“Bun?” he exhales, shaking the bleachers one last time with a leap that lands him right next to me.
“What’s up, Razor?” Ora holds up her knuckles, giving him a grin as he accepts the fist bump. But her eyes double back to me fumbling to open my polish with shaky hands, and her grin folds in, shunning her amusement with me being horrified of perception.
It’s a fluke. It’ll pass. I’m just burdened with embarrassment right now. He doesn’t know that I know, so I have no reason to be feeling Aries’ flames in my throat.
“What’s that?” he asks impatiently, moving his hand up into my peripheral.
My brows hitch, flicking up to him sweeping my hair from my face with lasers aimed at the handprint I forgot about.
“Nothing.” I crane away, my hair running through the gaps of his tense fingers. “What’d you need?”
“Carl hit her again. Obviously,” Ora inputs.
Retracting the razor blade tattooed on his hand, he brings his arm to his side, swiping his tongue over his teeth without looking away. “Are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, combing my hair back in place so he stops staring at me. “You needed something?”
Sighing through drumming constriction, I pivot back to what I was doing and start painting my other hand. But I think it’s just drawing attention to how nervous I am right now. My entire hand is twitching, no matter how hard I flex it, and the hand trying to finish the paint job is going everywhere but my nails.
“It’s not important.” The metal creaks under his steps, his fuming vexation evident in the way he’s walking heavily down the stairs.
“O-kay,” Ora sings, vapidly pursing her lips and digging through my makeup.
“That was weird, right? Or am I being weird? Is this entire thing weird? Do you feel weird?” I blabber, flailing the polish brush and my free hand around.
Laughing at me, she pulls out a single pan of blue eyeshadow and a fluffy brush. “He probably wanted to know how many fingers you use so he can envision it properly.”
“Ora!” My jaw hangs, my brows knitting tighter. “That’s gross!”
“Mm-hmm,” she smirks, peeking up under her bangs. “I’m sure he does wanna do gross things to you.”
Ignoring the fact that my skin is a mere second from burning off my skull, she pops open the lid of the eyeshadow and swirls the brush through it.
Razor is haunting.
There’s a broken darkness in his gaze that lingers within you, makes you unsettled in an interesting way. It leaves you curiously wondering about him.
And he’s so nice.
To me, anyway. He’s made it to all my performances, even if he had to run in order to not miss it. Though, I’ve seen him get in altercations with the other guys and… he was not very pleasant.
That curiosity for him gets the best of me, and I turn his way, I guess reciprocating the secret interest.
His short mullet has grown out, which has his sweaty hair falling low around his eyes. He usually sweeps it back, has the sides gelled sharply behind his ears and leaves the front a little messy. He’s been out in the sun, though. So, it’s extra messy with…
Why do I know that?
Realizing I’ve been keeping track of his way of life, my pinned eyes slowly pan away from the large, prominent scars scratched disorderly on his glistening back, over to Ora watching me with the pigment packed brush frozen in the air.
“Start putting a sock on the door… Unless you want me to see.” She winks, her bangs bumping with her brows.
“That’s never happening,” I insist, puffing out a sigh that sounds more heartbroken with the fact than frustrated with the situation.
“I don’t know, girl. He looked back at you. Whatever he heard through the bathroom door last night has him locked in on a little bunny.”
“He didn’t hear anything,” I argue.
Her lips curl tight to her teeth and she blinks impassively, nodding her head like I’m senile and she has to play along, or I’ll kill everyone. “You are so right.”
