Page 149 of Beautifully Wounded

Iroll my eyes at his back, watching him slowly lower himself to his bed.

Shit. He is really hurting.

“I’ll have you know, One Direction is one of, if not the best band to ever exist.”

He scoffs at that, laying back and stretching out on his bed.

“They’re a fucking boy band. No boy band is the best band to ever exist.”

This time I scoff. “All four of their albums debuted at number one on the charts. That didn’t happen just because they are pretty.”

A deep belly laugh rumbles from Ringo as he points at me. “That’s exactly why they did so well. Bunch of pretty boys stealing little girls’ hearts. They aren’t even together anymore.”

I glare at him. “I’m not opposed to stabbing you.”

His laugh gets louder, the sound infectious, and I have to fight really hard not to join him. “Stop it.” I protest and he gives his head a small shake.

“Nope. I’ll never stop giving you shit for your music taste.”

“I suppose your music is soooo much better?”

“Grab my phone and get your fine arse over here and I’ll show you just how good my music taste is.”

Why does that sound suggestive?

And why does it excite me so much?

Just like his puppet, I take his phone from the bench near the fridge and move back to the bed, climbing on my side and settling against the headboard next to him.

He holds his hand out for his phone and I give it to him, picking up the ice pack resting on his thigh, and pressing it to the lump on his forehead.

A moment later, music flows from his phone, the strum of a guitar instantly piquing my interest.

“Who is this?” I ask, and he places his phone on the bed between us before picking up the other ice pack and pressing it to the other side of his face.

“Staind. They’re a rock metal band.”

I nod, hearing the lyrics start and instantly getting ensnared.

“They are good,” I admit, feeling the heart and soul in the lyrics.

“Told you my music was better.”

I playfully slap his shoulder. “I never admitted that. No one is better than 1D.”

Even though I can see the corner of his lips kicking up, Ringo remains quiet, his eyes closed as the music fills the room.

I like him like this. It feels personal somehow. Like not many people get to see him this way.

Playful.

Quiet.

Comfortable.

That’s when I realise that I too feel that way.

For so long, I’ve been in flight mode. Always on edge, just waiting for everything to explode.

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