Home > Roman and Jewel(8)

Roman and Jewel(8)
Author: Dana L. Davis

   One of my hands rests on my forehead, covering the spot the door slammed into. I’m dizzy. Maybe even a little weak in the knees. Is it because of a possible concussion? Or because of this boy’s high level of attractiveness?

   “Do you feel nauseous?” He’s looking at me so weird. As if I’m an alien stepping off a spaceship platform or something. Or like maybe...he knows me. But I’m certain I’ve never seen this guy before. He’s got the sort of face you remember.

   “I feel a little dizzy,” I reply. But that might be because you smell so good. The scent of him. It’s moving through me like a healing ointment, sort of soothing the ache in my head.

   Now I lower my hand. There’s blood. Just a little though.

   His blue eyes widen at the sight of it. “Come with me. We’ll get you all cleaned up.”

   The door is propped open with a motorcycle helmet, which I’m guessing is Pretty Boy’s, since he scoops it up and stuffs it under his arm, then he extends a hand to me. It takes me half a second to realize he’s offering to like, hold my hand. Overwhelmed with the desire to touch him again, I place mine into his and let him lead me into the hallway, gently guide me around a corner, and escort me into a one-stall bathroom.

   At the sink, he places my hands under the nozzle, activating a heavy stream of water that washes away all traces of blood. There are no windows in here, but the fluorescent light flickering above us makes the water glimmer like liquid crystal. He pumps out soap and proceeds to work up a healthy lather on both of our hands. I stare, transfixed, watching our hands meld together. We’re like living, moving, interracial art.

   Our eyes meet again. What the hell, man? This boy is fine. He definitely doesn’t look like a Broadway type boy. Whatever that looks like. This boy looks and vibes like a rebel, with his frayed leather bands wrapped about his wrists and black-painted fingernails. And while I can’t tell what it is, I can see a tiny bit of a tattoo, peeking out from under his long-sleeved shirt.

   I bet he plays the guitar or the drums. I’d ask questions to verify, but I’m still trying to will my lips back in motion.

   “I’m sorry.” He grabs the last paper towel from the dispenser and lets a bit of soap and water run over it, then points to my forehead. “You mind? So it doesn’t get infected.”

   I nod yes.

   He reaches out to wipe my forehead with the wet and soapy paper towel. And even though the spot he’s touching is now aching, it doesn’t really bother me. His eyes. His touch. His face. My filter must somehow get shut down, because without thinking it through, I whisper, “Damn, boy, you are cute.”

   He laughs, exposing strikingly white, perfect teeth. “Says the girl with the beautiful brown skin and big brown eyes. You’re pretty cute yourself.”

   Did he just call my skin beautiful? And cute? Really? Me?

   “You’re gonna have a nasty bruise. Want me to run and get you some ice?”

   “No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ll take my chances.”

   He sighs. “You’ll forgive me though, right?”

   Of course I forgive you, beautiful human boy!!

   But rather than say that, I simply nod.

   There’s no more paper towels so he lifts his shirt to dry my hands, exposing quite the set of abs. Guys who have bodies that hint they live at the gym never really impress me. But this boy’s thin and muscled physique looks effortless. He’s not spending time at the gym—being cut in all the right ways is in his DNA. My God. I don’t mean to stare but...daaaaang.

   After my hands are dry, he takes them in his, warming them by rubbing his thumbs back and forth across my palms. It summons about a thousand butterflies like, drunkenly crashing into one another, deep within the pit of my belly. Is the pain in my head making me feel so all consumed? So overwhelmed? So electrified? Or is it him?

   “I hope I don’t have a concussion,” I whisper.

   “Pretty sure you’re gonna be okay.”

   “Yeah? You an expert in concussions?”

   “Didn’t you know?” He runs a hand through his mess of hair, holding the silky strands off his face for a moment as we stare into one another’s eyes. “Anybody can be an expert on anything these days. All you need is Google.”

   He leans forward so that our foreheads are almost touching, and I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding against the inside of my chest like, Um, hello, Jerzie! What the hell is going on out there?

   “Unless you wanna go to the ER,” he adds. “Where you can sit in an overcrowded, dirty waiting room for sixteen hours until a doctor tells you the same thing I did. But the doc will charge you about a thousand dollars for it. And definitely won’t be as cute as me.”

   “You’re not that cute.” I’m lyin’. He’s fine as hell. He’s cute squared. He is cute to the freakin’ tenth power.

   “Your words, not mine.” He’s smiling again, presenting those pearly whites. “Say the word and I’ll toss you over the back of my bike and drive you to a local hospital.”

   Toss me over the back of his bike? Should that sound enticing? Because it kinda does. Also, who am I kidding—he could take me anywhere, really. A white van with a sign that reads The Killer Is Inside? I’d probably go. Dark basement? Don’t mind if I do.

   He releases my hands and moves to lean against the tile wall, sighing again like he’s pretty relieved I’m gonna be fine.

   I take the moment to properly observe this rare concoction of supergenetics. He’s tall. I’d put him at six foot two. Doesn’t look too much older than me, to be honest. He’s wearing very expensive clothes. I’m not into brands, mostly because I can’t afford them, but since Aunt Karla works in fashion, I know a thing or two. He’s wearing Balmain jeans. John Varvatos leather boots. His T-shirt is Play. I can tell because of the iconic red heart displayed on the front.

   His phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his back pocket, glances at the screen. “One sec.” He slides his finger across the glass, holds the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Ava. I’m seeing you tonight, right?”

   I don’t mean to pry, but it’s like, dead-ass quiet with a strong echo in here, so I can easily hear both ends of the conversation.

   “He’s back. He won’t let me,” a girl with a soft, sweet voice replies sadly. “He said no.”

   “Don’t listen to him. Please. Come anyway.”

   “I’m not like you. I don’t know how to disobey,” she replies.

   “Fuck.” He sighs. “It’s whatever. Fine then.”

   “Please don’t be mad.”

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