trouble

Chapter 4

"What is that?" I asked, pointing to Travis' shoulder.
He turned around, frowning. "What is what?"
"That." I rolled my eyes, poking my finger against his shoulder that barely exposed one of his tattoos. "What tattoo is that?"
Travis smirked, as he unzipped his black hoodie, taking it off to show me his entire left arm that was covered with ink.
My eyes widened when I saw that he completely bare under the sweatshirt, though.
I choked on my saliva, as I stared at Travis with disbelief. "Why aren't you wearing a shirt under your hoodie?" I snapped.
Travis gave me a smug smile, before shrugging. "I don't think there's a point in it."
I blinked, staring at his pale abdomen that had just enough abs.
My cheeks turned red once I caught myself staring, as I looked away.
I heard Travis chuckling under his breath, before he turned to his side, showing me his entire left arm.
"This," he pointed to the area that I questioned about, "is a skull."
I stared at it longer, noticing that it wasn't your regular animated skull tattoo.
In fact, it was much more graphic, and had much more detail that made it scary.
"What does it mean?" I muttered, mesmerized by the skull.
Travis laughed, before he sank back into the bench, staring off at the ground.
"It has a funny story to it." he smiled. "The thing is, the skull was my first tattoo. And I got it when I was drunk."
I raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "That's nice." I sarcastically mumbled.
Travis rolled his eyes. "Let me finish, Riley." he paused. "So when I was getting it, I was completely wasted. But, some of my buds that were with me were sober. So, they told the tattoo artist to give me something daring. When I woke up the next morning and saw my tattoo the first time, not drunk, I kind of liked it. I decided that it would mean no fear. Like a rebel, you know?"
I smiled, before nodding. "A rebel." I repeated. "It suits you perfectly."
Travis snorted, before taking a cigarette out of his jean pocket.
Before lighting it, he turned to me with a smirk. "Never use that word around me, ever again."
I frowned, as Travis lighted up his cigarette, sticking it in between his lips.
"Use what word?" I asked.
Travis inhaled the smoke, before letting it all out. "Perfect."
"Why not?" I asked, sitting up straighter.
Travis shrugged his bare shoulders, his hoodie still laying on his lap.
"Perfect is such a bad word." Travis muttered, flicking the ashes of his cigarette. "Perfect is... overrated."
I stared at Travis' face for a moment longer, finding no traces of playfulness whatsoever.
Sinking back into the bench, I thought about his words.
Perfect is overrated.
Well said, Travis Kapone.

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