“I promised my girlfriend I’d look out for her, you dick,” X replies easily, and I feel a strange tightening in my chest. Ah, right, I’m an extension of Maxine, not true friend material in and of myself. The thought’s a sobering one, and I exit out of the game, logging out of my PlayStation account to keep Parrish from messing with my shit. “You kicked ass tonight, Kota. Play again tomorrow?”
“She can play as long as it’s from the privacy of her own bedroom,” Parrish remarks, giving me a once-over. Maxx sighs tiredly.
“Whatever Parrish. Goodnight, Dakota.”
Maxx disappears, leaving me and Parrish alone in his darkened bedroom.
Both TVs are off now, killing the only source of light. With such a cloudy sky outside the open window, it’s all shadow in here. Paired with the black walls, it’s almost ominous. Oh, and the whole place smells like Parrish—and not in a bad way. Clean laundry, clovers, and lemons. That’s what it smells like in here. There’s something about that scent too that gets under my skin, making my fingers twitch in my lap. I like it far too much to admit, even to myself.
Parrish turns the TV back on, selecting some random show on Netflix. The flickering of the screen highlights the aristocratic planes of his face.
“That was fun,” he tells me, almost grudgingly, looking me over again in a way that’s hard to interpret. Just as I thought the night of the party, it feels like there’s something there, like maybe he actually likes what he sees? I stare right back at him in challenge, daring him to keep looking under my scrutinizing gaze. “Now, get the fuck out of my room.”
With a slight frown, I chuck the remote his way and stand up, shoving my headset back to rest against my neck. On my way past, Parrish reaches out and places two fingers against the side of my left thigh, just below the high-cut leg of my shorts. There’s an image of Bowser on the ass of them. Maxine always called them my adorkable booty shorts.
Where his fingers touch me, I burn in the worst way. I ache. And I don't understand it at all.
“A canvas,” he says, but more to himself than to me. His eyes trail back up my body in an unmistakable way, his body language giving away things that he won’t allow his words to say. “I could put some pretty ink here.” Parrish pauses briefly, looking away and dropping his hand to his lap. Why does he always have to be shirtless and pretty the way he is? And I don’t just mean his lean body or his tattoos or even the carved-by-gods shape of his face. It’s the way he holds himself back, like there’s so much more to him that he wants to show the world, but is afraid to. That’s what I like best, what I find most attractive. Shit, no. No. Not attractive. Hate. I hate him. “And not because you need to be any prettier,” he adds, looking at me again. “I'm sorry about what my dad said. What Tess said. Your nose looks good to me.”
He stands up suddenly, too close to me really. Our bare toes are practically intertwined.
“I never hated my nose,” I tell him as he watches me in the quiet darkness of his room. The screen behind me flickers, bathing the room in strange, ethereal light. “I don't want any plastic surgery, but … I’d take some ink. Practice on me sometime.”
“Maybe I’ll let you practice a little.” That’s what he said to me at the party. And I just mimicked it and turned this moment into a double entendre when it didn’t need to be, goddamn it.
Parrish sucks in a hissing breath before tearing away from me and moving over to his bedroom door. He opens it wide and then holds out a hand, clearly telling me in the nicest way possible to get the hell out.
“I thought you hated my work? That I was a shitty artist with a mommy complex?”
“Maybe I lied about one of those things,” I quip as I pass by and he grits his teeth.
“No butterflies or turtles or birds turning into feathers,” he says, and then he slams the door hard behind me, and I jump, wondering what it is that I’ve just agreed to.
Monday morning.
I wake up to the sound of Delphine’s slight knock against my door, shuffling over in my pajamas to open it. The girl is waiting there in her admittedly ridiculous uniform. She looks like she belongs at a maid café in Tokyo or something. At least the outfit isn’t sexualized. On the contrary, it’s a bit … I don’t know, dowdy?
“Good morning, Delphine,” I murmur, rubbing at my blurry eyes and wishing that I’d never gone to that party, and that I’d never kissed Parrish, and that everyone didn’t think I was dating two of Whitehall prep’s superstars.
