Flower in the Flame (The Scattered Series - Book #1)

Chapter Twenty Two

22 | Nadia Spencer

"Billliiieee," I groan, dragging out his name, my head tipped back to look up at him. The salt water has mussed his hair, leaving it to fall in ashy spirals. His eyes, malachite and emerald, are half-lidded with exhaustion. That silver chain hangs loosely around his neck, the cool metal kissing the be silently drawn tattoo. The tattoo I've traced with my tongue on quiet nights, nights where the only noise would be Billie's ragged breath. 

"Naddiiaaa," He replies. There's a smile in his voice, makes his vocals sound softer, more airy. The gentle curl of his lips is like a high-inducing drug, hollowed dimples sit on his cheeks and there's a gleam in his eyes. He looks gentle, like if safety had made a dangerous bargain in order to take a human form. A human form of striking jade eyes, radiant fair skin, and sooty black hair. With a beauty like his, he should be intimidating, but there's something in the warmth of his smile that soothes every doubt of mine, irons out every worry embedded in the dark corners of my soul.

But despite the softness of his eyes, the gentle gleam, I don't drop my frown. I grab the aftersun, direct him onto his knees as I sit on the bed. His back is so red that he may as well audition to play a lobster in a mediocre Broadway show. He refused sun cream this morning because Billie Joe Armstrong 'doesn't burn'. How wrong he was.

My fool.

In gentle motions, I take the aftersun and smooth it into his back. His skin is soft, free of bumps or spots, feels like silk beneath my palms. His back is corded muscle, a few scars from stupid accidents, and the lean pack of muscle shifts as he adjusts the way he's knelt. He's infuriatingly gorgeous. 

Billie sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, he must be sore, which is really his own fault. 

Hands steadied on his shoulders, I lean down to lightly kiss his sore skin. A shudder rolls through his body, a swell of goosebumps rise where my lips had pressed the gentle affection. I love the way his body reacts to me.

"Turn." I tell him. He awkwardly shuffles on his knees to face me, throat rolling as he tips back his head. 

The sight of him never grows old. He's so effortlessly beautiful. I work the moisturiser into his chest, he watches. His lips are slightly parted as he looks up at me. I want him to kiss me.

Sighing, I lather his chest in after sun before dropping my forehead to his and cupping his cheeks. "You're such a twat." I whisper.

He shifts to peck my lips briefly, "you love it," his voice is hushed too, gentle, like we might break this moment if we speak too harshly.

"You can't keep saying that every time you do something idiotic."

"It seems to work fine, so I think I can." He lifts his shoulders in the barest shrug.

With feather-light touch, I cup his cheeks, smooth my thumbs over his skin. Unruly dark hair slides across his forehead as he tilts his head by just a fraction. "Billie Joe," I plant a kiss to his head, "I love you."

I can feel the warmth of his cheeks, notice the way he adverts his gaze for just a moment. "I love you." He says back without hesitation. He loves me.

His hands are always nothing but respectful, he can read me like a book, knows when I want to be touched like a starved lover and when I wanted to be loved with gentle kisses and soft touches. He is nothing like Carter, and yet I thought he was so much worse. I believed him to be some narcissistic asshole, but he just needed someone who would love him. 

Listen to his music, the way his calloused fingers find an ease with playing gentle songs. Billie Joe is a romantic man, through and through, and without someone to pepper with love he became self-destructive.

I thought Billie Joe was an entitled prick who wallowed in alcohol and prayed for his son's downfall. Oh, how I was wrong. He was just lost, drowning in a relationship where he was ignored. Where his name was all Madeline wanted. He hasn't touched the brandy that lives on the top shelf since she's been gone, since he's been loved properly.

And Carter? Well, fuck him. I was totally delusional, and when the truth had flooded in, loud and horrible, it was too late. The damage had been done. I'd seen the signs, ignored them, and now I wear the scars.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Billie Joe is pouting like a child. Nestled in bed together, though he's a total blanket hogger so he has most the comfort, we're flicking through the channels, trying to find something to watch. If I have to watch another car renovation series I'll lose my mind.

He has the duvet wrapped around himself, the only part of him visible is his head. "I don't want to watch Love Actually." He shimmies his hand out of his shell to reach for the remote, but I shift away.

"You got to choose the movie last night, and tonight I want to watch this." I turn up the volume, ready to indulge in a bit of Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. Heart throbs.

Billie huffs so dramatically a few strands of my own hair slide across my face, "anything but this. It's terrible, so unrealistic. There is no way in hell that fella would learn to speak Portuguese for that woman."

"Would you learn it for me?"

"Well yes." He says as though I've just asked the most absurd question he's ever been asked, and looks at me like I've kicked a puppy into high-speed traffic.

"Then how is it unrealistic?"

Billie gives me the barest shrug, "he doesn't love her like I love you."

I laugh, reach for his hand. "Well, if you love me so much then you can sit through the movie I want to watch."

He pouts, puckering his lips like a hungry baby. "This feels unfair. Like blackmail or something."

"I am so not blackmailing you, Billie Joe." My laugh is loud and completely obnoxious as I throw my arms around him and hug him tightly. My arms barely fit around him with that stupid duvet wrapped up around him. He looks like a squished burrito.

I can feel his shrug as he leans down to kiss along my forearm. "If you want sappiness, I can do so much better than this silly little movie."

"I like this silly little movie." Now I'm pouting.

Billie tips back his head to look at me, his throat rolling against the tension as he swallows. "Fine, but I pick tomorrow." I have no argument to that, since it's the rules anyways. He's just a silly sunburnt rule breaker. Speaking of...

"How's your back?"

"Have you ever been in such immense pain that you are mildly tempted to begin digging your own grave?"

"No."

"Oh." Billie muses, "well, it's bad. Hurts like a bitch."

"Unwrap yourself, fool, I'll be right back." I get up, though my body already yearns for the warmth of our bed. With quick steps, I hurry downstairs, swinging open the freezer door to take out a towel I'd wetted and frozen for him.

Going upstairs, I unwrap the towel, which isn't quite frozen, but certainly cold, and drape it over his bare shoulders. Billie hisses, "a bit of warning would've been nice?"

"A thanks would've been nice?"

Taking my place beside him, I cuddle close, being careful of my weight against him. He's burnt almost everywhere. If only he'd listened to me earlier.

"Hey Bills?" I murmur, brush my lips to his jaw.

"Yes, love?" He looks down at me, studying me with polite curiosity, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Told you so."

Billie's smile dies with a downward twitch. "Oh shut up."