CHAPTER FIVE
SKYLAR
“THIS PLACE IS A DUMP,” I MUMBLE AS I DO SOME SEMBLANCE OF unpacking.
“This place is a dump!” Cherry calls out from where she’s perched on my shoulder, making me wonder if she’s the one with legendary shit-talk or if I’m the problem.
I attempt to shift my way of thinking. “This place is charming.”
Cherry makes no such attempt. “This place is a dump!”
My phone rings, and when I pick it up to check it, I’m not at all surprised to see that it’s my dad. My “Dad-ager,” as we’ve jokingly referred to him my entire life since he’s practically managed everything about my existence. My
career. My money.
My relationships.
I click the call off again. Not ready to speak to him. I know he’ll gaslight me and make me question everything I think I know about myself. And my agent, Jerry, will support him quietly by giving me jobs or advice that meet my dad’s goals.
The text messages that continue to pile up tell me as much.
DAD:
You can take time away. But you’re overreacting by refusing to talk to us. This kind of erratic behavior just gives the press more fuel to call you crazy.
JERRY: I’m going to release a statement saying that you’re hard at work in the recording studio. Be back by next week and I can get you seen out at Nobu with someone even hotter than Andrew.
I scoff. Back by next week my ass.
Now that I’ve left, there’s this little part of me that doesn’t want to go back at all. Ever. The constant exercise, primping, practice…it all exhausts me. Sure, it makes my performances better for the fans—and I do love my fans. But I miss just singing. For fun. In the shower. In the car. As I tidy my house. I’ve lost the simple pleasure of those moments.
Music used to bring me joy; it used to put a skip in my step. But now I dread it. I dread stepping out onto the stage. And even a sea of happy faces and young girls singing my songs back to me doesn’t make a dent in my melancholy.
My gut drops as I toss my phone onto the mattress below me. The realization that my parents have managed to ruin my one passion in life makes my stomach turn and my blood boil.
I’ve been furious with them for weeks, but yesterday’s humiliation was the final straw. Thinking about it makes me sick, so I don’t. I focus on settling in and instead get lost thinking about tattooed hands and golden skin.
Unpacking goes quickly as my mind drifts and soon I find myself wanting to wander down to the lake. I place Cherry back in her cage with a fresh dish of food and then leave the bunkhouse without a backward glance. I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, and there’s no deadline on when I need to return. No obligations.
There’s something about having nowhere to be and no one to impress that is profoundly freeing. I might even sit by the water all night and sleep under the stars.
I’m not sure yet. All I know is the world is my oyster in a way it never
has been.
I scramble down the short drop from grass to lake in the least ladylike fashion anyone could ever muster. I’m like Bambi on ice, all limbs as I tumble down onto the pebbled shoreline.
There’s a massive tree straddling the lake’s edge, held strong by thick roots on one side that grip into the soil behind it. The other side’s roots go straight out before dropping a good three feet at a gnarled right angle into the rocks and silt lining the shore.
My palm lands on one of the roots. It’s smooth, weathered—no bark remains. But there’s beauty in it—the streaks of distinct colors, the distress marks that tell a story.
Fine lines. The term pops up in my head and makes me smile as I admire the wood. I feel connected to this tree in a way. The tides have tried to wash it away, but it’s here. Still standing.
As I take another step to see the tree from the front, I freeze in my tracks.
Wedged between two of the huge roots, seated on a log, is a boy with a book on his lap. I’ve always liked children, been drawn to their honesty and simplicity, but I’m not familiar enough with them to know how old he might be.
Old enough to be reading. Young enough to be all knobby knees and missing teeth.
He stares at me with wide, alarmed eyes. Blue eyes. I’m not making the same mistake twice. This kid has West stamped all over him.
“Hi. I’m Skylar. Sorry to interrupt you. I just wanted to see the lake.”
The boy doesn’t say anything, but his eyes go from startled to studious. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I keep talking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place like this. I’m sure it’s not that impressive to you, being that you live here—or so I assume. But it’s…” I pause and hold a hand over my brow as I turn in place to take it all in. “It’s so peaceful. I can see why you’d read down here.”
I peek at the boy, and he gives me a soft smile just as “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under” by Shania Twain blasts from farther up the hill. A classic, really.
The boy rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Is that your dad?”
He shakes his head, still with an amused twist to his mouth.
“Sister?”
Now a nod.
I smile to myself as I turn and stare back out over the water and imagine what it must be like to grow up in a home on a huge chunk of land. Where your aunt picks you up from summer camp and your dad lets you blast music for fun.
Only now, face-to-face with his child, does it really hit me that West—the West I’ve been eye-fucking all day like a hungry little ho—is a dad. And he didn’t make them on his own, which means I’ve been salivating all over a married man.
Under the self-loathing heading in my brain, I add another tally mark and vow to knock that shit off.
It keeps things far simpler. I’m in no position to be lusting after some manly man. Not when I’m not staying here long-term. And not when I don’t trust a single person.
I’d be a goddamn nightmare in a relationship right now.
Yes, this is much, much better. It’ll keep me focused on my career. It’ll keep me focused on figuring out my shit, rather than looking for validation anywhere I can find it.
I, Skylar Stone, need to learn to love myself.
And right now, I don’t.
But I do love the view.
The water twinkles and the bugs dip down on top of it, dotting the surface with tiny ripples. The sun is lower in the sky, more golden orange than the
blinding lemon color it was earlier.
I feel warm to my bones.
“I’m actually staying in your bunkhouse for a while. I hope that’s okay with you. Your dad seemed to think it would be fine. So no stranger danger here—Oh!” I exclaim as a large bird torpedoes toward the lake headfirst. It hits with a loud slap, submerging itself for only a moment before surfacing with a shiny, wriggling fish. Then it ascends, back into the sky, heading toward the nearest treetop. “Fuck, that was incredible.”
The kid laughs in that manic way children do when an adult swears in front of them. I should feel bad, but there’s something mature about this boy that makes me feel like he can handle it.
“I have no idea what kind of bird that was, but it was cool. I love birds.
Imagine being able to fly and just see it all?” I sigh. “That’s how I usually trick my brain into falling back asleep when I wake up at night. I take a
bird’s-eye view cruise over all the places I’ve been in the world. And I’ve been a lot of places.”
But none of them have grabbed me by the throat quite like this one.
“Sorry, what’s your name?” I ask without glancing back at the boy.
He clears his throat, like there might be something stuck in it, then his voice comes. It’s quiet and surprisingly sweet. “Oliver.”
“Do you mind if I stay here, Oliver? I’d like to sit and watch the world go by for a while.”
I peek back at him now, wanting to make sure he’s not just saying yes to be polite, but he’s already shifted over on the log. He pats the spot he opened up for me. A genuine grin takes over my face—it pops up out of nowhere— and I close the space that separates us, plunking down beside him.
It feels cozy with the water lapping toward our feet and the roots of the tree curled around us.
“It’s nice to meet you, Oliver,” I say in a hushed tone.
He doesn’t respond, but I see him smile down at the page of the book he’s back to reading.
So I sit with him. This boy I barely know. In a setting that is all new. In a silence that is companionable.
And I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace.
I don’t know how long we sit on our log. Long enough that the sun drops even lower over the mountains on the opposite side of the lake and the smell of grilled meat wafts down to the shore.
My stomach rumbles, and I realize I’m going to need to get some sort of groceries to cook. Truth be told, the list of things I can cook is pretty limited.
I could eat out, but most people aren’t as cool as Oliver, and I don’t feel like being gawked at or asked to sign autographs.
I’m making a mental list of the groceries I’ll need to get for a box of mac ’n’ cheese when I hear heavy footfalls running toward us. Within a moment, a tiny girl is airborne as she takes a flying leap from the yard down to the water’s edge.
“Time’s up, nerd,” she huffs as she lands on the rocks, catching herself
easily. Then she’s upright and spins on the spot with one hand already propped on her hip.
Her eyes are blue, but where Oliver’s hair is a dusty, light brown, hers is a strawberry blond that reminds me of my favorite rose-gold bracelet.
“Oh. My. God.” Her dainty jaw drops open and her lightly freckled cheeks glow a bright pink. “Are you Skylar Stone?”
She shrieks the question so loud that I can’t help but wince. When I
glance at Oliver, he rolls his eyes.
They’re cute. Really cute.
“Are you the girl who has been blasting Shania for the past hour?”
She grins, and her eyes twinkle. “Yes. But next time, I’m blasting your
music.”
Wow, that sounds like fucking torture.
I don’t say it out loud, but the idea of sitting around listening to my songs makes my skin crawl.
“I could choreograph you a dance,” she adds matter-of-factly.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll come up with one and show you. If you like it, we’ll need to negotiate a price. I don’t work for free.”
Oliver groans like he’s embarrassed, but I can’t help the grin that curves my lips. She’s so…confident. I wonder what it must feel like to be that sure of yourself, to have that much faith in your own capabilities. To know your time and work have value at such a young age.
I wish I’d been that aware. I might be in a different position than I am right now.
Don’t worry about it, doll. I’ll take care of everything.
My dad’s voice filters into my head as the flash of a contract being shoved in front of me appears in my mind. That nickname that seemed sweet for so long but now just oozes condescension.
I’d been a doll to him. Prop me up. Make me sing. Collect your paycheck.
If I’d been even a fraction as shrewd as this girl, I might have taken a glance at that paperwork, even asked a few questions.
But no. I trusted him. Implicitly.
And that blind trust fucked me.
With a shake of my head, I turn my attention back to the girl. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Emmy. I’m six.” She sticks her hand out to shake mine and includes
her age like she’s very proud of it. “And that’s my brother, Oliver. He’s eight.”
I take her small, sticky hand and think back to Rosie mentioning the pile of freezies. “Pleasure to meet you, Emmy,” I say, infusing as much enthusiasm into my voice as I can. “I already met Oliver. He was kind enough to let me sit in his spot with him.”
Her brows scrunch as she watches her brother, who pushes to standing and flips his book shut. “You already met him?”
She seems confused by my story, and I tilt my head with a slow nod.
“Yeah. He introduced himself.”
Her eyes flare, and her small, Chiclet-like teeth light up her entire face.
Then she punches him in the shoulder—lovingly but still rather forcefully.
“Oh, hell yeah, Ollie.”
I don’t know what the exchange means, but Oliver’s cheeks go a dark red and he becomes fixated on the rocks beneath his feet.
Before I can ask anything, Emmy slips her sticky hand into mine. “Come.
You’re having dinner with us. My dad makes the best burgers.”
“Oh, no. I really couldn’t. I don’t want to interfere with your family time.
I bet you and your parents have plans.”
Emmy scoffs and tugs me toward a narrow path I missed when I off- roaded down the drop. Her tight grip makes me feel like I’m being taken in for questioning. “Please, it’s just Dad. And he won’t mind.”
My inner nosy bitch pops up out of nowhere. “What about your mom?”
Emmy shrugs casually. “Dunno. I bet she and Brandon are at their house
eating something really healthy.”
My confusion only builds.
“Who’s Brandon?”
I let her lead me up onto the grass and can hear Oliver’s footsteps behind me. Her brother can’t get a word in edgewise, not with Emmy talking a mile a minute.
“Our stepdad.” I stutter-step, and Emmy yanks on my arm, pulling me forward. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”
My feet move forward, but my mind is spinning. Stepdad. As in… divorced?
I know it’s not my business, but it gets me wondering all the same. It makes me want details.
Details I have no business asking about.
Most of the questions that spring to my mind are easy enough to push away. I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman. Just because my parents’ recent divorce blindsided me doesn’t mean I need to quiz a little kid about her experience with it.
In fact, she is handling it a lot better than I am. Then again, her parents are no doubt better people than mine.
Which, to be fair, is not that hard to achieve.
What is hard, though, is keeping myself from wondering just how single Weston Belmont might be.