Stain (Stain #1)(9)

I follow the slight shift of Noah’s head as he looks to his left to say something to his brother. They’re too far away for me to hear the conversation, but the rich sound of his laughter cuts across the cemetery. His twin fails to share in his humor and seemingly unaffected, Noah shrugs a shoulder before retuning his gaze to Bria. But unlike Noah, I’m incapable of dismissing Maddox so easily. Noah is beautiful. Maddox—Maddox is something else altogether.

He’s covered in tattoos. That’s the first thing you notice about Maddox Moore. Under the white T-shirt he’s wearing is stylized pieces of artwork, each one probably telling a story of their own, covering both his arms down to the knuckles of both hands. There’s a geometric star that’s set at the base of his throat. It’s a pentagram within a pentagram enclosed around a red eye situated at the center. The points of the larger pentagram trail up the length of his neck, over his Adam’s apple, stopping just beneath earlobes that have been stretched to the size of nickels with hollow, black O-rings. The blood-red of the eye is the only shot of color in the otherwise black ink canvasing his pale skin. I’ve watched him from a distance. Studied him with the keen eye of an artist consumed by a muse. He rarely ever came to school, but when he did, I instinctively knew where he was. Watching him from my shadowy corner—I will never admit it out loud to anyone that he’s become my obsession. I’ve sketched him numerous times, dusted charcoal-covered fingers down the blade of his nose and across the fullness of his unsmiling mouth. I have a sketchpad filled with his likeness. I know how that makes me sound. Like a stalker. But my obsession stems from the need to capture his image to paper. I’ve never been able to get it right. His image in my memories never quite did him justice.

Though I know most by memory, the white V-neck T-shirt he’s wearing makes it possible to see the tattoos on both his arms. There’s a skeletal tree on the left, branches snaking down his forearm into an explosion of black birds that stop at the dark band around his wrist. From this angle, I can’t make out the images on his right arm because it appears to be a mesh of faces. Aside from the white T-shirt, he’s wearing a pair of slim-fit, black jeans that stop over beat-up, black VANS.

I take in the partially empty beer case he carries in one hand, while the other is wrapped around a bottle he brings to his mouth. He tips it back and guzzles it down like it’s water.

There’s no time for me to do anything but close my eyes and flinch in the span it takes him to drink and hurl the bottle in my direction. I jump, and a squeak makes its way out of my mouth when it slams and shatters against a tombstone a few yards from where I’m sitting. The small fear that it might’ve hit me has my heart racing but it’s nothing compared to the moment I open my eyes to find him staring directly at me. I didn’t realize they’d come this close.

I hear the blood rush between my ears, my heart beats too fast against my chest, like a hummingbird looking for a way out of its cage. Sweat gathers on my skin as time seemingly trickles to a stop. He looks at me and I look at him. I can’t hold the intensity of his stare but I can’t look away either. There’s something a little off about his gaze, about him in general. He’s not at all like his brother. There’s no softness, no gentleness to be found anywhere on his sculpted features. But there’s a meanness there, a raw and menacing sort of malice that’s reflected in his near arctic stare. It takes an effort to break from his ensnarement. When I do, it’s to look at everything else except his face.

“Jesus, Max, you almost hit her.” Noah speaks, his tone almost reprimanding as he draws nearer to me. While the other two hang back, he comes to stand directly over me, and I have to crane my head up to look at him. “Are you okay, Aylee?” I’m instantly uneasy. I know he’s not a threat, but I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by his immense height, especially when he’s standing over me like this. Giving him a brief nod, I close my sketchpad and stuff it back inside my canvas bag along with my pencil case. I find my way back to my feet and although I’m 5’5 I’m still relatively short compared to him, but at least now I’m not at a horrible disadvantage.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He smiles and I’m struck by its brilliance. “Sorry about that, my brother likes to make a nuisance of himself.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, I saw the piece you did for Media Day last week. I thought it was brilliant.” There’s no hint of artifice in his voice. Everything about Noah seems genuine, including the kindness I see reflected in his royal blue eyes. Blood gathers hotly. Scalding hot. Beneath my cheeks, it burns with the way he’s looking at me. It’s a far cry from the hard, emotionless tundra belonging to his brother. I don’t know why I do it, but I tilt my head a little to the left of Noah’s body to find Maddox. He’s partially sitting on a tombstone, the case of beer set on the ground between his long, parted legs. He’s working on another beer while listening to Bria talk. People talk about him. They talk about Noah, too. But Maddox is infamous. There isn’t a lot that’s known about them, but his extensive criminal record is public knowledge. It’s not hard to believe when just last month I saw him threaten someone with a knife behind the track field. I ran off before he could see me.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I admire your work.”