7. Skylar #3
Mal has his back to the bare brick wall Jack painted white last summer. He leans forward as I speak, elbows on his thighs, his torso curving at an angle that makes me think of terrible things. “What else has he forgotten?”
“Six months of his life before the hit, and most of the first year after it. You didn’t know that?”
“How would I?”
Honestly, I couldn’t say. Until Jack got hurt, he’d only mentioned his brother in passing, and that never really changed until Mal got hurt too.
I suppress a shiver, recalling the stormy evening soldiers came looking for Jack last month. Jack cried that night. So did Sol. I wonder what it would mean to Mal if he knew.
The washing machine grinds with the same abrasive sound it has done for months now.
Reminding me where I am.
Who I’m with.
Mal glares at it. “That thing’s a fucking monster.”
Not really. Monsters don’t show you who they are with such little shame.
And I’m willing to bet he knows that. “Jack has focal seizures,” I tell him.
It’s not a secret—he’s had them behind the bar, though it’s been a while since that’s happened.
“And his eye bothers him. Other than that, he’s pretty solid most of the time. ”
Mal gives me his full attention, the glower he’d daggered the washing machine with replaced by the assessing stare I’ve already seen in him tonight. “How’s his short-term memory?”
“Better than Sol’s most of the time.”
“Really?”
“Worrying about forgetting things or fucking things up is a way bigger problem.”
Mal doesn’t need me to tell him that’s what he saw the first few days he was home.
So I don’t. I edge towards the door.
He catches me.
With his foot , hooking an ankle, and then his leg around me, reeling me in.
I could stop him.
I should stop him.
But the workout I inflicted on myself in the cellar is starting to do its job, and fatigue has crept in while I’ve been focused on other things, dulling all my senses except the ones that roar to life as he tugs me between his legs.
My hips hit his thighs. “Not done, eh?”
Mal’s gaze darkens, if such a thing is possible. “Of course we’re not fucking done.”
“Yeah?” I place my hands either side of him and lean in. “What’s left?”
Everything.
Nothing .
But this close, our lips inches apart, the current between us thrums with utter madness and I forget myself. I forget everything except his shallow inhale and the heat of his palms as he brings them to my waist.
I’m not touching him.
He’s touching me.
Not reciprocating feels impossible, but the things I want to do are the things we absolutely can’t.
Biting his neck.
Tasting his skin.
Wiping the growing smirk off his handsome face.
I lean harder against him and the game of chicken expands. Mal’s thumbs skim my hip bones. He does that thing with his tongue and his lips and the obnoxious noise from the washing machine fades to nothing.
This room, it’s too small, too warm.
There’s no air. And Mal—he’s too fucking close.
Except, he’s not.
I am.
For this to be over, I’m the one who has to move.
I don’t move. If anything, I lock in harder, an unconscious decision I should fight. But I don’t do that either, even as his hands slide over my stomach to a narrower grip and his thighs brush the scorched skin he’s left behind on my hips.
He’s right there, the space between us so minimal a breath of wind would crash us together. His gaze drops to my lips, a fleeting glance. But it’s a hammer blow to my pulse and a sharp jolt of heat coils in my belly.
I’m not going to stop him.
I’m not going to stop myself , the ache of holding back already too much.
His skin calls to me. That neck. I angle my head, skimming past his mouth at the last possible second, and brush my lips down his throat.
“ Fuck .”
Mal’s curse is so low I barely hear it.
But I feel it—that rumble in his chest, the tension in every sinew of his tall frame.
And fuck is right.
Because we can’t.
And even though we’ve never spelled out why to each other, we both love Jack enough to know it.
I draw back.
Mal allows it, his stare molten with the same want I don’t bother hiding from him.
I let him see it. Let him feel it.
Then I shut that shit down. “We can’t.”
Mal’s curled leg slides away from my waist, his hands leaving my bare skin. “I know. It’s not why I yanked you back.”
I’m not sure I believe him. But it doesn’t matter. The moment’s passed and we’re back to whatever brings a hardness to his eyes that almost eclipses the exhaustion I see now we’re not so tangled in each other. “What else do you want to know?”
Mal puts even more distance between us, returning to his lean against the wall. “I want to know what Sol’s hiding. And if it’s got anything to do with the dent in his boat and the hood rat I chucked back over the wall the other night.”
Any heat lingering in the tight space dies as much as it’s ever going to. “The scrotes are after the bottle crates. So they can break them up and sell them on the beach. They can’t get to them unless they get in when we’re open, but they keep coming.”
“The scrotes on the beach are kids.”
“And?”
“I didn’t boot a kid. It was an adult with designer kecks hanging out of their posh jeans, and the pub was fucking shut.”
“You see their face?”
“No.”
The next logical question is how he can be so sure how old they were, but I don’t bother. Mal’s a special forces operator. If he says it was an adult, I believe him.
“I don’t know who it was, but it makes no sense for them to come over the back if they were trying to get to Sol’s boat.”
“Why would anyone want to get to Sol’s boat?”
“It’s mackerel season.”
“So?”
“ So , you know how fucking feudal this town is. And Sol doesn’t get on with the newer boat gangs out there either.”
“Gangs?” Mal cocks a brow. “That a colloquialism or are we talking about actual fucking crime?”
“What do you think?”
“I think in this shithole, it could mean anything. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Then you need to ask Sol yourself.” I’ve said as much I’m going to. “And do it when Jack’s not around. He worries about Sol being out on the boats as it is.”
“Why?”
“It’s a dangerous job.”
Mal’s gaze intensifies, belying the tone he’s kept casual until now. He leans forward again, but this time, it’s not to tug me closer and wreak havoc on my self-control. “If someone hurt Sol, I want to know about it.”
“So you can form a one-man crusade to save him?”
“You think he needs saving?”
“I don’t know. Sol doesn’t tell me much about what happens out there. All I know is that it’s been tough since whoever was controlling the waters pulled out and disappeared.”
“It wasn’t the bikers?”
“No.”
“Then who was it?
“How the fuck would I know?” I speak quietly, but the snap lacing my words feels unnaturally loud. And unnecessary. What I’m saying isn’t unreasonable. So why the fuck is Mal studying me like a surgeon waiting to cut? And why does my gut feel like the blade is already there?
I need to get away from him. Before he peels my skin back for real and exposes the cracks. Before I tell him I’m worried about Sol too, and that whatever’s happening out there on the water…
It’s my fault.
I step back.
Mal’s lips twitch, like I’ve just given myself up.
Go .
I spin around.
He calls my name and I want to face him again as much as I want to cleave a hole in the door to the past and crank that bitch wide open.
I’ve shown him enough weakness already, and it makes me wish I’d just fucked him that night instead of letting him see me.
That I’d made him forget everything except whatever pain and pleasure we’d carved out together .
But it’s too late for that. We didn’t fuck. And we’re not going to. Which means we’re this . Acquaintances who glower accusations at each other in the dark, before one of us walks away.
Before I walk away.
And yet I don’t move, save a slow spin to where he still sits on the freezer, his melodic voice wrapped around my name softer than silk, and it fucking annoys me. “ What ?”
Mal skewers me with a stare he probably thinks is casual. “I’m not apologising for pissing you off. But I am sorry for caging you in down here. You make me fucking crazy and I’m wondering if it’s the only thing keeping me sane.”
The air between us is as messy as that sentence. Polluted by the bullshit I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to escape. But…it’s not his fault, and I can’t live with letting him think it is. “You didn’t piss me off. I did. And it was me caging you. So don’t ever think it’s the other way round.”
I leave before he can respond and ascend the steps to the pub.
It’s closed while I’ve been in the depths of the cellar.
Lights out, money stashed, the scent of stale beer and mayhem clinging to the walls.
I don’t linger long enough for it to cling to me.
I keep going, more stairs, until I reach the flat.
Until I’m home , windows closed except for the sea breeze gusting through Mal’s open bedroom door.
He needs it .
And I can live with that. I follow the light to where Jack and Sol are still up with Sol’s Norse god chess set between them, the TV on low in the background.
They’re halfway through a game, but that tells me nothing about how long it’s been going. Jack plays chess to oil the cogs in his damaged brain.
Sol plays for him. Everything always for him.
I move past them and to the kitchen. I’m not hungry, but I eat when I can, loading up for when I can’t. I dig a protein bar from the cupboard no one ever goes in except me. Because it’s a hellscape of bland things.
“What’s with the white food?”
The bar goes down like dry sand. I take water to the living room and park myself next to Jack, knowing I need company for however long it takes for the lump in my stomach to retract its spikes.
He’s frowning at the board. Then he frowns at me, too caught up in the game to adjust his expression. “All right?”
His eyes are the same colour as Mal’s. Hair is different. His build. His entire personality. But they share enough that it’s hard to look at my friend long enough to tell him I’m fine.
I nod.
Jack studies me a moment longer, then returns his attention to the board. He never hassles me. He just loves me and hugs me when I need it.
Sol’s harder to keep quiet, but he’s distracted tonight, and I’m perversely glad of it. And I hate myself for it. Sol’s hurt, and he needs me to be a better fucking friend.
But I need a minute first.
Or however long it takes me to forget I left Mal in the basement and he hasn’t come up yet.