Chapter seven
Zio
It was after midnight. Sky and I had officially made it three days into February without her running off.
I was leaning against the deck railing, the party still going.
It was cold as fuck, my leather jacket barely keeping me warm, and the condensation from my glass was cold against my palm.
The Atlantic was roaring, but it was being drowned out by yelling.
Sky and Brent were at each other’s throats over a game of dominoes, and I had never been more amused in my life.
“Bones!” Sky screamed, slamming a tile down with enough force to make the legs of the table wobble. “Read ’em and weep, Counselor! Mr. Lawyer. You’re out here talking like a giant, but you’re playing like a toddler, bitch.”
Brent looked like he was about to have a stroke. He had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and an ice grill on his face. “You’re cheating, Sky. I know you’re counting tiles. You write sex books for a living; you ain’t good at math, or you’d be doing something else. Scam ass.”
“Maybe you’re just trash, Brent,” she fired back. She didn’t even look at him; her fingers were already dancing over the tiles to mix them for the next round. “Your mouth is way too fly for your skill level. You’re light, baby.”
I couldn’t help the grin spreading across my face. I caught Ivy’s eye, and she was smirking too. This was exactly what Brent needed—somebody who treated him like he treated everybody else. After another round, we could all see Brent was about to get mad for real.
Ivy interrupted the game. “So, tell me, Sky. What are you working on? Zio gave me a couple of your books. I liked your alien story.”
Sky completely forgot the game. She loved telling people her new story ideas. I made my way down, lifted her from the chair, and sat her in my lap. She started talking like nothing had happened.
“I’m writing a modern-day retelling of African gods.
In the myth, Shango is thunder and fire; Oshun is the river that keeps him from burning the world down.
In my version,” she said, her voice low and textured, “Shango is a man with too much power and a temper that’s cost him everything he ever loved—his family, everything.
He’s a kingpin, a fixer. And Oshun… she’s the woman who sees the cracks.
She’s the only one who knows that his fire is just a mask for the fact that he’s freezing to death inside. ”
She shifted in my lap and continued. She was warm.
“It’s dark,” she said, looking out at the black horizon.
“Because their love isn’t a fairy tale. It’s an obsession.
He’d rather destroy her than lose her, and she’d rather drown him than let anyone else have him.
It’s beautiful—their angst and pining—and danger.
They have a misunderstanding, and the story becomes the two of them figuring out how to ruin the other.
An enemies-to-lovers. I’ve got the first two chapters up on my Patreon, and my subscribers are loving it already. ”
Brent was actually silent for once, leaning back with a look of genuinely listening.
Sky had a way of making the air feel heavy when she talked about what she wrote.
Eventually, the noise from the house faded.
Xavier and Ivy headed in, and Brent disappeared, leaving us alone with the sound of the tide.
“I’m jealous,” I muttered.
“Of what?” she asked. “You the one with bitches on bitches,” she joked, sounding drowsy.
I pulled her closer. The wind was picking up, turning the Atlantic into a wall of white noise.
I tilted my head down, my mouth near her hair.
“You got so many words for them fake men in your head.” I paused, feeling the truth of it sit heavy in my chest. “But when I said I loved you, all I got was ‘thank you.’”
Sky shifted in my lap, her head tilting back to look at me. Her eyes were heavy with the wine, but a smile was on her face.
“Zio,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Thank you means more than you think it does. Especially from me. Words come easy to me—I can spin a lie or a fantasy ten different ways. I could have given you a monologue. I could have written you a poem.”
She stopped, her thumb resting on my bottom lip. “But you had me at a loss for words. That never happens,” she continued. “That ‘thank you’ was me actually being thankful that you loved me when I hadn’t given you many reasons to.”
“Why not just say it back?”
“Because it’s cliché. My romance story wasn’t going to be cliché.”
“But—” I started to ask her what was wrong with normal love.
“I’m tired, Z,” she mumbled, her forehead dropping onto my shoulder, cutting me off.
I let the conversation go. “Let’s go home,” I said, lifting her up with me as I stood.
She clung to me, her breath warm against my neck. “Is Brent always like that? He acts slow,” she asked sleepily as we headed toward the house.
“Every single day,” I laughed. “But don’t worry. I think you’re the only person I know who can shut him up .”