Chapter 5
five
HUDSON
“Well that was an asshole move,” Autumn says as I close the car door on Ayda and Barney, who might be a dog but his expression at me is cutting. “You could have been nicer to Skyler,” she points out.
“Why?” I ask. “What is she to me?” Christ, I’m exhausted. Not because of Ayda’s nightmare last night, which is the excuse I gave my sister. She doesn’t need to know that I also had an annoyingly disturbing dream about a certain owner of a mouth stud. Mostly of me doing unspeakable things to those swollen, beautiful lips.
And today I got a glimpse of her bare stomach to add to the library of Skyler Brown images that seem to be accumulating in the dark recesses of my brain. The way it’s tan and taut, the tattoo curling around to lick at her navel. And I’m not going to fucking think about those long, lithe legs that look like they go on for miles.
“She took care of Ayda for one,” Autumn says, interrupting my thoughts, thankfully. “And she’s new and she doesn’t know anybody.”
“She obviously knows Eileen,” I point out, trying to ignore the pang of guilt pulling at my abdomen. I don’t have time for guilt and I definitely don’t have time to worry about the feelings of a woman who’s hopefully leaving the island very soon.
The sooner the better. Because I don’t like the way I want her.
“She doesn’t know Eileen,” my sister corrects me. “She went to Eileen for help. With your daughter . If you want to be annoyed with anybody, be annoyed with me . I’m the one who was watching her when she disappeared.”
I take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. From the corner of my eye I see Ayda pick up one of the many picture books strewn across the backseat. She can read and understand every word we say to her.
She just doesn’t speak. And it’s killing me.
Because she used to speak. As a baby she babbled away to her heart’s content. She cooed and smiled and started to say words at the right age. Younger, actually, because she’s an intelligent kid.
Dada was her first word, said with intent at the age of ten months. It annoyed her mother to bits, but the doctor told us she wasn’t only hitting every milestone with gusto, she was smashing them to pieces.
By three she was speaking in full sentences.
Now she just sits passively and says nothing and it’s all my fucking fault.
That’s the truth of it. I let out a long breath, because all of this has absolutely nothing to do with the woman whose father’s died and left her his bar.
She’s just gotten into the middle of something she shouldn’t have.
I toss the keys to my sister. “Can you drive Ayda home?” I ask.
She frowns at me. “How will you get home?”
“I’ll call a cab.”
Autumn grins at me because we both know that’s a lie. The only cab driver on the island is Simon and this is his day off because his wife insists that he takes her to the mainland to the local market.
“I’ll walk. It’s a beautiful day.”
She blinks, surprised. “Walk? You never walk.”
“I’ve been doing it for the last thirty-six-years,” I point out.
This time she laughs. I love my kid sister fiercely, the way I love all of my family. Part of the reason I’ve invested so much money on this island is to bring us all together again. Autumn is already back for good, and Eden will come when she’s ready. As for my brothers – I have three of them – they visit for holidays and parties and I know at least two of them hate leaving every time.
It's not just an island it’s a haven. It’s where we all feel safe after being adrift for so long. It’s where I can bring up my daughter without fear of losing her.
Again .
“Just go,” I tell her. “I’ll find my own way home.”
“Okay, whatever.” She shakes her head at me. “I hope you’re going to apologize to that nice woman. I don’t have many friends my age here, and I’d like her to fill that gap.”
“You can’t just be friends with her. You don’t know her. She’s an out-of-towner,” I tell her, using the word the people of Liberty use for tourists and visitors.
“She’s Wayne’s daughter. That makes her one of us,” Autumn counters, and I can see that stubborn look in her eye. She’s ten years younger than me, but damn she can be recalcitrant when she wants to be. Like when she fell in love with my best friend and the two of them got married.
I’ve come to terms with that. Maybe I even like it a bit. I know Parker will take care of her, and I need the headspace to stop worrying about her constantly.
“She’ll be leaving soon,” I point out gently, because I know Autumn has the tendency to get attached. “Don’t put too much hope on being besties with her.”
But the truth is, I don’t like my kid sister being lonely. Sure, she has Parker and her business which is growing. And she takes great care of Ayda. But I also know she’s an outgoing woman. She craves female company.
So I’m going to go apologize even though I don’t want to. And then I’ll forget about this woman and her fucking lip piercing for once and for all.
My life is finally on an even keel after being rocky for way too long. I need to concentrate on Ayda’s recovery and nothing else.
“But you’ll still apologize?” Autumn says hopefully, giving me that wide-eyed stare she knows will work every damn time.
“I’ll try.” My reply is short. “But don’t expect miracles.”
* * *
SKYLER
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I arrived on Liberty and I’m already thinking about leaving. So I decide it’s time to start rage cleaning and forget all about that handsome ass who thinks he owns everything and everybody on the island.
But because I’m me , and easily distracted, I decide I need music to get motivated. I walk over to the old-style jukebox that’s covered in a film of dust and hunker down to plug it in.
As soon as I flick the switch I wait for the sparks to fly and the whole thing to explode in front of me; after the morning I’ve had, it really would be the icing on the cake.
But instead, the lights on the Wurlitzer glow in pinks and whites and purples, forming an arch over the huge wooden case. I lean forward to look at the music options, smiling as I see them.
I remember finding some vinyls and an old record player Dad left behind in Mom’s garage, years after he left us. They were in a tattered box on a shelf and it was a little bit like finding a treasure trove. I can still remember my excitement at listening to Fleetwood Mac for the first time, dancing in the dusty garage, feeling like I was free.
I still love Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks is my queen.
Along with Fleetwood Mac, there are other singers I recognize on the jukebox’s list. Bruce Springsteen, Journey, Tom Petty. My dad’s musical heart belonged in the seventies and eighties, the same place my own soul belongs. And that makes me feel warm inside.
Hitting the second button I choose Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’”, and the strum of his guitar echoes out from the speakers on either side of the jukebox, the familiar riff making my heart feel wistful.
Then the vocals start. His voice rasps out, making me shiver. Telling me that she’s a good girl and she loves her mama.
I start to sing, feeling stupidly emotional, as I walk behind the counter to locate the cleaning supplies I was looking for earlier. There’s so little there. Just a bottle of bleach, a bag of clean cloths, and a spray bottle that’s seen better days.
I’m going to have to go shopping. I grab my purse and keys, still singing along with Tom, my heart starting to beat faster as he gets to the part about being a bad boy because he’s breaking her heart.
Then his voice lifts as he reaches the chorus. He’s free fallin’, he tells me, as I sing along. You can’t help it with this song, you just have to go for it. I start to dance, singing my heart out, feeling more like Tom than the girl he’s written the song about.
I’m not the good girl my mom wanted me to be. I’m the wayward one. I don’t know how else to be.
I sing louder, loud enough to push away those dark thoughts. I’ve spent a long time trying to be the person my mom and sister wanted me to be. I never could do it. I can’t conform, but it doesn’t mean there’s not a little part of me that wishes I could.
Wishes I could be the good girl that fits in with the rest of my family.
I wipe away a tear, because I’m not here for that, as Tom launches into the second chorus and I sing along.
I’m free. That’s what I want to be. That’s what runs through my veins.
Maybe that was the same thing that ran through dad’s veins, too. The need to be different. To not conform.
I put my hands up in the air, swaying, singing like my heart depends on it. I’m going to be okay, I always have been.
And then I just about jump out of my skin, because I’m not alone in the bar. He’s standing there, in the door way watching me.
Hudson Fitzgerald. His jaw tight, his eyes dark, and his hair still perfectly styled. What wouldn’t I give to mess it up and piss him off?
My heart slams against my ribcage.
“Jesus, you gave me a heart attack,” I tell him, my eyes wide. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know how much you love Tom Petty,” he says, deadpan.
I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “I was trying out the jukebox.” Not that I owe him any explanation. Truth is, despite the fact that I’m a free spirit this man is a little intimidating.
Okay, a lot intimidating. It’s not just his broad stature, or the way he always looks like he’s about to go for a quick shoot with GQ magazine. It’s his dark brows and stormy blue eyes.
“Did you leave something here?” I ask him, pretending to look around. “Like your manners?”
The corner of his lip twitches. “I just came back to speak to you.”
“About what? Want to take me to the cop shop for child abduction?” I put my hands on my hips, and his gaze follows the movement. Then it dips to my legs.
“No.” He lets out a breath. “I’ve come to apologize for my response earlier. Thank you for taking care of Ayda.”
I blink. Well I wasn’t expecting that. I wait for him to start laughing but he doesn’t.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I heard you,” I say.
“You heard me perfectly well.”
“Tom’s very loud,” I point out. “And I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Say it again.”
His lips twitch harder. He opens his mouth but no words come out.
“Oh come on,” I say. “Apologies should be like proposals.”
“In what way?” he asks. “They’re nothing alike.”
“You should mean them for one,” I tell him. “And the person you’re saying them to should actually get to hear them.”
“And apart from that? What are the similarities?”
I shrug. “I mean if you want to give me an expensive diamond ring…” Of course I’m joking.
This time the corner of his mouth actually curls. Could this man actually be smiling? I wasn’t sure it was physically possible.
“I’m very sorry for accusing you of not being trustworthy,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “And I’m very thankful that you took such good care of my daughter. Is that okay?” He doesn’t sound like he cares if it’s okay or not.
“I would have preferred the on one knee thing, but sure.” I shrug. Tom finishes singing, and the silence echoes in the room.
“My sister would very much like to be friends with you,” he suddenly says, his voice a decibel too loud.
“You want to arrange a play date for us?” I arch a brow.
“Of course I don’t want to arrange a playdate. Autumn is my sister, and she’s a little lonely here on the island. For some reason she likes you.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “Why does that feel like criticism and not a compliment?” I ask him, though secretly I’m thrilled. I liked Autumn too. It would be nice to have somebody to talk to other than Lee, who as lovely as she is, can be a little too inquisitive.
“It wasn’t supposed to be either. Just a statement of fact.” His gaze flickers over my tattoo, exposed right above the waistline of my shorts.
“And how do you feel about that?” I ask him. “Are you worried I’ll lead her astray?”
“She’s an adult.”
“You don’t treat her like one. You don’t treat anybody like one,” I tell him. “You seem to think you’re the king of the island and we’re all your subjects.”
“King of the island?” He lifts a brow. “That’s a very interesting way of describing me.”
“How would you describe yourself?” I’m closer to him now. I’m not sure whether it was him or me that took a step toward the other. God, I hope it was him.
“I wouldn’t.” He shrugs. “Why would I? I’m not interested in being described.”
“Because I know how you’d describe me,” I say, my voice low. There’s a crackle in the air between us.
“And how would that be?”
This time I do take a deliberate step toward him. He looks down at my face, his expression unreadable. He's so annoying. And I want to annoy him.
I try not to think about why I want to do that. Because that way madness lies.
“I’m not one of the good girls you’re used to, am I?” I say. “I don’t wear sweet little skirts or designer jeans. I don’t talk about houses or babies or whether the polo club’s ball will be a Pretty Woman theme this year.”
He tips his head to the side, saying nothing, just listening. And I’m annoyed. By the way he treats me, by the way he thinks he can own this place when it belongs to me.
And the way my body responds when he’s near.
This time he takes a step closer. He looks down at me, our gazes locking like they’re ready for battle. His close proximity makes it hard to breathe. My heart starts banging against my chest, but I refuse to look away.
He can’t intimidate me. And he won’t be intimidated by me, either.
We’re at a deadlock. And it’s never felt so physical.
I part my lips to exhale and his gaze dips to my lips. He leans down and for one drawn out moment I think he’s going to kiss me.
My breath catches. My heart pounds. His jaw twitches like it’s on speed.
There’s a sweet pulse between my thighs that I swear he knows he’s causing. My body wants to rub itself up against him until the aching disappears.
My mind, though, wants to claw at his face.
It’s a strange juxtaposition. One I’m not used to.
I lift my chin, my eyes screaming for my lids to close. I swear they’re more dry than the desert. But I won’t be the first to blink, I won’t.
Then he lets out a long sigh and steps back, the weird connection between us breaking. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
All I know is that my skin tingles for him.
Running his fingers through his hair – like even an inch of it is out of place, he takes a long breath and frowns.
“Have a good day,” he says, as though we didn’t just have a battle of wills with our eyes. “I’ll tell Autumn to call you.”
“She doesn’t have my number,” I point out.
“No, but I do.”
He has my number? I frown, because I didn’t give it to him. How the hell has he gotten it?
Because he’s King of the island, dumb dumb.
He’s out of the door before I can say anything else. He walks past the window to my right, and for a second he pauses and adjusts his pants.
Oh. So he did feel it too.
This is Tom’s fault. Or his song at least.
And okay, it’s a little bit mine too.
The only good thought is that I’m pretty sure I’ll never see Hudson Fitzgerald again after that little exhibition. Which is a good thing.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.