Page 82 of Property of Necro
Twenty-Three
Walkingaround the casket in the center of Necro’s room, barefoot and freshly showered, wearing one of his soft t-shirts, I soak in the space. I’ve never been inside a bedroom that felt this cozy—matte black walls, with matching black floors and ceiling. There’s a thick black rug that squishes between my toes and low, sexy mood lighting that glows from antique, amber-shaded lamps.
I can’t believe my basic room has been beside his the entire time.
There’s a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves full of books and an oversized chair he must read in because that’s what I’d do. You’d have trouble getting me out of it. Coffin is seated there while Rot is sprawled out on the most enormous beanbag I’ve ever seen. It’s black like everything else, but three of us could fit on it without having to dog pile on each other. I might be a little bit jealous. Okay. I'm a lot jealous. My inner child, who barely had a childhood, is screaming at me to run, jump on it, and tackle Rot. But I won’t.
Necro exits his bathroom, clean as a whistle. Droplets of water drip down the contours of his abs as he finishes buttoning up his black jeans without any underwear. I don’t know what it is about these men, but none of them wear shirts, boxers, or briefs. He’s also barefoot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without boots before. As he ambles closer and tosses his towel into a black hamper next to his dresser, I notice raised scars across both feet.
Lacing his fingers behind his head, relaxing in the beanbag, Rot nods toward a section of wall where Necro taped a series of sketches. “You’re drawing again, I see.”
I find my way over to get a closer look.
They’re pencil on off-white paper.
They’re also of me.
All of them.
“They look just like her,” Coffin throws out, picking his nails with the tip of his knife.
They do.
They’re so detailed that they look like actual black-and-white photographs. I had no idea he was this talented.
Stepping up beside me, Necro knocks his arm into mine. It’s playful and disorienting because we don’t do this. He isn’t lighthearted. He doesn’t share. This is messing with my head. I peek at him out of the corner of my eye, afraid he'll shut me out if I give him my full attention. Not that he’s let me in, but this is far more than I’ve ever gotten with him. While it shouldn’t matter to me because we’re nothing more than fuck buddies? Acquaintances? Damn if I know. I don’t seem to know much of anything anymore. Today’s been a lot.
“You drew me,” I whisper to myself, more than him.
I did,he signs.
“Why?”
You’re beautiful.
I gasp. It’s loud and awkward, making me blush ten shades of red as I fight off a smile.
I know it’s silly and all the dumb girlish things it can be, but he thinks I’m beautiful, and… that warms something in me because it feels sincere, not just a random compliment handed out to appease me. Necro doesn’t appease anyone.
Lock me in a church with three insane men for three months, and now look at me.
Gah! I’m pathetic.
I rub my cheeks, trying to make the blush stop.
Necro cocks his head to the side, curious.Red cheeks. Red hair. Perfect, he signs.
“Stop being nice to me,” I grouse, turning around to get as far away from him as possible.
Coffin snorts, and Rot chuckles deeply as Necro hops up and sits atop his dresser, legs dangling over the side, bare feet pointed toward the floor. Hunching forward, he rests his hands on his knees.
“Well, this is awkward,” Coffin announces.
He can say that again.
And again.
And again.
