CHAPTER TWELVE
SKYLAR
IN FACT.
In fact, what?
Never have two words in the English language infuriated me more.
Fucking Doris.
He was about to say something interesting. I could tell by the way his voice changed and his eyes heated. Even the warning about not doing serious relationships wasn’t enough to scare me away. In fact, I leaned in closer, desperate for him to finish that sentence.
I know a casual hookup is the last thing I need.
But there’s something about him.
Something that has my eyes lingering longer than they should, my body standing at attention, and my mind traveling down a path it shouldn’t.
Especially since I know it’s not in the cards—he’s made that much
abundantly clear.
And yet, he doesn’t push me away.
“Here.” He slides a can with a sad-looking basset hound on it my way.
I eye it speculatively. “I don’t know how to shotgun a beer.”
West chuckles. “They aren’t for shotgunning. No one should drink this swill.” He reaches for the can, the cow skull tattooed on his finger stretching as it wraps around the can. Aluminum faintly crinkles as he picks it up before extending one corded arm across the small table and gently pressing the cold can to my cheekbone, just beside my nose.
I gasp and reach up, surprised by the contact. My fingers wrap around his forearm, drawing his gaze down for a bit before he’s back to searching my eyes.
“It’s for the swelling.” With his opposite hand, he nudges the other can in my direction. “One for each side. Sips of chardonnay in between. Doctor’s orders.”
I nod because I don’t know what to say. Internally, I beg myself not to leap across the flimsy table and kiss this man who is as single as they come again.
Because while I don’t fancy myself a genius, I am not that colossally stupid. West is hot as hell, flirty as fuck, but he might as well have heartbreak tattooed on his forehead.
Above all, I have a fairly intact sense of self-preservation, so I pat his arm and draw back into the safety of my side of the table. He watches me as I take a deep, centering swig of white wine before I hold two cheap beer cans against my face.
I must look absolutely bizarre to anyone who’s watching us. Silver lining, though—I also am not the least bit recognizable.
West sips his beer, but he’s still staring at me with such intensity that I might launch myself into the lake just to get away from his gaze. It’s too heavy. Too much.
Again, I’m struck by the feeling that he sees right through me. It’s unnerving. And I want to throw him off just as much as he does me.
“Mia seems sweet,” I blurt. It’s easier to say it aloud because I’m essentially hiding behind the beer cans.
“She is.”
“Seems like you get along pretty well.”
“We do.”
Annoyed by the fact West isn’t the least bit put off by this conversation, I drop the cans on the table. “You’re nice to her.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? She’s my kids’ mom. I’d be a royal dick if I wasn’t.”
I blink, instantly feeling like a total asshole for suggesting otherwise.
“So why did you split up?”
His head wobbles back and forth as he spins the pint glass between his hands and contemplates my question. “I think mostly because we weren’t good friends.”
I scoff and reach for my glass of wine. “Oh good, more friend talk.”
“No, no. It’s like…I think if you’re going to be in a solid relationship with someone, you need to be friends on some level. Like…enjoy each
other’s company. You know? My parents are so solid that way. They bicker with each other, but at the end of the day, there’s no one they’d rather bicker with. Ford and Rosie are the same. Those two were peas in a pod before they even realized they were in the same pod.”
That makes me smile. I could see their connection, and I barely know them.
West reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck. “Mia and I…we didn’t enjoy each other’s company. She wanted the full domestic experience.
Wanted me to work nine-to-five, not doing night checks at 11 p.m. She wanted to be in bed by 8 p.m. so we could watch sitcoms together. And me? I dunno. I wanted every day to be different. I got bored too easily. And when I get bored, I get destructive.”
I laugh. “That explains all the broken noses.”
That gets me a grin, but he keeps going.
“She wanted boring. That’s where the joke about Boring Brandon was born. And it is a joke—he’s a great guy. Perfect for her. It’s like we both knew we were incompatible, but we both liked kids. Making them. Raising them. Figured we’d try that again to see if it helped. But it turns out that babies don’t fix what’s already broken.”
He chuckles and takes another swig of his beer before leaning back, resting his hands on the arms of the chair, and looking out over the water.
“The upside is, she’s a great mom and I respect the hell out of her. Not many people could co-parent the way we do. But dear god, please don’t make me stay home and play Scrabble in my matching Christmas jammies beneath the sign on the mantel that says Live Laugh Love.”
An unladylike snort bursts from me at the visual he just gave me. Strong enough that it makes my eyes sting because my nose fucking hurts.
“Ow,” I rasp as I reach for the cans again, sighing when their chill presses against my face. “Well, if you could share this wisdom with my parents, that
would be great.”
“Your parents?”
“Yeah, this is not public knowledge yet, but they’re getting a divorce. A messy vicious one.”
“I’m sorry, Skylar.” And he means it. His voice—so often teasing—brims with sincerity.
I shrug. “It’s about time. If your theory about friendship is right. It’s been over for a long time—they can’t stand each other. When I said I needed a
breather and to get out of town, my mom announced she needed the same and took off to Aruba to ‘decompress’ or something. She really only communicates through her lawyer because she ends up throwing shit if she’s in the same room as my dad. And my dad is fixated only on keeping as much money to himself as possible so he’s no better.”
“Then what’s kept them together?”
“Me.”
West nods. “Never understood the concept of staying together for the kids. I’d rather my kids see me happy alone than miserable with their mom.”
My responding laugh is bitter. “That’s sound logic. But it’s not what I meant.” I peek around the dock from beneath the brim of my sweet new hat to make sure no one is watching or listening to us. “If this is all over the news tomorrow, I’ll know it was you.”
West’s cheek pops like he’s irritated by my implication, but where I’m from, information is power. And I’m not sure I’m ready for this to break yet.
“What I meant was that they stuck together for me, as in…Skylar Stone
Incorporated.”
His brows draw together.
“Turns out all the money I made—and the rights I thought were mine from work I did as a minor—are held in a business that I only own a tiny percentage of. And most of it is tied up in divorce proceedings now, hence falling behind on the boyfriend payments.”
I smile, but it’s flat and feral. Like a wolf showing its teeth.
West gives me a blank stare. His jaw pops.
“Yeah, so I only have a fraction of what I thought was mine. I never looked carefully at my contracts. My dad would promise me he’d checked them over and that everything was as it should be. Then he’d say something like, ‘This will be a great move for you, doll,’ and I’d sign. Blissfully unaware.”
I flinch at the memory before continuing. “I’ve spent my entire life working, missing out on so many things, and I have almost nothing to show for it. A fraction of what I should. I’ve been running myself ragged for the past decade to line their pockets. And now I get to watch them fight over the scraps like I’m an ATM instead of their daughter. So I’ve been grappling with that for weeks since I found out, trying to wrap my head around it. But my boyfriend being paid to date me was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
My laugh is watery this time. I sniff and look out over the lake, shaking my head at how pathetic my story sounds, even to my own ears.
The boyfriend debacle may have been the final nudge that pushed me over the edge. But the truth about what my parents have done is the real betrayal. The one that’s so painful, so hard to face, I’d almost rather pretend it never happened.
“I bet you’re wondering how I could be so gullible.”
“That’s not what I’m wondering.”
I suck in such a deep breath that my shoulders draw up to my ears and then droop. I reach for my wine. It feels like I need it after sharing more personal information than I have with a single soul in an exceptionally long time.
Who am I? Put a little fresh mountain air in me and I’m spilling my guts to the local horse trainer? All my PR prep has gone to shit.
“What are you wondering, then?” I finally ask.
West’s eyes flash for a second, and I suddenly don’t doubt he’s broken a few noses. His heavy gaze clears, and he covers with “Never mind.”
The sigh I let out is ragged—tired. I don’t have any fight left in me to push back. “Well, at any rate, I’m here to work with Ford because I need an album that’s all mine. Even if I can’t write the actual songs.”
“You can write the songs.”
West says it with a little shrug. With such unwavering certainty. I don’t even have it in me to tell him he’s wrong.
He’s still staring at me. Analyzing. Eyes scanning. “Is this part of what’s
tripping you up in the media?”
I sag in my chair. Drink and nod.
My phone lights up on the table in front of me, drawing our attention.
It’s a Google alert, the one I still have set for my name because, clearly, I really am a masochist. Without thinking, I swipe it off the table and open the notification.
In Nose vs. Soccer ball, Skylar Stone Loses Again!
A lovely photo of me doubled over in pain while my nose gushes blood accompanies the stupid headline. That part I remember quite clearly. But West crouched before me, hands gently cupping my elbows, tattoos on display, looks a lot more intimate than I remember.
Most of his face is concealed beneath the brim of his hat, but I can see the grim line of his mouth. I can hear him saying, “Breathe through your mouth,
Sky,” and feel his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of my arm.
“Lovely,” I say before tossing my phone back on the table. The headline is far from the worst I’ve seen, but there’s an underlying sense of glee in the wording. It’s not funny or especially clever. It’s smug. “Sorry, you’re in the news now. Someone at the game today took a photo of my nose geyser.” I gesture at the phone. “I swear people get some kind of sick thrill out of humiliating me. They know my name will get them clicks so they grasp at straws and nitpick every little thing I do. They all use me to make money without my consent. Thrive on knocking me down just so they can lift themselves up.”
West picks it up, his hand practically swallowing it. His brows draw down low on his handsome face as he takes in the article.
The phone dings again, and I reach for it, but he moves it away from me.
“I need to see that.”
“No,” he bites out. “You don’t.”
My heart rate accelerates, and my stomach takes that eternal plunge that has become a mainstay in my day-to-day life. Dread licks up my throat, and I swallow it down to keep the nausea at bay. My breathing goes ragged, and my vision goes a little blurry at the edges.
Oh god. Not now. Not in front of him.
“Sky.”
With that one word, West reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.
He catches my eye as he squeezes and releases in a slow and steady rhythm.
Slow and steady. That’s what this man represents. No chaos. No panic.
He soothes me.
“It’s okay. Here.”
He hands me my phone, and I have a text from my dad. Or my manager, since that seems a more apt description for our relationship. After seeing West’s parenting skills, I’m wondering if my dad has ever fulfilled a true
parental role for me.
DAD:
Saw the article. At least the media was polite enough to alert me to your actual whereabouts. You’re going to need me if you plan to work with Ford Grant. You don’t understand the business aspects of what you do. And don’t worry about your nose. I know the best surgeon in town. No one will even be able to tell.
He doesn’t ask how I am doing. His top priority is making sure I know he’s disappointed in me and adding a flippant reminder that the way I look is what’s most important to him.
“I’m starting to understand why Britney shaved her head,” I blurt out in a tearful voice. “Being treated like you’re just an object for people to behold is fucking demoralizing.”
I keep my eyes on the phone because I can’t bring myself to meet West’s gaze. I just shared too much. And I don’t want to share too much with anyone.
The pressure around my body builds anew, pressing in from every side, and my breathing goes shallow. A panic attack is wrapping itself around me, sinking its teeth into my flesh. Ripping away at me piece by piece.
It’s always a runaway train I don’t know how to exit.
Until I’m yanked right off of it.
West makes a deep, growling noise. It rumbles in his broad chest and vibrates through his hand where he’s still gripping mine. He swipes the phone from my limp hand in one smooth movement and tosses it out into the inky expanse beside us.
For a solid three seconds, I watch in abject horror as what feels like my one lifeline sails through the air. The plop it makes when it slaps the water’s surface echoes in my ears.
I stare, mouth agape. “What…what did you just do?”
“Something you should have done a long time ago.”
I turn to West, and fury pours down the column of my spine as I yank my hand back violently. “How dare you?”
Obnoxiously, West looks casual as he crosses his arms and glares back at me, not the least bit cowed by my venomous tone. “No, Skylar. How dare anyone—anyone at all—make you feel like an object. That man has failed you at every turn. He calls himself a father? He’s supposed to love you.”
“And what? You’re with me for twenty-four hours, and you love me now?” I spit the words, ignoring the fact that being loved by someone like West feels like it might be impossible.
Someone like West would never love me.
He shrugs. “No. But I like you.” He emphasizes the word and points across the table at me. “I might like you more than you like yourself. Like you enough to tell it like it is.”
That line lands like an atomic bomb, obliterating every safety net I’ve strung up to protect me. Eradicating the carefully bricked-in corners of my
consciousness.
At this moment, I hate Weston Belmont.
Because he’s right.
My body vibrates with pure indignation as I lean in across the table to stare him down. “Fuck. You.”
He doesn’t even flinch. He just studies me. “That’s better.”
“What’s better?” I bite, annoyed by my curiosity.
“Your eyes. This is the first time they don’t look sad. Or blank. Or fake.
You look like you’re ready to light me on fire or shove me right off this dock.”
“Nice. You throw my phone in the water and tell me I have crazy eyes.
How fucking refreshing.”
He smiles at me slowly, seductively. It’s as if the confrontational moment excites him. And the way he smolders at me has me vibrating with something far from fury.
“No, fancy face. Those”—he points at my face, finger flicking from side to side—“are wild eyes. The eyes of a woman who just chose fight over flight. Don’t smother that. Keep ‘em and you’ll come out on top. Trust me.”
I glance down, nostrils flaring as I breathe heavily. Annoying as it may be, I do trust him. But I also feel flayed open. Exposed. He has a way of seeing every vulnerable piece of the broken girl I am beneath the shiny
veneer.
And I hate the feeling.
“You’re buying me a new phone,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“One week.”
“Come again?”
“One week with no phone.” He gestures his chin at me and smirks this obnoxious, self-satisfied smirk. “I dare you.”
“You dare me? The fucking nerve of you, Weston Belmont.” Cursing feels good, uncouth. For once, I don’t care what this person thinks of me.
“Yeah, bet you can’t go a week without buying one yourself.”
“Fuck you.” I let the f-bombs fly, each one releasing a weight from my shoulders as it sails from my lips.
His full mouth twists in a wry smirk. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.”
I cross my arms and lean away. “It’s a safety issue.”
“So long as you don’t try to pet a wolf next, you should be fine.”
“There are wol—you know what, never mind. I have work to do.”
“And you are staying within walking distance of where you plan to do that work. Private property to private property, so no paparazzi. I’m sure you have a laptop, so if you’re really desperate for a fix, you’ll get it. You’re addicted. But I dare you to spend a week away from subjecting yourself to the opinions of random people who don’t know you. See how you feel.”
“Oh, right. Because you know me sooo fucking well now.”
He shrugs one shoulder and looks me over with a gentleness that feels completely unfamiliar. My wrath doesn’t scare him in the slightest. Doesn’t even seem to leave a bad taste in his mouth. “I don’t know you at all, but it feels like I do.”
This time, I don’t swear at him. Because that one sentence strikes me silent. He’s smug and confident and…not wrong. It feels like he knows me.
And that is fucking terrifying.
We sip our drinks in peace after that. I silently take his bet, but I also don’t want to give him any more pieces of myself. My foundation feels
shaky.
And I refuse to crumble.
Once I’m alone…I crumble.
I leave West’s truck without a word. Without looking back, I trudge woodenly through the trees. Unlock the front door of the shitty bunkhouse.
Shut it and press myself flat against the wood. I kick my sandals across the room violently.
Then, where no one can see me, I fall apart in spectacular fashion.
I pace and laugh maniacally. I gasp for air that feels too thick to properly fill my lungs. I endure the pain in my throat that comes from forcing myself to stay quiet. To keep all my ugliest, most painful secrets tastefully tucked
away. My heart races as though it wants to hammer its way out of my body and flop around on the floor like a fish out of water.
“Fuck…fuck…fuck…” I gasp the word while rubbing at my tight throat.
I feel like I want to get out of my own body. I don’t like it here, and my tender nose has nothing to do with the feeling.
For once, I might cry. Really cry. Like the scream, wail, and break shit kind of cry. My fingers itch to rip and throw stuff.
I’m sad, and I’m scared, but god…I’m also so fucking angry.
I don’t want to be an angry person—especially when I am so epically fortunate—but right now, I want to rage at the world.
“Fuck them.” I growl the words, thumping my palm on my chest. “Fuck everyone.”
“Fuck everyone!” Cherry wholeheartedly agrees.
The humor of her repeating this back to me pokes a little hole in my indulgent, blanketed anger. I’m forced to suck in a breath to cover my surging manic laughter.
I spin on her and point. “Yes, Cherry. Fuck everyone. And fuck Coach Thick Thighs for throwing my phone in the lake.”
“Fuck Coach Thick Thighs!” she squawks back.
I grit my teeth, not ready to stop seeing red, but also feeling my paralyzing level of anxiety recede. Who’d have thought a foul-mouthed parrot would become my emotional support animal? I may not have much, but at least I’ve got her.
I’m staring at her, still getting my breathing back under control, rubbing firm circles on my chest, when it happens.
Tiny, poky steps on my skin. I don’t lose it right away—my synapses aren’t firing at full capacity. Instead, I drop my chin, not immediately
processing what I see.
It takes a few seconds.
Then I realize there is a small gray mouse making its way across the bare
bridges of my feet.
And I scream.