Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

19: Blue Butterfly

19: Blue Butterfly

   At the mention of hanging out with Marcel again, Georgia Rose insisted we scrap our plans to watch Mean Girls for the two-hundred-twenty-sixth time and instead prepare me for the evening ahead of me, even though I didn’t even know what I would be doing. In the past three times I’d slept with Marcel, the most preparation I’d had for the event was the texts he’d sent me inviting me over. We’d just dive into the sex like instinct.

   I didn’t even know what Marcel had planned if anything besides sex, however, it didn’t stop the blonde from insisting on painting my nails bright red. And, since this made me her prisoner until she finished, she continually begged me for last night’s details:

   “V, just tell me,” she begged, “Is he at least average?!”

   “Yes, of course, because I know the national average dick size off by heart! Must I remind you he’s the only person I’ve ever had sex with?”

   It was excruciating, however, if I chose to keep her waiting another minute, I knew she’d explode so I did what I had to do and spilled all the details of the past two sex sessions with Marcel, pausing whenever appropriate only to hear her squeal at the top of her tiny, helium-filled lungs.

   When I finally reached my retelling of the second session, I started right at our making out and continued in as graphic detail as I could remember how it went until I got to the part where I’d noticed his ink.

   “Wait Marcel got a tattoo?!” she squeaked in complete shock with hazel eyes so wide they were taking up the most of her face. “Marcel?!”

   I nodded. “I’m not entirely crazy about it either,” I confessed to her, thinking of the little blue butterfly inked into his skin near his v-line. “It’s a blue butterfly.”

   Georgia Rose froze at this information. It took her a minute to actually blink her giant eyes and work to snap herself out of it and process this information. “We’re talking about the kid who nearly killed Kevin Heartwood, right?” she interrogated.

   “Yeah.”

   “And he got a butterfly for a tattoo? He knows they’re permanent, right?”

   “I hope so.”

   She let out a quick sigh and bit her lower lip, unspeaking. On the bright side, it saved me from having to spill any more details. Georgia Rose grabbed the bottle of ruby polish and worked to apply the second coat on my right nails.

   “Remind me again, V,” she purred out absentmindedly, “That first time, what did Marcel say your skin felt like?”

   I stared at her. The nature of her question didn’t make sense to me, but even with that she refused to meet my gaze and just focused on applying the bright red to my nails. “A butterfly,” I said in a tone much more like a question than an answer.

   “That’s still very sweet of him to say about you,” she spoke. Suddenly, as if she’d rehearsed it in her head a thousand times, her hand stopped its work and her eyes of hazel flew up to meet mine before she continued bluntly, “Veronica Bleu.”

   And I immediately found myself wishing my surname was not French for a color. It wasn’t just a little sapphire butterfly tattooed into Marcel’s skin, it was a symbol for the girl he loved; a symbol for me.