by Zara Rivas
"Been walking for long?" he joked, and she rolled her eyes and followed him down the hall, shoving her phone back in her pocket.
oOoOo
"Uggggh, I want to take off my shoes," I complained, too lazy to move from my position on the couch. I was sprawled out on my back, legs dangling over one arm, with my torso twisted while watching a movie. Sinclair had decided to show me to the attic—their family's version of our den, and we were lounging around watching Across the Universe.
"So take them off," Sinclair said dryly.
"Fuck off, I'm too lazy," I snapped jokingly. "Why are we always watching musicals?"
"Hell if I know," Sinclair said, getting up off the other couch. We were apparently both space whores. He walked across the room and flicked on the light, coming over to me.
"You should know," he said seriously, "that this is the last time I am ever going to do this for you."
And he knelt at the foot of the couch and started dragging the zipper on one of the boots of my left foot down. I froze, instantly uncomfortable of what he would think when he got them both off. I wasn't self-conscious about my feet—far from it, but I still had my reasons.
"Sinclair, don't—" I protested, but he gave me a look and I quieted. Fine, then.
The left boot came off and he pulled my bright blue sock off with it, tossing it somewhere behind the couch along with the shoe. He started dragging the zipper down on the right foot and I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if I could twist myself in some way that would make him stop his current activity. I saw him watching me and knew he'd noticed my discomfort. He pulled the boot off and tossed it with the other one, reaching quickly for the remaining sock.
His fingers dragged along my leg as they pulled the sock down, and he stopped halfway through removing it and frowned in the direction of my shin. He finally got rid of the sock but his fingers didn't leave my leg. They traced along an area I couldn't see but knew very well nonetheless.
I watched him silently, breathing uneven and heart jumping a little bit as the images flickered across the television screen.
"Lexington," he said slowly, "is this why you're afraid of car accidents?"
He traced the large scar up the back of my leg, around four inches. The little stitch marks indicated it as being surgical, and I didn't respond to his question.
"I'm surprised you didn't see it last night," I said. "I woke up and saw you sleeping there and nearly freaked out that I would have to get out of bed, next to you, in broad daylight."
"But it isn't that obvious," he said, eyebrows furrowed. "Why would you be worried about me catching it? You could have easily kept the bottom parts of your legs under the blankets until you were almost off the bed."
"Yes, I could have. That wasn't what I was worried about." I drew my foot out of his grasp and slid backwards on the couch, giving a silent invite for him to sit down.
"That's not the only one, is it?" he said, looking me over like he'd be able to find evidence of where other scars were just by scrutinizing me.
"No, it's not," I said lightly, drawing my knees up under my chin and locking my arms around my legs.
He pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, his penetrating stare still concentrated on me. I was glad the movie was still on, because if I had to deal with silence and that stare, I think I would have gone crazy right then and there.
"Lexington," he said lowly, voice verging on dangerous.
"You're not pulling that shit with me," I said, tone businesslike. "You keep things to yourself, don't you?"
"Yes, but considering I already know about one of the scars, and that there are more, what's the sense in avoiding telling me where they are?" he pointed out.
"I suppose you have a point."
"And…?" he stared at me.
I sighed, irritated. I unfolded myself from my position and stood up next to the couch, hands on my hips, looking down at him.
"Okay, Sinclair, you want to see the other one? Yeah, there's just one big one. There are a few smaller ones, but this is the important one." I reached for the zipper on my jeans and slid them down, watching his hesitant expression with sardonic amusement.
"I turned down a prom re-planning thing with some friends to take off my pants in front of you, it seems," I snorted.
"It's because you can't resist me," Sinclair replied, but there was no humor in his face or voice. He was still watching me take my jeans off, with no sexual undertones involved, only worry.
I stepped out of my jeans and turned to the side, not very self-conscious about the lack of pants, but about the scar that ran up the upper right side of my thigh. It was a dark red, with the same markings as the other one, and Sinclair leaned forward to get a better look at it.
"Hang on a second. Don't put your pants back on," he said, getting up and walking out of the room.
I stood there, confused, and listened to Jim Sturgess singing with someone about a revolution. Xavier made his way back into the room, holding a camera.
"What are you doing?" I asked warily.
"I," he said, "am holding a camera. You, are going to hold still."
"Oh, no," I said, putting my hands up. "No pictures."
"Why not?" he tilted his head, eyes sharp.
"Just because."
"Look, Sloane," he said, voice barely above a growl. "It's obvious that you're self-conscious about this. There's nothing to be worried about here."
"Oh yeah? You want to take your pants off and have me sketch you, then? Hmm?" I snapped.
"I don't think I would care."
"Fuck off. Put the camera away."
"What's this? Sloane Lexington, camera shy?" he said with a grin, advancing on me.
"I'm not camera shy," I complained, backing up. "I'm just in my underwear here. You would be shy about that, too. What on earth is the guy who develops these photos going to think?"
"He's going to think you're fucking beautiful," Sinclair said, complete with an exasperated sigh. "Especially since that guy is me. I have a darkroom here, you know."
"No, I didn't know that," I paused.
"Forgot to mention that? Oops," he grinned.
"Ass." I continued backing up. "You still aren't taking pictures of me."
Sinclair came to stand right in front of me so quickly I couldn't evade him. His invasion of my personal space caused me to back up quickly, the back of my knees hitting the couch, and I lost my balance and fell backwards. Laughing a little, I tried to scramble and get back up, but he followed me down and pinned my legs with his hands. His cold hands on my bare legs made me squirm, but he dug his fingers in just a little bit and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at how ticklish I was.
The movie entirely forgotten, we stood there in a deadlock. Sinclair shifted and I nearly made a ploy for escape but his grip on one leg redoubled. He turned back around and I saw his camera in his hands.
"Ohhh, no," I said, struggling harder. "I thought I said no pictures?"
"I thought I said not to be self conscious?" he shot back. "Besides," he continued, "I have a secret weapon."
"Oh? What's that?" I asked, still watching his camera.
"This," he said, and flexed his hand on my leg. I burst out laughing because it tickled so much.
I saw the bright flash of light even through my closed eyes and set aside the thought that I would kill him for that later.
Chapter Fifteen
I couldn't sleep. Sinclair's breathing fell into a deep, peaceful rhythm from where he was beside me, but I couldn't steal any of that peace if I tried. Instead I tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, tried not to jostle Xavier into waking up. Dominic wouldn't care if I didn't make it home; he knew exactly where I'd gone—or I'd assumed Emma had told him, anyway. Wind whistled against the window and rustled through the trees loudly enough for the sound to penetrate the window.
Glancing over Sinclair's face in the moonlight, I finally decided that this wasn't working out and pushed the comforter back off of
me. Gently lifting his arm from where it was slung over mine, I shoved a corner of the pillow under it. He shifted a little but didn't wake. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stepped lightly onto the floor, deliberately slowing my movements so as not to jostle the bed.
I pushed the curtains back from the window to let a little more moonlight in, and slumped down into the chair next to it. Casting my eyes restlessly around, I finally decided to explore the bookshelves that lined a wall of his bedroom. There were lots of classic novels there, early editions of some, all high quality. Leather-bound books were no strangers to these shelves. I ran my fingers over the spines of a few, quietly humming my satisfaction at the feel of them on my fingers.
Several of these were unlabeled, all of the same make and in a neat row, and I slid one deftly out of its place on the shelf and opened it. It was handwritten, in line after line of slanted writing, no mistakes visible at all despite the medium being ink. I quickly recognized it as a journal and snapped it shut, not wanting to invade Sinclair's privacy.
I hesitated before I put it back on the shelf, though, and decided to check one thing out. I opened the very front cover of the leather-bound notebook and read the first page, which contained nothing more than his name and the dates of the journal. I'd thought he'd be detailed enough to want to include dates.
I slid it back into the shelf with the others—there must have been a dozen of them, and pulled out each successive one and read the dates, carefully placing them back into position. They ranged over a span of about five years.
I stared silently at them when I finished reading the dates, and looked back over at Sinclair, peacefully sprawled out on his bed. His eyes, however, were open, and he watched me cross the room towards him.
"Couldn't sleep?" he mumbled, sighing and shoving the pillow away from his arm.
"You could say that," I said back in a hushed voice. I didn't want to wake anyone up in his household and bring on any questions about us.
"What's on your mind?" He sat up, rubbing blearily at his face.
I didn't really want to tell him that I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about the photographs he'd taken of my scars, so I cast my mind around for a subject that bothered me but wasn't at the forefront of my mind.
"Oh, you know," I said vaguely. "Thinking about stuff."
He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue.
"Why do you think someone keeps sending us bullshit notes?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Oh. That." He shrugged. "I don't know."
"I keep trying to figure out why, and nothing makes sense. I even tried making a list of people that would want to hurt me, and nobody comes to mind. It's weird." I crossed the room and sat down next to him on the bed, hands clutching the edges of the mattress.
Sinclair tried to keep a huge yawn from coming out but was unsuccessful. I shot him a half-smile and shook my head.
"I guess four in the morning is a pretty bad time to want to have an in-depth discussion," I said dryly.
"I guess so." He slumped back down onto his pillows and managed to conjure up a sleepy smirk. "Go back to sleep before I have to smother you with a pillow."
"Like you could live with yourself if you did that," I retorted. I complied anyway, crawling in next to him, and he didn't even bother with subtlety as he swung an arm back over me. "I could get used to this, you know."
"Sleeping with me? I know, all the girls want to."
I smacked him on the shoulder and he laughed into his pillow.
oOoOo
Finn didn't comment on my wardrobe choice when I showed up the next morning. I wore one of Sinclair's shirts and a pair of Emma's pajama pants, not having wanted to go home in the previous day's clothing. The moment I walked in the door, he handed me a cup of coffee and dragged me into the hallway.
"Logan's gone," he said simply. Dominic padded down the hall toward us with coffee of his own and nodded to back Finn up.
"Finally ran him off, I guess," he said, and walked into the kitchen.
For some reason that thought didn't make me happy like I'd assumed it would. I just felt empty.
"Are you going back to school this morning?" I asked Finn, and he nodded.
"Until Saturday, at least."
I felt emotionally dead that Thursday. I had no idea what I wanted to do, if anything, and I didn't feel like doing anything but the thing I didn't know I wanted to do. Confusing, but there you go. Nothing had any impact on me much, and when I got to school I just went through the motions instead of trying to put any effort into my social interaction. I think the only time I cracked a smile was when Tyler showed me that he'd painted a white smiley face over the black coat of paint on my locker.
"Adds character," he said simply, and then chipperly added, "and the black gives it great contrast!"
Other than that, the day was entirely dead and boring to me. I skipped lunch to go hang out on the roof and watch the clouds move slowly overhead, and when I finally went to my locker to get my stuff for Art, a note from Sinclair was there telling me to meet him after school somewhere.
Avery and Torrance kept trying to crack jokes and show me the plans that they and Adrian had made for the new prom, and how they were trying to get Carroway to approve it at the moment, but my disinterest must have showed because they trailed off and just talked amongst themselves after that.
I thought about Xavier and his photographs of me, complete with scars and all, and I hoped he wouldn't show them to anyone. We'd joked around that night in his living room and once he'd started taking pictures of me he triggered a massive pillow fight, and eventually we tired ourselves out and he invited me to sleep over. For some strange reason he kept being a gentleman about it, not making a move or anything, and I was kind of grateful for it, but also slightly impatient.
I vaguely registered somebody hanging around in my personal space but ignored it until they went away. When I got home from school, I trudged up the stairs to my room without a word to Dominic, not that I even knew if he was home or not, and locked myself in my room, forgetting completely about Sinclair's note.
I kept thinking about the scars.
Someone tapped on my window and I pulled out of my reverie enough to unlatch it for them. It was Sinclair, of course, and he had a sheaf of papers in his hands. He wore a black leather jacket to keep out the cold, and shook a bit of rain out of his hair. It always seemed to be raining whenever he came over these days.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, not very curious at all but not wanting to seem rude.
"I told you I wanted to meet up after school. No response, so I figured I'd drop by."
"And, of course, the front door is too normal of an entrance for you."
"Naturally." He flashed me a smile.
"What are those?" I asked, pointing at the papers.
"Photographs," he said, handing them to me. They were quite good, too. Photographs of nature, buildings, people, everything. The angles were perfect, the moments candid, and I got the feeling you saw exactly what the photographer wanted you to see.
"Your portfolio?" I asked, and he nodded.
"I figured since you're the genius with the CAP art pieces, I'd show you what I can do so we can work this out."
"You saw me last night, didn't you?" I said, ignoring what he'd commented on and still going through the pictures. "Looking at your journals. Why weren't you mad?"
"That's an abrupt change of subject," he remarked. When I said nothing to this, he decided to answer the question. "I guess I didn't care. You had this look on your face like you'd rather be caught dead than reading them, anyway. All you did was look at the dates."
Listening to him talk, I suddenly knew what I wanted to do. I made a snap decision, just then. Setting the photographs down on my bed, I turned towards him and contemplated him for a second. Messy hair, inquisitive look, concern somewhere in his eyes.
Scars.
"Sloane, what's going on?" he asked warily. "Are yo
u okay?"
"I'm fine," I said dismissively. I turned and knelt next to my desk, pulling out a second bookbag I kept under there for days like this.
I stood up, turning around, and asked him a simple question.
"Do you want to meet my mother?"
"What?" He looked taken aback.
"Today must be an impulse day that got started late," I muttered. Raising my voice I repeated patiently, "do you want to meet my mother?"
He shrugged. "Why not."
"Wait here for a second," I told him, and left my bedroom, heading straight for my studio. I pulled out a few files and a stack of papers and shoved them in the bag. Xavier met me in the hallway and we headed down to the kitchen, where I filled the rest of the bag with some food and then grabbed my car keys.