Beautiful Player
Page 68
After the kissing escalated again, and I took her while she was bent over the edge of the bed, collapsing over her, she rolled onto her back and stared up at me, playing with my sweaty hair. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
She started to get up but I pushed her back down, kissing her stomach. “Not hungry enough to get up yet.” I spotted a pen on her bedside table and reached for it without thinking, murmuring, “Stay still,” as I pulled the cap off with my teeth and pressed the tip to her skin.
She’d left the window near her bed open a crack, and we listened to the sounds of the city outside as I drew on the smooth skin just beside her hip. She didn’t ask what I was doing, didn’t even really seem to care. Her hands slid through my hair, down over my shoulders, along my jaw. She carefully traced my lips, my eyebrows, down the bridge of my nose. It was the way she might touch me if she were blind, trying to learn how I fit together.
When I finished, I pulled back, admiring my handiwork. I’d written a fragment of my favorite quote in tiny script, from her hipbone to just above her bare pubic bone.
All that is rare for the rare.
I loved the dark ink on her. Loved seeing it in my handwriting even more. “I want to tattoo this on your skin.”
“Nietzsche,” she whispered. “Overall a good quote, actually.”
“?‘Actually’?” I repeated, rubbing my thumb over the unmarked skin below, considering all the things I could put there.
“He was a bit of a misogynist, but came out of it with a few decent aphorisms.”
Holy f**k, the brain on this woman.
“Like what?” I asked, blowing across the drying ink.
“?‘Sensuality often hastens the growth of love so much that the roots remain weak and are easily torn up,’?” she quoted.
Well. I looked up in time to catch her teeth release her lip, her eyes shining with amusement. That was interesting. “What else?”
She ran a fingertip across the scar on my chin, and studied my face carefully. “?‘All that glitters is not gold. A soft sheen characterizes the most precious metal.’?”
I felt my smile falter a little.
“?‘In the end one loves one’s desire and not what is desired.’?” She tilted her head, running her hand through my hair. “Do you think that one is true?”
I swallowed thickly, feeling trapped. I was too wrapped up in my own tangled thoughts to figure out whether she was selecting meaningful quotes about my past or just quoting some classic philosophy. “I think it’s sometimes true.”
“But all that is rare for the rare . . .” she said quietly, looking down at her hip. “I like it.”
“Good.” I bent to even out one letter, darken another, humming.
“You’ve been singing that same song the entire time you wrote on me,” she whispered.
“I have?” I hadn’t realized I’d even made a noise. I hummed a few more bars of it, trying to remember what it was I’d been singing: She Talks to Angels.
“Mmmm, an oldie but a goodie,” I said, blowing a stream of air on her navel to dry the ink.
“I remember hearing your band cover it.”
I looked up at her, searching for her meaning. “A recording? I don’t even think I have that.”
“No,” she whispered. “Live. I was visiting Jensen in Baltimore the weekend your band covered it. He said you guys always covered a different song at every show so you’d never play it again. I was there for that one.” There was something restrained behind her eyes when she said this.
“I didn’t even know you were there.”
“We said hi before the show. You were onstage, adjusting your amp.” She smiled, licking her lips. “I was seventeen, and it was right after you came to work for Dad, over fall break.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering what seventeen-year-old Hanna had thought of that show. It was one I still thought about, even just over seven years later. We had played tight that night, and the crowd had been amazing. It was probably one of our best shows ever.
“You were playing bass,” she said, drawing small circles with her fingers on my shoulders. “But you sang that one. Jensen said you didn’t often sing.”
“No,” I agreed. I wasn’t much of a singer, but with that one I didn’t care. It was more about emotion anyway.
“I saw you flirting with this Goth girl up front. It was funny, how I felt jealous then when I never had before. I think it was because you’d lived in our house, I felt a little like you belonged to us.” She smiled down at me. “God, that night I wanted to be her so bad.”
“A little.”
She started to get up but I pushed her back down, kissing her stomach. “Not hungry enough to get up yet.” I spotted a pen on her bedside table and reached for it without thinking, murmuring, “Stay still,” as I pulled the cap off with my teeth and pressed the tip to her skin.
She’d left the window near her bed open a crack, and we listened to the sounds of the city outside as I drew on the smooth skin just beside her hip. She didn’t ask what I was doing, didn’t even really seem to care. Her hands slid through my hair, down over my shoulders, along my jaw. She carefully traced my lips, my eyebrows, down the bridge of my nose. It was the way she might touch me if she were blind, trying to learn how I fit together.
When I finished, I pulled back, admiring my handiwork. I’d written a fragment of my favorite quote in tiny script, from her hipbone to just above her bare pubic bone.
All that is rare for the rare.
I loved the dark ink on her. Loved seeing it in my handwriting even more. “I want to tattoo this on your skin.”
“Nietzsche,” she whispered. “Overall a good quote, actually.”
“?‘Actually’?” I repeated, rubbing my thumb over the unmarked skin below, considering all the things I could put there.
“He was a bit of a misogynist, but came out of it with a few decent aphorisms.”
Holy f**k, the brain on this woman.
“Like what?” I asked, blowing across the drying ink.
“?‘Sensuality often hastens the growth of love so much that the roots remain weak and are easily torn up,’?” she quoted.
Well. I looked up in time to catch her teeth release her lip, her eyes shining with amusement. That was interesting. “What else?”
She ran a fingertip across the scar on my chin, and studied my face carefully. “?‘All that glitters is not gold. A soft sheen characterizes the most precious metal.’?”
I felt my smile falter a little.
“?‘In the end one loves one’s desire and not what is desired.’?” She tilted her head, running her hand through my hair. “Do you think that one is true?”
I swallowed thickly, feeling trapped. I was too wrapped up in my own tangled thoughts to figure out whether she was selecting meaningful quotes about my past or just quoting some classic philosophy. “I think it’s sometimes true.”
“But all that is rare for the rare . . .” she said quietly, looking down at her hip. “I like it.”
“Good.” I bent to even out one letter, darken another, humming.
“You’ve been singing that same song the entire time you wrote on me,” she whispered.
“I have?” I hadn’t realized I’d even made a noise. I hummed a few more bars of it, trying to remember what it was I’d been singing: She Talks to Angels.
“Mmmm, an oldie but a goodie,” I said, blowing a stream of air on her navel to dry the ink.
“I remember hearing your band cover it.”
I looked up at her, searching for her meaning. “A recording? I don’t even think I have that.”
“No,” she whispered. “Live. I was visiting Jensen in Baltimore the weekend your band covered it. He said you guys always covered a different song at every show so you’d never play it again. I was there for that one.” There was something restrained behind her eyes when she said this.
“I didn’t even know you were there.”
“We said hi before the show. You were onstage, adjusting your amp.” She smiled, licking her lips. “I was seventeen, and it was right after you came to work for Dad, over fall break.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering what seventeen-year-old Hanna had thought of that show. It was one I still thought about, even just over seven years later. We had played tight that night, and the crowd had been amazing. It was probably one of our best shows ever.
“You were playing bass,” she said, drawing small circles with her fingers on my shoulders. “But you sang that one. Jensen said you didn’t often sing.”
“No,” I agreed. I wasn’t much of a singer, but with that one I didn’t care. It was more about emotion anyway.
“I saw you flirting with this Goth girl up front. It was funny, how I felt jealous then when I never had before. I think it was because you’d lived in our house, I felt a little like you belonged to us.” She smiled down at me. “God, that night I wanted to be her so bad.”
