The Flynn Effect

20 | it's yours

Jo

"WHAT?"

"You want it, you take it," he says firmly. I look at him squarely and realize he's serious about it.

"Right— right now?" I stammer and he nods.

"Right now. I asked you to say whatever you wanted and you want this shirt. So take it, Jo. Right now."

I might fall into an everlasting sleep with the way he's looking at me. I feel a little dizzy and I can't tell if it's because of glucose or arrhythmia.

"But you'll be shirtless." I say.

"I have a jacket in my bag. I can wear that to my car and change," he shrugs. The coarse fabric of his jeans is abrasive against the sides of my thighs and strangely enough, I don't find it annoying. "I've got a bunch of shirts in there."

I slowly expel a volume of air away from my lungs and sit straighter on the table before looking down at his abdomen and sharply moving my gaze from his belt. It's not like I'm going to do anything with him. I just need to take his shirt off. It's not a big deal. I'll just imagine him as Drew and everything will go fine.

Except I can't do that. Once I lift the hem of his shirt and my thumbs graze hard muscles on his stomach, he tenses immediately and electricity flows from his skin to mine, hitting me squarely in the chest. I look up at him and he smirks devilishly. "Problem?"

"Not at all." I respond, feeling thirsty for some reason.

"Good. Take your time."

I look back down and slowly drag the shirt upwards, as if scared my fingers would break if I try any harder. There are a few more tattoos on his torso than I'd expected. Some are scattered across his ribcage and there's a writing across his chest. It's not English so I can't tell what it says. "Lift your arms," I tell him and he does, without breaking his gaze.

I lean upwards and drag the rest of the fabric over his head, ruffling his hair in the process and I'm finally able to breathe when it's completely comes off him. His necklace dangles around his neck. "There," he says, smiling a bit. "It's yours now."

I unabashedly stare at his body, his chest and his arms and all of the ink sprawled on his skin. His eyes follow my movements and his thumb touches the skin of my lap.

"What does it say?" I ask, nodding my head in the direction of the writing on his chest.

"I can't breathe."

I look up at him. "Why?"

"The day I got it, I couldn't breathe." That's it. He doesn't shed more light on his cryptic words. I don't pressure him. Instead, my eyes move to his shoulder and I observe a scar tissue that runs across the blade and disappears behind. It's deep and it's a very visible flaw that hostilely mars the skin on his shoulder. Concern washes over my face before I say anything and my brows furrow as I stare at it. He's watching me but he doesn't say a word.

I'm not sure what to ask first but I have so many questions and it takes every ounce of self control not to touch it. "Does it hurt?" I ask without taking my eyes off it.

"Occasionally," he responds and then his fingers come up to my chin and he moves my face away from his shoulder so that I'm staring straight at him.