Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

It's private.

Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.

I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.

When he's alone, period.

God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.

This is wrong. What if it was your journal?

I force myself to set the book down.

To plant on the bed.

To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor.

I shouldn't look.

But this is the only chance I'm going to get.

If I don't look, I'll never get inside his head.

I'll never know what he's thinking.

I'll never know if he's thinking about me.

I place the book in my lap and pry it open. The first few pages are familiar tattoo mockups—Brendon always shows off his finished work. Or maybe I check the shop's Facebook religiously. Either way.

Then there are figure drawings. More tattoo mockups. A fierce dragon defending a castle. A giant octopus destroying a sea monster. A topless mermaid sunning on a rock.

A librarian pin up.

Only...

No.

She looks like me. Same champagne blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty pink cardigan. Same thick blue glasses. These aren't exactly standard frames.

And she's wearing a Mockingjay pin.

Exactly like the one attached to my backpack.

That's nothing. Lots of people like The Hunger Games. Even Brendon.

There's no way he's looking at me like this.

My heartbeat picks up.

My breath flees my body at an alarming rate.

I shouldn't turn the page, but I can't stop myself.

It's that same pin up, only her cardigan is unbuttoned. Her breasts are exposed.

In the next picture, she's lying on her back, her arms over her head, her cardigan binding her wrists.

The next.