by Meg Evans
“Did you ever try to contact them?”
“I’m not interested in them,” I say. My tone is emotionless. “Cynthia told me that she tried reaching out multiple times, but they weren’t concerned about me, so why would I bother?” I shrug my shoulders in resignation. “Hey, why were you looking at my neck earlier?”
“I… thought you had a tattoo on your neck, but I was wrong.” He fixes his gaze on my neck.
“I do have one, actually.”
I spark his interest. His eyes widen. “Where?”
“On my ribs.”
“Can I see it?” Something like a flame starts growing in his eyes.
“Umm…” I’m flustered, and I don’t quite know what to say. I shouldn’t have mentioned the tattoo, but now it’s too late. He wants to see it, and I hate chickening out. It’s not like it’s on my butt-cheek or anything, but still. I feel too exposed on his porch as it is.
“If you don’t want to show it to me, that’s fine.”
“I don’t know how the neighbors might react. You don’t know them yet, but they can be very nosy.”
“Let’s go inside then.” His lips lift in a smirk. “Didn’t you say you were okay with that?”
“Yes, I don’t mind—” I wince, feeling a sudden pain again. This time it’s a strong enough stab to make me hiss.
“Are you alright?” Dorian places his hand on my arm; the spot he touches immediately burns.
“Ouch!” I jerk away. “Sorry—I just had a nerve pain, that’s all,” I lie. The pain still hasn’t gone away.
“Let’s go then.”
I get to my feet, unable to sit still anymore. I breathe slowly, trying to calm down my pounding heart. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but it’s the worst possible timing.
Dorian opens the front door and motions me inside. I only ever visited Mrs. McConelly twice while she was alive, so I only vaguely remember how the place looked back then. Despite that, I’m certain it was nothing like it is now. The layout is more or less the same as our house, but that’s all there is in terms of similarities. Our house needs renovation and a breath of freshness, which won’t happen in the near future—unless Cynthia meets her fourth husband and he covers all the expenses. This house looks like a cut-out from the Architectural Digest magazine.
We make our way to the living room. Purple walls perfectly contrast with the white L-shaped couch, which adjusts to my body as I settle on it.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“A glass of water is fine,” I reply, and I lean back on the pillows. The pain is diminishing.
“Sure.” Dorian disappears into the kitchen.
While he’s gone, I scan the room again. It’s cozy, yet it seems so pristine, as if no one lives here; it’s too impeccable and clean. Everything has its own, precise place: I don’t see any unnecessary elements that would ruin the harmony here. My attention is caught by a white bookcase across the room with neatly arranged books on the shelves—twenty-five on each. No more or less. The walls radiate emptiness, for there are no pictures or paintings on them.
One element stands out the most: a tall pendulum clock standing in the corner by the window that doesn’t match the rest of the décor at all. It oozes with unexplained mystery. Its rod has a snake wrapped around it, facing the dial as if it’s trying to climb up and reach it. The dial itself is peculiar too; it displays twelve-hour time markers, but instead of digits, I see sparkling dots that seem to be gemstones. Every single one of them is a different color. Even though the clock is quite interesting, I can’t quite grasp what such an antique is doing in this catalogue-worthy modern home.
Dorian comes back holding a glass filled with water and ice. I’m struck speechless at his sight. He’s taken off his baggy hoodie and is now wearing only a tight, crew-neck T-shirt. His muscles, rippling under the fabric, quicken my pulse and I hold my breath at the sight of his strong arms, wide chest and firm abdomen. He walks with a nonchalant grace that I can’t help but admire.
When he drops down beside me, our closeness makes my senses spiral out of control. His scent is enveloping me tightly with no intention of letting go. It’s making me dizzy and confused, but I want to inhale it deep into my lungs, get drugged by it. I can barely fight back the desire to place a million kisses on his bare neck.
I need to stay cool. I just met the guy, I scold myself.
“It’s very stylish in here.” I say the first thing that comes to mind, pretending that he hasn’t just caused an avalanche of dirty thoughts in my mind.
“To Rita’s credit.”
“Is it just you two?” I take a sip of water. The gentle coolness goes down my throat and slightly quenches the fire inside me.
“I have a brother, but we haven’t spoken for many years. Our paths…” He hesitates. “Let’s say they’ve split and gone different directions.”
“What about the rest of your family?” I take another cooling sip. “Do they live in a different state?”
Dorian’s expression clouds over. “I don’t like talking about them.” I sense that he’d rather avoid the subject. “Don’t you have something to show me?”
“Here in the living room?” I ask blankly.
“Why not? Rita’s upstairs and won’t come down unless we set the house on fire,” he assures me, and slides his gaze down from my eyes to my lips. “You have nothing to worry about.”
It shouldn’t feel like a big deal to show him my tattoo—after all, a number of people have seen it before—but with Dorian it’s different. I’ve never had such a gut-wrenching reaction to anybody in my whole life. Not even to Matt. Dorian’s presence excites me too much.
I pull my shirt out of my jeans with one swift movement and bring it up to the under band of my bra, revealing the tattoo. It depicts two butterflies separated by a ribbon, each of a different color, with black tribal swirls and ornaments on their wings. What makes it unusual is where the tattoo is. It starts on the left side of my ribs, curves up, vanishing under my bra wing, and then emerges again right underneath my armpit. Whoever wants to see the whole masterpiece has to take a peek under my bra. There have only been three people who have had the honor of admiring both butterflies.
Dorian leans forward to take a closer look. He takes all my personal space away, but I don’t mind. His face is so close to me that I can feel his breath on my bare skin, and I’m immediately covered in goosebumps. His unruly hair, right next to my hand, calls for me to run my fingers through it. I freeze; my lips go dry. Dorian studies my tattoo thoroughly, his eyes full of attention, fascinated.
“I love this part.” He puts his index finger on the wing of the bigger butterfly. “A butterfly,” he says, and runs his finger all the way up to the bra, where he stops, causing my pulse to leap through my veins. My breath falters in anticipation of what he’s going to do next. I can clearly tell he’s being eaten by curiosity about what the whole tattoo looks like, but he doesn’t let himself go any further.
He looks back up at me, causing a wave of sensations to wash over me, starting in the spot he’s just touched. Never in my life has anybody looked at me the way he is right now. It’s an extremely sensual yet tactful request to allow him to cross this intimate border.
“Do it.” I can’t muster more words.
I place both hands on the front of my shirt, holding my bra in place, when he undoes the latch on the back. With his warm hand, he pushes away the wing that is in the way, uncovering the rest of the tattoo. Pure lust detonates inside me; I’m hungry for his touch.
Where are these desires coming from?
“Interesting,” he says suavely. “Was it your idea?”
“Yes. I wanted the design to be sort of a mystery. The visible bit is a prelude to something much bigger. At first glance, you only spot a little creature and a piece of ribbon, but when you eventually see the whole picture you realize it shows two butterflies.”
“They’re facing each other, yet are separated by the ribbon.�
� He seems even more riveted than before.
“The ribbon symbolizes a boundary. A boundary that can’t be crossed.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because, let’s say, it may end up poorly.”
Dorian sits upright and helps me fasten my bra. Our faces have never been closer than they are now. His scent shoots through me; his glittering eyes make contact with mine, leaving me dazed. I look down to his mouth. Those lips look like they would be a sweet pleasure to kiss. My heart is pounding so loud that I’m almost sure Dorian can hear it.
“You said you were a risk-taker, so where does the tattoo symbolizing boundaries that can’t be crossed come from?” he asks quietly.
That closeness is killing me, taking away my capability of forming a coherent thought. I have every intention of answering his question, but an excruciating pain around my heart prevents me from doing so. The agony forces me to double over, and I start to cough. It feels like something’s ripping my chest out from the inside. The pain is three times as bad as before.
“Zara?” Dorian draws his eyebrows together, seeming concerned. “Are you alright?”
The pose in which I’ve frozen suggests that I’m not really. I put my hand on my chest and breathe deeply, striving to get some air into my lungs. There’s no way he doesn’t notice that my face is contorted with pain.
“I don’t know.” I’m confused and ashamed. It’s too humiliating to admit that I have the worst chest ache of my life and I’ll die if somebody doesn’t ease the pain within the next minute.
All of a sudden, to my clouded mind comes the sound of a car outside, and then the opening of a garage door. It’s my aunt’s Ford. I’m rescued.
I can’t think straight. All I need is my dark, quiet room with my big bed, far away from everybody and everything.
I get up abruptly, and dart toward the front door without even explaining my weird behavior. Right now I’m genuinely certain I won’t make it to tomorrow.
Disoriented, I leave Dorian’s place, and a minute later, I bang on my front door like I’m insane. Cynthia opens it and throws me a biting comment about waking the dead in the cemetery two blocks away, but I don’t really care at the moment. I storm upstairs to my room, lock the door and throw myself flat on my bed. I squeeze my eyes closed and pray that I’ll be able to open them again.
CHAPTER five
I’m in the woods. It’s dark. The freezing air prickles my lungs as I breathe. My soaking wet clothes are stuck to my skin and make me feel uncomfortable. A shiver runs through me.
I glance around, but I see nothing familiar. I don’t know where the hell I am, but I have a sense of foreboding. An inner voice orders me to flee. Fear builds up in me. Heedless of the slimy ground and mud, I race off, but I don’t make it too far; a few seconds later I stumble over a protruding branch and fall flat on the ground. As I try to lift myself back up, a reek suddenly hits me—a pungent smell of rotten meat that makes me feel queasy.
Is it death?
Adrenaline spikes in me. My body is in full fight mode. I can do it. I can find a way out of this place. As I strive to get up, I feel that something is restraining me. My legs are tied up; I can’t move them. I kick and scream in a pounding frenzy, desperate to stand up, but I struggle in vain. It’s only now that I realize what the obstacle is. A snake, wrapped around my ankles. It flicks its forked tongue in and out rapidly in my direction. It seems to be able to taste my fear in the air.
The snake constricts tighter viciously. I feel it spiral up to my knees. Fear paralyzes me. Its head is getting closer and closer to my face. The hissing sound grows louder. I close my eyes, ready for the worst.
ZARA…
I hear a man’s voice, which seems to come from inside my own head.
ZARA…
The low, rough voice echoes in my head again.
“Who are you?” Somehow, I manage to put those three words together and say them out loud.
The moment the questions passes my lips, I feel a hot fleeting touch of wind on my neck. It’s a strange experience because it’s burning yet pleasing at the same time. I thirst to feel it again.
I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.
Again, the same sensation. A gentle lashing of hot air on my neck. It’s like a living flame, but I don’t feel like putting it out. I don’t want to deprive myself of the pleasure. It’s slowly wrapping around my throat like someone’s gentle hands. I open my eyes and look down; there’s no trace of the snake that was twined around me before. I’m free! But to my surprise, an unbearable coldness spreads from my feet and travels up through my veins, reaching my knees, thighs, hips, abdomen.
“Stop!” I scream. “Stop!”
The biting iciness doesn’t go away. On the contrary, it climbs further and touches my chest. When I exhale, I can see my breath in front of me. It’s freezing. Finally, even the warmth on my neck disappears.
ZARA.
I lift my head up with difficulty. There’s a man in the distance, and though I have no reason to know him, I instantly feel certain that it’s the same man who’s been haunting me in my dreams. He’s leaning against a tree and looking at me. I can’t see his face because he’s wearing a hood.
ZARA.
I hear my name for the fourth time. It’s him. It’s his voice I’m hearing in my mind. I want this man to come over to me, but he remains still. I strive to get up from the ground, but I’m too weak. Some invisible force is keeping me glued to the ground. The man and I stare at each other. A weird thrill comes over me; it’s not fear, it’s something much stronger. I’m still motionless, as if someone’s buried me in the sand. I’m incapable of moving my limbs.
“Who are you?”
I WILL COME FOR YOU.
Suddenly my throat tightens. I can’t catch my breath; it feels like I’m having an asthma attack. I choke and panic, gasping without getting any oxygen. In my mind I beg him to help me, but he only observes me struggle passively. I’m losing consciousness. I’m dying and he’s watching me…
I wake up drenched in cold sweat, my heart slamming against my ribs. The room is dark. The digital clock on the nightstand says it’s three eighteen in the morning. I’m lying on the bed, fully dressed.
What happened? Why aren’t I in my pjs?
It takes me a good while to recollect the events that took place before I passed out. When I think back to how the visit to Dorian’s ended up, a blaze of embarrassment washes over me.
I sprang to my feet and raced outside like a maniac!
At a snail’s pace, I sit upright. All the pain that was ripping my chest apart earlier is now gone. I touch the spot where I have a little lump. It’s never bothered me before, but now I’m seriously considering a visit to the physician’s to ensure it isn’t something serious.
I switch on the bedside lamp, which sheds a dim light on the room. Hauling myself up, I trudge over to the big wall mirror beside the door and stand in front of it. I gaze at a girl with tousled hair and a pillow mark on her cheek. My bony face and dark under-eye circles make me look sick.
My appearance leaves a lot to be desired.
My stomach clenches when I wonder how much the odd incident several hours ago has colored Dorian’s opinion of me. It must be bad. I owe him an explanation and an apology.
For the time being I can’t do too much about it, so I simply change into my pajamas and go back to bed. I stare at the ceiling with my thoughts revolving around Dorian. I can’t understand the peculiar effect he has on me. I’ve never felt such a burning, profound desire smoldering in me before. When I was with him it was consuming me, setting my insides on fire. A visceral need to be close with Dorian. Simply by thinking of him I already feel the warmth building up inside.
With my head bombarded with hundreds of thoughts, it takes me an hour and a half to fall back to sleep.
* * *
Another morning race in my attempt to be on time to school. As is my weekday routine, I shower, get dressed, and have breakfast in a hurry. Ev
erything seems normal, but this morning my leaving the house in a rush is interrupted by Cynthia blocking the front door with her bony body. Her expression is as hard as stone.
“Don’t you have something to tell me, young lady?” She tosses me a meaningful look.
“Not really.” I shrug one shoulder.
“No?” Her voice whips. “How about last night? What was that supposed to be?”
“What do you mean by ‘that’?
“For starters, you shut the front door right in my face, and when I said I wouldn’t pay for it to be repaired, you threw a loud ‘I don’t give a shit’ at me. Then you ran upstairs, barricaded yourself in the bedroom, and didn’t come down despite me calling you for five minutes straight!”
I immediately blush and rub the back of my neck. Such behavior doesn’t sound like me at all. Why would I offend my aunt? For a second I even think that Cynthia might be just kidding, but her serious expression suggests otherwise. I try to stay cool-headed and say the first thing that comes to my weary mind.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to behave disrespectfully in any way. I just… I had a huge argument with Rach; it was really bad. It’ll be some time before we make up, for sure. I admit that I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you. It wasn’t fair at all.”
“Are you telling me that you and Rachel aren’t talking?” She raises her eyebrows in disbelief.
“Yes—she made it very clear she didn’t want to see me again,” I confirm. It’s unbelievable how easily lying comes to me.
“Hmm, that’s interesting… isn’t that Rach’s car pulled into our driveway, waiting, I believe, for you?” she says sassily, and points her index finger at me.
This takes me by surprise. We didn’t talk about her coming to pick me up, which makes my current situation even more complicated than it already is. Cynthia only sends me a frosty look, shakes her head, and strides away from the door.