Skyler
I’m good at this game.
The “ignore him, get wasted, dance with every other guy and make him want to crawl out of his skin with jealousy” game.
It’s the most natural, comfortable thing, slipping into that role tonight. I didn’t expect to see Kip at my formal, the one place where I was supposed to be able to let loose with my sisters and Clinton and just forget about Kip for a while.
But of course, he showed up.
At first, I tried ignoring him. Then, I got so annoyed by his presence that I pulled him into a dance and demanded to know why he was there.
“I wanted to see you, to talk to you. I feel like I owe you an explanation.”
Oh, you fucking think?
Just remembering his stupid, sad eyes when he tried to explain himself makes me throw back another shot angrily.
Then, I’m grabbing another guy and dragging him to the dance floor.
I have no idea who he is. It doesn’t matter.
All that does matter is that he’s got his hands on my hips, his crotch pressed against my ass, and Kip has to watch it and know there’s nothing he can do about it.
Take that, asshole.
It’s petty, and childish, but I can’t help it.
All semester long, Kip preached to me to stop caring what other people think of me, to stand up for myself and be who I want to be — regardless of what anyone else has to say about it.
So, to find out he’s letting his father play him like a puppet because he’s afraid of disappointing him?
He’s a hypocrite, and now I’m determined to drink and dance until I forget he ever existed.
My head rushes, vision fuzzy and legs heavy as I try to keep up with the swaying rhythm set by the guy behind me.
His hands crawl up my ribs, grabbing the silk of my dress as I lean more of my weight on him.
I kind of feel like throwing up, kind of feel like taking someone home — and in the back of my mind, I hear my dignity begging me to come to my senses.
“‘Scuse me,” I slur to the guy, shoving off him and stumbling toward the stage. The DJ claps his hands and changes up the beat when I make my way up to stand next to him, and there’s a crowd of guys below me, hooting and hollering, my own little fan show.
In my mind, I try to convince myself that they want me because I’m such a catch, because I’m such a great dancer and my dress looks amazing. But I know the truth. Somewhere deep down, I know they just see a drunk girl who they can easily get in their bed.
But no one is getting in my bed. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever.
Not after Kip Jackson.
I let him in, let him obliterate my walls like they were made of paper instead of stone. I trusted him, confessed all my lies, thought we were starting over with a clean slate. But all this time, he was playing me.
All this time, I was just a game.
The sting of that drives me as I dance, the cheers from below fueling my pettiness. And when I look up past the crowd and see Kip’s back, see him walking away, I know I’ve won. He can’t take anymore. He’s leaving.
Why do I suddenly want him to stay?
I shove that thought down, throwing my hands up and closing my eyes as I dance. I sway my hips, spinning slowly to the beat. But my foot slips, and then there’s no floor beneath it, and the next thing I know, I’m falling.
For a moment, it’s almost as I I’m suspended in time, as if my body is floating down to the hard ground below the stage like a feather. I watch the faces twist around me, the eyes growing wide, the mouths closing into tight o’s as they watch in horror.
But I feel nothing.
Not when my body hits the floor.
Not when my vision goes dark.
And not when I come to again, however many minutes later, and see Kip’s ocean blue eyes staring down at me.
“Fuck, Skyler,” he says, pulling me to his chest. I’m still on the floor, but he’s holding me in his arms, my head on his shoulder as he wipes my hair from my face. “You scared the shit out of me.”
My heart skips a beat, warmth crashing over me as my traitorous body clings to Kip like he’s my only lifeline.
“Ouch,” I manage, and there’s a little ring of laughter around me. I can’t even focus my vision enough to see who’s there. Someone presses a cool washcloth to the back of my neck and I sigh, head spinning, body aching.
“Let’s get you home,” Kip whispers in my ear, and all I can do is nod, holding onto him tighter as he lifts me.
I hear my sisters telling him to let them know we made it home safely, but I just curl into him more.
I feel hands touching my back, but I just curl into him more.
Clinton tells me to call him in the morning and I nod, but then, I curl into Kip more.
And when we’re in a cab, the engine humming me to sleep as we make our way across town, I hold onto him, wishing I never had to let go.
Wishing he was still the boy who loved me, instead of the one who caused me pain.
I don’t know how far we are from the venue when I lift my head, my eyes struggling to focus on his as he stares back at me.
And I don’t know what I’m thinking when I lean into him again, this time pressing my lips to his, my entire body buzzing to life with the electric charge that’s always existed between us.
Kip inhales a breath, and I do, too, holding it in my burning chest as I try to deepen the kiss.
But he breaks it.
“Skyler,” he says when he pulls back, and just the way he says my name is the worst rejection I’ve ever felt.
I swallow, waiting for him to take it back, to kiss me, too. But his brows pull together, his eyes searching mine.
“You’re drunk,” he finally says, shaking his head. “You don’t want to kiss me.”
And I wish he was right. I wish that were true.
But no matter how he’s hurt me, no matter what I should feel, I can’t help it.
I still want him.
“Yes, I do,” I whisper, eyes blurring from tears instead of alcohol as I push off his lap and slide across the back seat to the opposite window. I stare at the car lights passing on the other side of the road, rolling my lips together to keep from crying.
How did I get here?
I can’t wrap my head around it, how I started the semester with only one thing on my mind — the tournament — and yet ended it with a boy somehow ruling more of me than poker ever has.
I just want him to take it all back, to tell me he’s not entering the tournament, that he loves me more than he loves playing me for his father’s entertainment.
I don’t even understand it all, what his dad wants from him, why it means so much.
I want answers, and yet I don’t want anything else from Kip at all.
Other than maybe for him to go back in time and never come into my life at all.
“You know,” I say after a moment, sniffing. “This just might be the worst downswing I’ve ever experienced.”
I turn to him again, waiting until his eyes are on mine before I continue.
“I never could have expected I’d lose so much of my self betting on you.”
I know the words cut him deep. His eyes sag, brows pinching together. One of his hands twitches, like he wants to reach for me, but I just turn away again, staring out the window and waiting for the ride to end.
But Kip is just like me.
He can’t let go.
“I love you.”
His words fly into space without warning, and I choke on a sob I didn’t expect, shaking my head and trying with all my might to fight off the wave of tears. But I can’t fight anymore, and as the first tears wet my cheeks, my heart twists in defeat.
“Well, I fucking hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I face him again, my chest tight, tears hot on my face. “I want to.”
God, do I want to. I don’t think I’ve ever wished for anything more than to disconnect from my feelings in this moment, to take his face and associate it with pain and betrayal instead of love and comfort.
Kip just swallows, his mouth opening like he wants to say something before he snaps it shut again.
And when we pull up to the KKB house, he jumps out, quickly making his way around to my door.
In an instant, his arm is around my waist, mine over his shoulder as he peels me out of the cab and helps me up to the porch.
“Are you okay?” he asks when we make it. “Are you going to be sick?”
And I just laugh, because the irony of the boy causing me the most pain asking if alcohol is going to be the reason I have a shit night is just too much.
“I’m fine,” I bite, pulling out of his grasp to stand on my own. “I’ve been drunk a few times before, you know.”
“I just want you to be okay.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Kip swallows, stepping back with a slight nod as he shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at his shoes. There are so many words hanging between us, suspended in a void we can’t quite reach. There’s so much still left to say, and yet, there’s nothing more to say at all.
A fresh tear streaks down my cheek without warning, and I swipe it away, wishing I could do the same to the love I feel for Kip. Glancing at my phone, I see it’s just past midnight — on a date I know I’ll never forget, not since the cruise when Kip had me figure out what his lucky number was.
“See you in Vegas,” I say, reaching for the door handle when I turn. But I pause, heart squeezing as I look back over my shoulder. “Oh, and happy birthday.”
I close the door behind me, climb the stairs, and crawl into bed still in my dress, hoping sleep will kill the pain.
Thankfully, I don’t dream of Kip.
That’s the only mercy I’m shown.
***
When I check into my room at the Aria the night before the tournament, I can’t help but feel like a bird in the pouring down rain — so desperate to fly, yet with no means to get off the ground.
I’m broken, and I just wish the only thing that could fix me wasn’t the one thing I need to stay away from.
The past month has been absolute hell.
I somehow managed to make it through the rest of the semester and finish out my classes, but just barely. Practicing for the tournament has been nothing but me playing like complete shit. I’m off my game, and it’s not a secret, anymore.