything lately.

“It’s a little more progressive. Over in Chicago.”

Progressive? In Chicago? Is he suggesting some kind of alternative club?

“Yeah, okay,” I manage breathlessly.

“No metalheads, so there will be no punches thrown or fights starting. We could go next Saturday, if you want to.” He takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke up towards the sky, and I watch as it drifts slowly upward, parting and flowing around the power lines until it fades into the dark night.

“And why exactly are we going there?”

His chin tips down, casting me a glance. “That’ll be a good spot for you to go cruising.”

I feel a muscle strain in my eyeball. Cruising? As in hooking up randomly with strangers?

Jaw clenched, I give a terse nod. “Yeah. Okay, sounds fun,” I lie, wanting this conversation to end so I can escape to my car where I can hyperventilate in peace.

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, the suggestion sinking deep and sitting like a stone. I picture him watching unphased as I drunkenly make out with God knows who.

The knot twists tighter. The feeling that I’m no longer sure where I stand with him is awful, and the worst thing is, I can perfectly see the scenario in my mind, of him not caring.

I know I took a mental oath mere moments ago that I should focus on being his friend, but I was hoping to keep it out of wingman territory.

I walk to my car while wanting the Ghost demons to crawl up from underneath the streets and drag me away