I shake my head, forcing myself to focus and then blurt out the first thing I think of. “Okay. I’ve got it. Did you know who I was when you reached for me?”
“Definitely. Your face isn’t one I could ever forget,” he admits, rolling his other sleeve up his arm until it reaches the bottom of his bicep. I gulp, my attention flickering between both of his arms. I think I need therapy or something. Maybe this is what happens to a person when they’re with someone who can’t get them off—you become enamored with peculiar body parts. After I think about it for a second, I can’t even blame that one on Scott. Some women go crazy over abs, others prefer a nice juicy booty, but my weakness has always been well-defined arm muscles. I have no clue why, it’s something I’ve always appreciated, though. I want a man who can lift me and toss me on a bed with ease. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with a man being weaker than a woman; it’s just not my cup of tea. At least it hasn’t been thus far in my life, but people’s preferences change. There’s no telling if I might want that exact thing five or ten years down the road.
I’m off in my own world and considering therapy when the weight of realization hits me like a ton of bricks flying off the back of a semi. I took what he said as a compliment, but maybe it isn’t. My eyes aren’t the only thing that makes my face memorable. In fact, they are pretty normal as far as eyes go. He may have never meant his words as praise, but as an insult instead. Maybe he is talking about my scar. I need more info. “Is it because of my scar?” I ask him pointblank, praying he’s honest with me.
“No, Star. It’s because you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh.” I barely say the word, heat pooling behind my cheeks as I blush, and force myself to look away from his arms. I peek at him, praying he’s not lying, and if he is, that I don’t notice. Nothing in his expression makes me think he thinks anything different than what he said. “Erm. Thanks?” I say mostly because I feel like I should. I’m not used to anyone saying I’m pretty. Well, except my mom and dad, but I don’t know if they count. I’m their child, and every parent thinks their kid is the prettiest or handsomest, smartest…ok, the “est’ of everything. My point is that parents’ default mode is to think their children are better at or will surpass their peers in any subject. Well, any parent worth a shit anyway. I look like both of my parents. So, if they were to ever refer to me as ugly—which I don’t think will happen—then they would be indirectly insulting themselves, too.
“Pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” he grins, watching me briefly, before dropping onto a bench. He pats the place beside him, and I accept his invitation to join him. My knees accidentally brush against his fingers, and my core aches. I don’t understand my own body; it’s like there’s a disconnect between my brain and my hormones. Our skin touched for less than a second, and now my body feels like it’s on fire. I’m insane, that’s all there is to it. There’s no other explanation.
He watches me, and I hold his gaze for a moment, and then I find everywhere else to focus my attention. Too nervous to hold his gaze. I can’t decide if he’s weird or if it’s me. This entire interaction is odd, as in the whole time we’ve been together. I don’t want to leave anymore, so that’s good, but I don’t know what to do either. “So, should we go back to the party?” I only had a shot, and that was on a whim. Perhaps a couple of drinks would help soothe my nerves. I don’t think I’m nervous, but I’m something. I’m not even sure what I’m feeling. I’m comfortable here with Nevermore, but feel like I should be doing something. I cross my legs and then uncross them, needing to move. I have pent-up energy and no clue what to do with it.
His shoulders rise and fall, and he sighs. “Only if you want to. I prefer to be out here with you.”
“Why, though? We’re not doing anything.”
“Exactly.”
“Huh?”
“Have you never just enjoyed sitting with someone?”
“I mean…I don’t know. I’m sure I have…” His question makes me think. I rack my brain for the last time I sat still and had a conversation I enjoyed with someone else, and I can’t do it. That’s sad. Everyone needs time to unwind and relax with someone else. Ever since I moved further away from my parents, I let myself be closed off from everyone little by little. It’s even sadder that I hadn’t noticed. Surely that’s not right. There has to be someone. I refuse to accept this is my life. My tongue sticks out the corner of my mouth as I think again. “I’ve got it!” I beam as soon as the thought comes to me.
“I have. The other day I took my car to get my oil changed, even though I wanted to do it myself,” I rattle on so proud of myself for thinking of someone, never considering who I’m telling the story to right now.
“Ha. I knew you didn’t trust Tea,” He laughs. Poor Tea. That man probably checks his tires every time he sees a woman who resembles me.
“I didn’t say that.” I swat playfully at his chest, and I’m quick to pull my hand back. I don’t know why, but without the mask on his face, I’m a ball of nerves around him. Make it make sense.
“Didn’t have to.”
I glare at him. “Tea is probably scared of me thanks to you,” I shake my head, replaying the day in my head.
“Tea is scared of all women. Don’t worry about it.”
“Seriously? I thought he was just being polite.”
“He was, it’s how he was raised. But women also intimidate him,” he says, shrugging, and then lifts something off the bench beside him. A leather vest. He puts it onto his body, adjusting it until it sits comfortably on him.
The word ‘President’ is on the front along with numerous other patches. “What do they all mean? Are you the president of this motorcycle gang?” It hadn’t taken me long to realize Rizzo’s house didn’t actually belong to him. But it’s practically been a whirlwind since I arrived, and things are only now beginning to settle.
“We call it a club or a brotherhood, but yes, I’m the Prez.” Ah. Now Tea calling him that makes sense.
“Nevermore can’t be your real name. No parent hates their kid that much. I hope they don’t at least.”
His teeth press together and his jaw twitches as if by asking his name I’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe I should apologize, seems like a touchy subject. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” I backpedal, not wanting to overstep.
“No. Don’t apologize. It’s not something I hear very often is all.”
“Why?”
“Most people know me as Nevermore.”
“What about the people who don’t? What do they call you?”
His eyes flicker to the crow tattoo on my inner forearm, and I think about how good him touching me felt. I didn’t want him to stop, but knew he should. Having his fingers on me was like having peace and danger collide within my body. It might not make a bit of sense to anyone else, but I kind of loved feeling like that. He’s gorgeous man, and even though I couldn’t make up my damned mind whether I wanted him to wear the mask or not, knowing he was the one underneath it is so unbelievably hot.
