Bad Boy Blues(18)

The first thing I notice when I step inside is that it’s bright. Glaring bright. I have to put up my hand to avoid the sunrays blasting through the windows.

Zach’s room has the biggest ones of all the rooms in this place. They go from floor to ceiling and take up an entire wall.

The first time I was here, I was astounded by the sheer size of them. It’s almost like a glass wall. You can see the woods spanning the property. You can see the entire sky through it.

And the best part? There’s an alcove extending into the window, sticking out separate from the architecture of the room. The sides and the bottom of the alcove are glass, as well. So when you step into it, it’s like walking on air.

As much as I hate him, I love the room he grew up in.

I step out of the glare of the sun and slowly, the bright spots behind my eyes go away. I’d be relieved that I can see but I’m not.

Because as soon as my eyes adjust, they fall on the giant bed. Which is currently occupied.

By a sleeping Zach.

I press a fist over my mouth to keep myself from shrieking out. I even lock my knees so I don’t make any sudden moves and wake him up.

Why didn’t I think of this before? Why didn’t it occur to me that he might be sleeping?

I’m an idiot. That’s why.

Oh, and another question: why the hell does he sleep with no shirt on?

I can see him. Like, really fucking see him.

He’s sprawled on his stomach, both his arms flung above him. One over the pillow and the other seems to be under. The gray sheet that he has on only covers his lower body, leaving his back exposed and bare.

I wasn’t wrong last night. He has grown and has become tan.

Even though I haven’t ever seen him without his shirt, I can still tell that those grooves on his shoulders where they meet his biceps, weren’t there before. The bulges of his arms have grown as well, making them look like tight waves of water. Not to mention, his back is a freaking study of taut planes and ridges that move when he breathes.

Jesus Christ.

It’s so unfair, right? That someone so breath-stealing can be so rotten.

I don’t know how he can sleep with that sun glaring down at him but I’m going to count my blessings and leave.

But I don’t leave like I should. Like the policy is to not disturb when the occupant of the room is sleeping.

Because my eyes land on his backpack and his clothes from last night. They are lying in a heap at the foot of his bed.

Without volition, I move toward them.

The backpack’s black and it’s open. Going to my knees, I widen the gap and look inside. His clothes smell of fresh laundry but they are all wrinkled up and shoved inside, as if in haste. Kind of like how I’d do it, sloppily and messily.

In the next compartment, I find his wallet, keys, some toiletries and a book.

A book?

I pull it out without thought.

Zach isn’t into reading and stuff like that. Nope. He’s not the kind of asshole where he’s all tough on the outside but secretly harbors love for the written word.

I’ve seen him tearing out pages from a textbook and making planes out of them, sitting on bleachers. One time he tore a book in two because a teacher asked him about homework. Granted, I only heard about that but I believe it.

So why would he have a book inside his bag? A book about the stars. Written in the Stars.

I forgot that you could see the stars up here.

I flick through the pages. There are constellations, described and drawn, along with their origin and the stories behind them. It’s clean and crisp. Almost untouched, but somehow, I have a feeling that it’s not. Not really.

Zach has touched these pages. But that doesn’t make sense.

I always thought that stargazing and watching the sky is something that poets and philosophers do. People who have depth.

Zachariah Prince is no poet nor a thinker. He has no depth. All he is is a rich, bored guy who amuses himself by tormenting others, namely me.

But then, I come to the end of the book and all my thoughts get channeled into the fact that it’s a library book. It’s overdue and it’s from New York. NYPL: New York Public Library.

I was right.

He wasn’t in the UK, going to Oxford. I don’t know how but I can say for sure that he’s been in New York for the past three years.

I glance at him. He’s still sleeping heavily, probably dreamlessly too. I wish that I could ask him about the city, about all the places he’s seen.

But I can’t because I hate him and he thinks I’m a plaything.

Such a fucking waste.

I quickly look through the rest of his stuff and a good thing too. Because I hit the jackpot with the pack of cigarettes. A double pack, at that.

His stash, maybe?

Staring at the Marlboros, I smirk. He has no idea what’s coming.

I clutch it in my hands and stand up, ready to get out of here. But then, I hear a sound. The worst sound in the world. Worse than a bomb blast.

A grunt.

Then, a groan.

“Fuck.”

Another grunt.

“Jesus Christ.”

My mind has completely shut down. I watch his back on the bed and there’s movement, rustling.

He’s waking up.

Oh my God, he’s waking up.

He couldn’t have kept sleeping for five more seconds? Because five more seconds and I would’ve been out of here.