CHAPTER EIGHT
SKYLAR
IT’S THE PROSPECT OF BEING CHEWED ON BY A MOUSE WHILE I SLEEP THAT keeps me from drifting off.
Cherry suffers from no such concerns. Her cage is in the corner and she’s dead quiet, but I swear I can hear her breathing.
In fact, I can hear far too much.
Where I’m used to a white noise machine or traffic or the footsteps of somebody walking down a hotel hallway, everything in the bunkhouse is silent. And when things get too quiet, all I’m left with are the thoughts in my head. To be frank, I’m not in the mood to sit with those lately.
No, when I sit in the quiet for too long with only myself for company, my constant companions turn out to be regret, fear, and resentment.
Not wanting to face those feelings, I get out of bed. It’s warm but not stifling. As soon as the sun dropped behind the mountains, the temperature dipped. So I reach onto the top bunk, tug down my thick-knit cream duster cardigan, and wrap it around myself. It covers the matching Calvin Klein sleep set I got from a shoot I did not so long ago.
The size of my suitcase and the amount of shit I brought with me barely fits on the single bed up top. I considered sleeping up there to be farther from the floor, but the lower bed is at least six inches wider and is still most likely the smallest bed I’ve slept in since I had a crib.
I’ve decided this experience is good for me. That I could stand to build a little character.
With that in mind, I toe on a pair of slides I left near the front door and head out onto the quiet, rural property. To my right is the lake. Lights from the houses on the other side twinkle in the night against the black silhouette
of the mountains. Their peaks stand out against the indigo of the cloudless sky.
The milky stars above blanket the valley in a way I’ve never seen. Sure, I’ve seen stars, but not this many, not in so many sizes and intensities.
Some are so bright that I wonder if they’re planets. Others are more subdued. Some are so faint I have to squint to see them. I’m sure those are the ones I wouldn’t see in the city at all.
Nickers and whinnies filtering down from the stables draw my attention to the left. The sounds remind me of the sweet noises Meli made after covering herself in dirt today.
I can see the path that winds through the trees, leading me back up in that direction. I check my watch and decide 11 p.m. is late enough that I won’t be doing anyone any harm if I visit the horses. To watch them, listen—acquaint myself with the smell.
Seeing Meli eat earlier today soothed me. I don’t know if it was her warm breath against my hand, or the deep, rolling chewing noise that her teeth made on the dried grass, or the way her big, kind eyes peered at me from beneath those thick lashes. The way she looked at me was different somehow, like she expected nothing more than pets and food. She didn’t give a shit about my video or my filter either. Meli just noted my presence and went back to eating like I was no big deal.
Having spent my entire life being told I’m a big deal and that everything I do is a big deal, there was something comforting about the way I was of such little consequence to her.
The feel of constant pressure has finally hit a boiling point. I don’t want people to be impressed by me. I just want to be.
Be myself. Finally.
My feet carry me up to the barn, and when I clear the thick copse of trees, I see warm light spilling out from between the barn doors. It shines over the sand ring, toward where I stand. Like a yellow brick road pulling me in.
Before I know it, I’m right up to the edge of the barn, where the dirt road meets the concrete alleyway. Cautiously, I wrap my fingers around the edge of the aluminum sliding door and crane my neck to peer inside the barn.
From within, I hear faint footsteps and rolling rubber wheels. And when I get a good angle, I see West.
He’s wearing the same jeans from earlier, the same shirt with a hole, the same pair of worn slip-on boots. I bet people would pay to have them
distressed in that exact way. He’s humming a song beneath his breath and doling out hay to each horse.
I watch him for a moment, trying to place the song.
But then he sings. No, he belts it out and does a little two-step with a thin piece of hay.
“Chasin’ that high! Feelin’ so alive! Every day with you feels like another golden prize.”
I recognize the song now…because it’s one of mine. Watching him strut down the alleyway, singing one of my songs in that deep voice, makes me
giggle.
I don’t mean to.
I didn’t want to get caught.
Nevertheless, here I am.
West freezes and doesn’t bother turning to face me. He drops his chin, dimples denting his cheeks as he stares down at his feet. “Fancy face, are you spying on me?”
I didn’t go looking for him, but I found him all the same. Again.
The two of us, drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
Maybe it’s just today. Or maybe there’s something in the air. Maybe there’s a cosmic force in the stars I was just staring at that makes it so we’re constantly thrust into each other’s paths. Whatever it is, there’s an uncanny vibe about the whole thing. Serendipitous even.
With a smile, I say, “Yes, I came up here to spy on you because I could hear you belting out my song all the way from the bunkhouse.”
He chuckles now and turns his chin over his shoulder to glare at me.
“You’re full of shit. I was not belting. And even if I was, there’s no point in being embarrassed—we both know I sound good. And we both know you just came up for the show.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. But the apples of my cheeks hurt from the pressure of my smile.
West turns to face me. He has a welcoming quality about him and doesn’t make me feel like I’ve crossed some boundary or overstayed my welcome.
“You were probably hoping I didn’t have my shirt on again. So you could check the quality of my shave, of course.”
I waggle a finger over the length of his body as I take a cautious step into the barn. “Never mind your shirt. It’s your jeans that are distracting.”
My sandals slide across the concrete as an expression of mock outrage
morphs his features. “Skylar Stone, are you checking out my ass?”
I lick my lips quickly.
Are we flirting?
It feels like we’re flirting.
And I don’t have the good sense to put a stop to it.
“No. It’s your thighs.”
He peers down at where his muscular thighs do indeed fill out his jeans.
“What about my thighs?”
I hold my hands up and make a squeezing motion with both. “They’re meaty.”
Now his jaw truly drops open. I might have caught him off guard with that one.
“Did you just motion squeezing my thighs?”
I shrug and twirl a piece of my hair around my finger as I search for something interesting to stare at. “More of a grope. And don’t judge me. City boys don’t have thighs like that.”
He barks out a laugh now, propping those distracting hands on his hips.
“No, I suppose not. City boys don’t spend all day riding horses. I don’t believe you weren’t checking out my ass, though. I have a great ass.”
I shrug, still refusing to turn my head in his direction. Or to admit that I definitely was checking out his ass. And it definitely is great. “The right jeans can make any ass look good.”
I peek at him as one of his cheeks hikes up. The dimple there is borderline blinding. “Should I take them off so you can test that theory?”
I laugh, shaking my head and scooping my hair behind my ears. My ears that are suddenly warm from his blatant flirtation.
It’s freeing to exchange these quips with West. I don’t know if it’s because my parents wouldn’t approve of him or that I feel safe with him. It strikes me that even if I said the things I’m thinking, he’d roll with the punches and not get weird about it.
It’s like breaking the rules and knowing there will be no repercussions.
But as fun as this is, guys like West and girls like me don’t work. Not in the long run anyway.
“Well, am I losing the pants so you can keep gawking at me like a piece of meat? Or are you gonna get your fine ass in here and help me?”
I blink. “Help you?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, you can toss hay. It’s night check.”
“Toss hay?” I ask, not familiar with the term. “Is that what it’s called when you hold it in your arms and do a two-step?”
He chuckles roughly and shakes his head. “Yeah, you can do the tango with it first if that’s more your speed. But this thing here is a square bale.” He points at the rectangular bundle of hay in the wheelbarrow. “And if you do this”—West runs his hand over the prickly green hay and digs his fingers in where there appears to be a slight gap—“you can just pull it open right here.”
He lifts a thin square piece of hay off the end of the bale that somehow sticks together. “And this right here is a flake.” He does a dramatic pirouette with the flake in his hands and hits me with a wink before heaving it into the feeder attached to the stall beside him.
I press my lips together, to keep from bursting out laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” he replies casually before continuing with his tutorial.
“After you toss it, you pop your head into the stall to make sure our horse is safe and sound and happy. Not cast up against the side or in distress or anything. And then you move on to the next one.”
“You want me to pick up the hay?”
He peers down at himself, realizing that he’s covered in dust and bits of the green feed. Between his thumb and forefinger, he pinches the fabric of his T-shirt, shakes it out a little, and wipes it off before looking back at me.
“Yeah, see? Now I’m clean. Magic.”
I glance at the hay and must make a face because West adds, “Might do you good to get dirty. Don’t worry, even covered in hay, you’ll still be fancy with your diamond earrings.”
Without thinking, I reach up and feel the studs in my ears.
Andrew bought them for me for my birthday and I haven’t taken them out since. The reminder has my skin itching and my throat feeling tight.
Suddenly, I want them off my body. Urgently. They feel dirty. They make me feel dirty.
I don’t want to be the girl who wears two-carat diamond studs. I’d rather be the girl who tosses hay without worrying about getting dust on her clothes.
West watches me with an indent between his brows as I tug the earrings out of my ears and shove them in the pocket of my sweater.
“I…was joking. You didn’t need to take them off.”
“No, I forgot I was wearing them.” I press the pad of my finger into the pointed bar of one earring. It hurts. It feels good. “Actually, do you want
them?” I pull my hand back out and hold my palm up to him. “You can have
them.”
West blanches. “What?”
It’s an impulsive offer and I know it. But I feel all tangled and torn. I don’t trust myself right now—hell, I don’t even know myself right now.
“I don’t know. I heard feeding horses is expensive. Or you can buy a pony for Emmy? Here, have them.” I shake my hand gently in his direction, and he eyes me like I’ve lost my mind.
After a beat, he takes a few tentative steps forward, leaving the wheelbarrow behind him. He curls his fingers around mine, forcing my palm closed and encasing the diamond studs in our hands. His voice is so sure, so kind, it almost makes me want to weep.
“Why don’t you sleep on that one? If you want to donate them to a good cause in a few days’ time, I’ll help you pick one out.”
The warmth of his touch seeps into my bones, and his eyes search mine in a way that’s full of questions. Questions he doesn’t ask. Instead, he steps away, taking the heat of his nearness with him.
It makes me want to follow him. It makes me want to chase that warmth, that comfort I feel when I’m close to him.
But I shimmy my shoulders and stand up tall before shoving the diamonds back into my pocket. Then I clear my throat and look him square in the eye. “Okay, I’m ready to toss some flakes. Let’s do this.”
He watches me for a moment, assessing me. I fear he’s going to ask one of those questions swirling in his irises. I swear I can see it sitting there on the tip of his tongue.
I’m no open book, but it seems as though all West needs to do is look at the cover to know something’s wrong. He sees past all the vibrant colors, all the shiny foiling. It’s like no matter how pretty the cover is, he knows that if he opened the book, the pages would be blank.
I can’t fool him. He sees right through me.
I realize I’m holding my breath when he finally points to one side and says, “You take left.” Then his opposite hand points the other way. “I take right.”
We spend the next several minutes working our way down the long concrete alleyway, pulling the flakes from the wheelbarrow and checking on each horse. The hay is prickly against my skin. It leaves me feeling itchy and like I can’t escape the dust that permeates my clothes or gets caught on my
cardigan. Regardless, the sweet smell of the grass does something good to my nervous system—calms it.
We work in a companionable silence for the next ten minutes. Our soundtrack is the horses’ content huffing as their teeth grind on the hay and the wheelbarrow’s low hum as West rolls it farther down the alleyway.
When we get to the far side of the barn, I glance up at him, thinking he’ll dismiss me now that we’ve completed the task.
But he surprises me.
“Wanna do the outdoor paddocks with me too?” he asks with a quirk of his head.
The relief I feel is instant. Sharp. I’m thrilled he doesn’t seem in a rush to get rid of me. I’m relieved that I’m not an annoyance to him—a liability.
Otherwise, surely, he would tell me to go to bed. But he didn’t. So I press my lips together and nod, following him out into the dark on the opposite side of the barn.
Somehow, being in his company out in the open air, under the milky sky, feels more oppressive than in the barn. Once again, I’m struck by the feeling of everything here being way too fucking quiet.
I feel the inexplicable need to say something, to soften the tension between us, to end the silence.
As our feet thud against the dirt path that runs between the paddocks, I’m just desperate enough that I blurt out, “My ex-boyfriend gave me those
earrings.”
West pauses and then continues walking.
He doesn’t turn to stare at me, so I forge ahead. “Or, well, I thought he was my boyfriend. And, actually, now that I say it out loud, I think he bought me those earrings. But it’s possible he didn’t.”
West carefully pulls a flake of hay and tosses it into the feeder at the paddock beside him. He’s not dancing now.
“What do you mean? Did he steal them?”
I laugh softly at that. “This story would be a lot more interesting if he did.”
I don’t know how West does it, but he has a way of taking a fragile moment and injecting humor into it. “No, I don’t think he stole them. I don’t even think he picked them out.”
“So he had a friend do it? An assistant?”
The laugh that erupts from my throat now is not amused. It’s dry and
painful, and it hurts my lungs as it rips itself from them. “I don’t know if you could consider him and my dad friends. More like partners in crime?
Contractually tied? I’m not entirely sure what the word would be for your dad paying another musician to be your boyfriend.”
West stops and stares at me now. “Come again?”
“Yeah, funny story, right? The kicker is, I had no idea.”
“That’s not funny, Skylar. What the fuck?”
“It’s funny but not ha-ha funny, right? Welcome to the world of Skylar Stone.”
West is stock-still, except for the tic in his jaw.
“Not the America’s sweetheart story the world likes to think it is, huh?
I’ve been dolled up and traipsed around and shined to the perfect luster to appeal to the consumer since I was a child. That was a weird awakening to have at twenty-six.”
I gaze up at the stars, a dry hum in my throat. “Everything that you thought was real is”—I wave a hand at the sky with a resigned sigh—“poof… not. You only figure it out when you sit down to lunch with your boyfriend and he opens with, ‘Sorry, Sky, haven’t received a payment from your dad lately, so I’d say the jig is up.’”
I laugh at my awkward monologue, but it’s uncomfortable. And West doesn’t laugh along with me.
He stands at attention. His eyes narrow as he regards me, like I might turn and flee or break down or…I don’t even know. Melt at his feet? I feel like I could explode. Yet saying it out loud, telling someone who doesn’t know me from Adam, relieves the smallest amount of pressure.
It makes me feel just a bit more comfortable in my body.
“What. The. Fuck.” West bites out the words and they drip with fury. His head is shaking and his fists are flexing. He puffs up just a little bit and it makes him seem bigger and more imposing than ever before.
“Hilariously, I’m not even sad about the breakup. We were never close. It was very transactional. But I am humiliated by it.”
He looks like he could kill someone for doing this to me. A comforting heat suffuses my bones. No one has ever been incensed by the things that have been done to me. And I’ve been subjected to some wild shit.
It makes me feel like I’m standing here staring at him with hearts in my eyes. It inspires an instant and irrational sort of loyalty. A little part of me at the back of my head knows it’s tragic to feel this impressed by simple human
kindness.
And yet, here I am. Slack-jawed over it.
West steps closer, knees bumping against the edge of the wheelbarrow that separates us, dipping his head to meet my eyes. “Skylar? Why? Why the fuck would your dad do that to you?” His rage mingles with genuine confusion.
“Because…” I glance away, teeth biting at my bottom lip. “Because marketing Skylar Stone in love with everyone’s favorite heartthrob crooner, Andrew McCann, makes sense. It’s easier than marketing the girl with no personality and a dependency on Auto-Tune, who can’t keep a man. It’s more palatable. I’ll give him that. Welcome to Hollywood,” I add with a sad, sarcastic smile.
West rounds the wheelbarrow and eats up the space between us, heating the surrounding air with the intensity of his stare. He’s too big, too nice. He’s too fucking much.
I shift my gaze to the blackness of the trees that line the property.
“Skylar, what are you looking at?” His voice rolls over my skin, coaxing me back toward him.
I swallow and dig in, too embarrassed to meet West’s eye. “I think I saw something in the trees.”
“Was it your ability to lie fleeing the premises?”
Fucking intuitive motherfucker. I suck in a sharp breath through my nostrils, the scent of pine cooling me from the inside.
“I’m not a good liar, okay? I don’t even want to be. But I’ve been unknowingly living a lie for…” I swallow. I can’t say my entire life out loud.
That’s too heavy. Too real. “For years” is what I settle on. “I am a lie.”
“Hey.” His harsh voice lashes through the night air. I start, and he reaches for my chin, showing zero hesitation to touch me. “Look at me, Skylar.”
I tip my nose higher but shake my head subtly. I don’t want to look at him.
His fingers tighten, and he turns my face to him anyway. Then his eyes are on me. Seeking. Searching. It feels like he’s digging right under my skin.
“Nothing about that story is palatable.”
I clamp my teeth and stare back up at him defiantly.
His hand moves, giving me a soft shake. “And you are not a lie. You are brimming with personality and humor and important things to say. And your relationship status just might be the least interesting thing about you. I’ve
known you for one day, and I already know that.”
“What’s the most interesting thing about me?” I whisper, feeling the pads of his fingers firm against my jawbones as I speak.
He smirks, and his eyes drop to my mouth. “The way you lick your lips when you stare at my thighs.” I huff out a laugh. “You look like you should carry a Chihuahua in your purse, but instead you have a bird that swears like
a sailor.”
Cherry. That makes me smile.
Then, I watch his expression turn more thoughtful as he quietly adds, “And the way you inspired a little boy who never talks to anyone to introduce himself to you. That’s something special.”
The urge to touch him overwhelms me. The tip of my pointer finger finds that hole in his tee and trails a circle on his bare skin. His rough hand lands at my waist. Gripping me. Making me wish not so many layers of clothing separated the feel of his fingers on my skin.
My heart pounds in my ears. And maybe it’s because I can’t hear myself think over the beat of that drum. Or maybe it’s that I don’t think at all.
But in one sweeping motion, I push up onto my toes, press a hand against West Belmont’s chest…and kiss him.
I hear his surprised intake of air and feel the barbs of his stubble against my cheek. He doesn’t kiss me back, though. Even when I move my lips against his…again.
He doesn’t press his body against mine. Instead, he holds my hips, keeping me a respectable distance away from him. When I try to push closer, the right angle of his arm holds me at bay.
It has me drawing back.
My first reaction is confusion. People always want this from me. Men are always pleasant to me with this kind of payoff.
I don’t think I’ve ever been turned down.
The fact that West is standing stiff as a board, borderline pushing me away, has alarm bells sounding in my head.
It has reality creeping in—the nickers of horses, the smell of hay, the weight of several carats of diamonds in my pocket.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp before I flip a hand up over my lips, replaying the weight and heat of his kiss.
When I finally brave a look up at West, he has a soft smile on his face.
And a slightly sad glint in his eye.
I see it.
Pity.
And that douses the flames I felt just moments ago.
He pities me. How could he not? I spilled my guts to him and kissed him.
Latched on to him like he could be a comfort blanket for me.
A comfort blanket with big fucking hands and the world’s roundest ass.
And now I’d like to dig myself a hole in this dirt path, crawl in, and die.
“Don’t be sorry.” He gently strokes my cheek, lifts a piece of my hair, and stares at it like it means something, then tucks it carefully behind my ear.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
I vigorously shake my head as I step back from his touch. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. You were just being nice, and I don’t what…well…we… we’re…”
“Friends?” he offers tentatively as I take a second step back.
Internally, I sag.
Friends.
I’m short on friends. But my stomach doesn’t flip when friends look at me. I don’t push closer and hope my friends will slide their tongues into my mouth. I don’t itch to feel my friends’ hands on my bare skin.
But still, I’m not in a position to turn down a friend. Especially a man as deeply good as West. So I force a bright expression onto my face.
And with the most practiced smile I can muster, I repeat the word back to him. “Friends.”
It feels like acid on my tongue. But West seems relieved.
So I tell myself I kind of like the taste.
Another day. Another lie.