“Anyone ever tell you that you suck, Killjoy?” She hiccups again.
Often.
“What color is, uh—” I dig in the bag for the antiseptic wipes, ignoring her protests, “—Kaia?”
“Like a hazy pink,” she hisses as I touch the wipe to the open cut. I hold her wrist tighter to keep her from pulling away. “Same as Boone,” she slurs, and I give her an eyebrow. “I don’t pick the colors, I just see them.”
“Water.” I hand the bottle to her from beside me, and she scowls like she might argue with me, but I stare back, and she quietly concedes to being taken care of. “What about you?” I ask her as she struggles with the bottle between her knees. I reach out and unscrew the lid for her, still holding onto her sore hand.
“I can’t see my own,” she scoffs, bringing the bottle to her lips.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know there were rules to seeing invisible color clouds…” I groan, almost cracking a smile as I clean the other hand.
“Ow,” she grumbles, the sound coming from the base of her throat. “Reading auras is a serious thing, Brighton Black.” Her face is twisted into a grouchy, pain-licked expression. “The color of yourinvisible cloud,” she mocks, almost spilling her water, “means something important!”
“Alright, Hellcat. Simmer,” I warn her, and she smiles at the nickname, making that tingle of warmth make a secondary appearance in the depths of my chest. She might actually be the most agreeable person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something for my sister's friends.
“You said Sunday is yellow. What does it mean?” I ask her as I finish with her hand and give it back. I lay the towel in my lap and start piling the ice into it with my hand as she inspects the cleaning job I did.
“Warm, authentic,” Rhea says, taking another sip of water. She pushes a piece of her thick, black hair behind her ear, “— joy. Sunday radiates joy.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I tie up the towel in a knot to close the ice inside. “Hand.” I put my palm up for hers, and she slowly obliges. I could just as easily give her the ice to hold herself, but I’m selfishly enjoying our conversation, as silly as it might be. “And the pink?”
She stares at me for a long moment, no doubt trying to decipher whether or not I’m messing with her or really want to know.
“Come on, tell me.” I encourage her.
“Unconditional love, but super sensitive to others' emotions, and it makes them wild cards,” she says with a shrug when I nod. Not exactly as dead-on as Sunday’s, but pretty close.
“And dark red?” I ask her, prodding at what had started this whole conversation. She’s searching my face for something, but I can’t quite figure it out. I want to ask her when she opens her mouth again. Red is bad, I can see it without her even explaining.
“You’ve been really nice to me, Brighton, and I’m feeling much better. Maybe I should just—” She pushes from the couch, but the booze hits her like a brick wall, and she gags once, almost trips, and then sinks back to the couch.
“Why don’t you just lie down here, and I’ll take you home once I get all this cleaned up?”
“Yeah.” She nods, “That's a…” She starts to clumsily kick off the boots she's wearing, but the zippers are stuck, so I lean down and run my fingers along the back of her calf, pulling it down and off her foot. She curls up on the couch without finishing her sentence and is out cold before I can even tell her that she can’t sleep here.
“You’re an idiot.” I tilt my head back and scold myself for even bringing her upstairs.
“Stable,” she hums in her half-awake state, and I look down at her, hair splayed across her face as she wiggles deeper into the couch. “But…angry. So angry.”
I couldn’t tell if it’s adorable or annoying that she talks in her sleep, but I cover her with the patchwork blanket hanging over the back and leave her there to sleep.
It’s dark, smells like toast, apples, and that candle Cosy gave me as a housewarming present—one I’ve been too scared to light in the last three years. I roll over, leather crunching beneath me, as I slowly open my eyes and find myself in a house that isn’t mine, on a couch that is definitely not mine.
I hook my good hand over the back and lift myself just enough to peer over the edge. “Oh,”I gasp softly, seeing Brighton half-naked in…his…kitchen. Right. I punched someone last night—Derek! And now I’m sleeping on Brighton Black’s couch in my socks, andholy shit, my hand hurts. I look at the swollen, irritated knuckles and curse drunk Rhea for doing whatever she wants.
My eyes flicker back up, running down the broad expanse of Brighton’s bare back. Unlike his brother, his tattoos are a little more sparse but just as impressive. Across his back, inked in heavy black between his shoulders, is a raven with its wings spread wide and talons poised for attack. Just below is an impressive scar that seems to nestle into the lower half of his shoulder blades and curl to the front of his body in a twisted, almost beautiful curve. His arms are painted in various black-and-gray tattoos, leaving patches of his tan skin open down to his wrists.
He turns, and I sink against the couch, but he’s wearing headphones and doesn’t even look up from whatever is in the pan he’s holding. Starting at his shoulder, coming down over the left side of his chest is a bundle of daisies that float across his heart. A stark contrast to hisback, light and dark. Only complemented by the long chain that tangles around a pair of dog tags.
Brighton clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been caught. Heat rushes to my face as I sink back into the cushion to die a slow, embarrassing death. I hear him shuffling around for a few moments before his footsteps grow louder and the coffee table creaks loudly. When I roll over to face him, he’s got a shirt on,thank god,and is holding a plate of food.
“Hungry?” he asks.
Say no, Rhea. Put your shoes on and get a cab.
“Starving,” I say with a tight, uncomfortable smile. He hands me the plate, pushing off the table and wandering back into the kitchen as I pick up a burnt piece of toast and shift on the couch to get comfy.
