Sun Poisoned (The Sunshine Series) (8 page)

I tuck the blanket under my arms.
“Yup.”

His dark blue jean-covered legs move toward the m
ain opening and he kneels down. “What is this?” he asks.

I pat a patch of pillows near me, and he crawl
s inside, lying next to me.  “You've never seen a fort before?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Well, Leena's pretty into them.”

Myles laughs, but his face falls slightly when I shift the wrong way on my side and my sticky, healing back grazes the blanket under me.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.

I shrug.
“Nah. It just itches.”

“
Can I see it?”

Slowly, I turn onto my other side so my back is facing him. He's not too close, but I can feel his breath on my raw skin, and he traces the outline of the tattoo that's visible to him, never grazing the edge of raised ink.

“Did you have fun with Stevie and Jade today?” he asks.

A wide smile spreads across my face when I think about it.
“Yes. Lots of fun.”

A chill runs through me as his touch brings goose bumps on my skin. I don’t exactly hate it.
“That's good.”

“
They got matching tattoos,” I say. “Each others’ initials.”

His hand stops moving for a second.
“I had a feeling.”

I snort.
“Of course.” I readjust myself so we’re face to face again. “So what brings you here so late?”

His hand is hovering
in mid-air, like I took my new tattoo away from it too soon.”I thought you'd be awake.” His finger begins tracing around the Jack-o'-lantern near my elbow. “I had a nightmare. Couldn't sleep.” He shrugs.

“
Oh.”

“
When did you get this one?” he says to my arm.

“
Uhm.” I glance down at the pumpkin with the happy cutout smile, the top of his head a little bit open so a few cartoon pieces of candy can poke out. “I guess I was about eighteen. I got a lot of tattoos when I turned eighteen.”

Myles' eyes glow in the dark, illuminated only by the TV to the left of us.
“Except for your wings,” he says softly.

“
Yeah. Except for the wings, all of the other tattoos I have were legally obtained.”

We both smile briefly before he looks again to the pumpkin, tracing the round shape over and over. I close my eyes, taking in how much I’m not afraid and I don’t pull away. His fingers trail up my arm a little, outlining the portrait of Frankenstein’s Monster I got for a Halloween present a year ago.

“And this one?”

I keep my eyes closed as I relay the story of how Jade showed up at my house and drove us to White Dragon, where Cookie tattooed the black and white likeness of the monster from the 1931 movie.

“Oh.” He hesitates for a second, his hand not moving. “Do you have any others?”

“
Besides my arms and back?” I open my eyes and see him. I pretend I'm thinking, but I don't have to. “Mmm. Nope.”

“
None?” he asks teasingly, playing along with my I-have-so-many-tattoos-I-can't-keep-track-of-them joke. His hand resumes moving lightly around; his arm envelopes me in a hug so my head is against his chest.

His head rests slightly behind mine as his arm moves around to my hip. His breath is on my neck. I can feel his eyelashes against my skin when he blinks. I never want to move again.

“You don't have any more?” he whispers. His hand runs along my leg hesitantly, waiting for me to stop him. “You don't have any here?” His fingertips brush slowly over my knee and stop just as they reach the top of my thigh. He knows there aren’t any. He’s just being cute.

“
No,” I say, trying to ignore how my heart has started pounding a little louder. “Well, I used to have one.” I blurt out.

He stops moving.
“Where?”

Oh what the hell? Might as well make the most out of this comfortable mood.
Before I can reason with myself, I shed the blanket just enough so my upper leg is showing. I feel stupid that I made such a big deal about being covered up only minutes ago, yet here I am, shedding the covers and showing him my thigh. The same thigh he's seen before, gushing blood in a bathtub on Halloween. That's where it used to be.

“Here,” I say, pointing to a spot in between a map of white and pink lines—all the scars I've made.

Myles glances down.
“What was it?” He asks when his eyes are on mine again.

“
It was a star. A little black star.” I take in a breath and decide to tell him the rest. “I did it myself when I was about fifteen. A sewing needle and ink from a ballpoint pen. It was stupid.”

His hand moves around my arm, finally settling on top of my hand where it's safe.
“What happened to it?”

“
It kind of got lost.” My voice is quiet.

His mouth twitches in a sad, understanding smile.
“Why did you choose a star?”

“
It was stupid,” I repeat, looking away from him and the mass of scar tissue that is my upper leg.

Myles tilts my chin with his hand, but I don't move. He kisses my temple.
“I want to know,” he says without sounding pushy.

I let out a breath.
“At the time, my cutting was really bad.” I brave an
obviously
glance at him before turning my attention to somewhere in the middle of the cotton covering the center of his chest. “It was sort of a reminder. Like a Post-It note or a little piece of string around my pinky.” I shrug.

“
To remind you
not
to do it,” he infers.

I nod.
“It totally worked.” I smile because I don't want him to think I'm uncomfortable.

Slowly, thinking maybe he shouldn't, Myles starts to move his hand again. His fingertips lightly graze the puffy lines, some white, some, mainly the one long gash from last fall, a pale pink. He moves his index finger up, down, to the left, to the right, and up again. Over and over, mapping out a star on top of a galaxy of memories, lines, strokes, cuts, and scars.

I'm alright with this. I know what he's doing. Reminding me. Reminding me that people love me; that
he
loves me. It’s something a little bit of ink couldn't handle. The star eventually implodes, his fingers tracing the actual marks in jagged, bumpy detail.
              My heart beats faster, my mind flashes to when I made them, how old I was, where I was. Sometimes there's a reason attached to it, more often, not. It's like he's pressing little buttons on my body, each one transporting me to a horrible place and time. Before I realize it, my hand is around his wrist, stopping him.

Alarm registers on his face when he glances up.

“I'm sorry,” I croak, moving slightly so we're not touching anymore as he retracts his arm.

“
I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says. He’s not hurt, just concerned.

I swallow, blink.
“It's not your fault,” I say. “It's just that. . .I never touch them. They're a bad part of me that I don't like thinking about.”

I'm pretty sure this is the line that leads to Myles saying,
well, okay, I'll leave you alone. See you tomorrow,
but his arm stretches back across the comforter, so I take it.

“
Sophie,” he says as his body moves closer, until our faces a few inches apart. “I've seen these before.” His hand traces the long gone scars on my wrist from when I broke it when I was younger. “I can see them
all
.” His voice is just above a whisper. “I know all of your secret, bad parts, and I love them because they're a part of you.”

I snort.
“That's cheesy.”

He smiles back, not offended in the least.
“You've done the same for me.”

Myles isn’t wrong. We're quiet for a few minutes before he says,
“I have scars too.”

I'm about to laugh and tell him to can it. Yeah, scars,
emotional scars
. I get it, but he interrupts my thoughts. “Would you like to see?”

Does he means real, touchable scars?
“You don't have to show me.”

I know what he’s trying to do, but I doubt it'll make me feel any better about the awful things I've done to myself.
“But you can if you want to.”

His hand leaves mine, wrapping around the collar of his t-shirt as he sits up.
“I have to take my shirt off to show you,” he explains.

“
Okay,” I say almost too quickly.

In one smooth motion, his shirt is off, and he's lying back down, leaning on his elbow. I try not to stare, but it's hard. Anyone’s eyes would linger on his pale skin, the small curves of subtle muscle underneath. I’m not uncomfortable; it’s just a weird thing for me, being in a room with a guy sans shirt. I break my mind away from how his hips stick out from his jeans in order to look at him.

When he’s sure he has my attention, he says, “You've already seen this one,” pointing to his wrist, the one he used to save my life. It's a gnarled mirror image of the one that's on my scalp, now covered with hair and barely visible. “But I don’t think you've noticed this one yet.” He leans his head back so I can get a better look, at a spot between his throat and right collar bone.

It’s in the shape of a circle that doesn’t connect; two half-moons that never touch. Inside the semi-circles are ripples of alternating lighter and darker skin.

Without looking, he grabs hold of my hand and lightly presses it to the raised white surface. It’s bumpy and surprisingly rough.
              “I didn't know you could get scars,” I say. My fingers trace the indentations as his hand moves to rest on my wrist. His eyes have closed.

“
We can,” he says. “This is the mark left by the one who changed me. That one always stays.”

I now realize what the light and dark indentations are from: teeth.

“Did it hurt?” I ask. That’s a dumb question. It had to. These are
teeth marks
.

“
Yes.” He shakes his head like he's trying to shake the memory out. “That was what my—”

“
What?”

He glances at me like he's weighing something in his mind.
“That was what my nightmare was about.” He shifts, then sits up, so I do the same. “We can't dream—not our own dreams—so it was strange.” Myles blinks a few times.

“
Only. . .” He stares at the blanket for a second. “It wasn't really a dream. I was remembering something. From. . .before.”

I smile a little.
“You remembered something from when you were human?”

Silence.

A car honks somewhere outside. A cartoon character laughs on the TV behind him, telling us to eat some kind of cereal.

“
Do you want to talk about it?” I ask after another moment.

Myles opens his mouth slightly, then shuts it. Finally, he nods.

“Okay.” I interlock our fingers. “You can tell me.”

His thumb grazes the top of my hand a few times before he speaks.
“It was after I was attacked. Usually when I try to remember the night I was changed or anything before it, I come up empty.” He shrugs. “I only know what I've already told you.”

I think back to the night Myles told me everything he was hiding. A storm. Horses. He woke up alone in a field, not knowing how he got there.

He swallows. “I woke up on the wet grass. I could smell the mud. I felt like I was
changing.
” One of his fists curls in his chest, the other hand tightens around mine.

“
It hurt.” Now his fingers touch the scar. He looks at me like he’s suddenly remembered I’m in the room. “Then the dream skipped ahead and I was walking home. My parents. . .” He pauses. His eyes are far away. “They were there, but they had no faces. I don't know what they looked like.” He doesn't sound saddened by this, it's just a fact. “I think they thought I caught a cold or something from being out in the rain. I spent the next few days in a bedroom in pain. . .dying.”

Taking in a deep breath, he continues.
“The next thing I remember is trying to get up. I could barely stand. And then. . .” He blinks like he's replaying it all over again. “My fangs came in.”

I gulp, but I think I manage to keep it quiet enough so Myles doesn't notice.

“There was a lot of blood.” He pauses for a few seconds. “I was horrified. Then it gets a little fuzzy. I took something sharp. . .cut my arm. When it didn't bleed, I became even more frantic. I knew there was something wrong. I knew something was happening to me. I wanted to die. I thought I was supposed to be dead.”

“
But you had already changed?” I pipe up.

His eyes graze my face, momentarily broken from the memory.
“No,” he whispers. “Not completely.” He shakes his head. “I didn't bleed because I had virtually no blood left.”