4. Declan
DECLAN
Skylar Galloway is sunshine personified.
Always has been. You know when it’s been raining for days and you see that first ray of light bursting through the clouds?
Demanding to be seen. Like it can’t be held back anymore.
Like it needs to connect with the world.
And even though you may have gotten used to the grayness and the cold, you still feel called to sit on the windowsill and soak up the warmth beating down on the ledge.
Not because you need it to stay alive, but because it’s too tempting not to.
That’s Skylar.
Pure fucking golden sunshine.
Even now, as her green gaze flicks back and forth in confusion, her white teeth catching her lip as she wipes her free hand on the side of her dress.
Even as she looks down at where my thumb is running along the seam of her cast. Even as anger, bright and fierce, takes over her features.
Even now, she radiates light. And when she finally opens her lips to speak, her voice soft and angelic, I realize that I won’t be able to keep punishing myself for much longer.
“I—what?”
I’ve been so caught up in letting myself be this close to her, feeling the weight of her wrist in my hand, that I almost forgot the reason I stalked over here in the first place.
As soon as I got past the all-consuming dizziness of seeing Skylar Galloway again after all these years, I noticed the cast on her wrist, and my blood turned cold.
She’s hurt. All I could think about is that she got fucking hurt and I wasn’t there.
Then I thought about all the times she stubbed her toe or got a paper cut in the six years we’ve been apart, and how it should have been me there to give her an ice pack.
Wipe the blood away. Make a joke about how clumsy she can be while I put a band-aid with skateboarding dogs on it or some shit.
Because Skylar Galloway doesn’t own beige band-aids.
I couldn’t stop wondering if it was an accident, if she just tripped over her perpetually untied shoelaces, or if it was worse.
I imagined someone grabbing her wrist, twisting it until she screamed, and I couldn’t stop the rage from coursing through my veins.
I tried to leave. I told myself nothing good could come from confronting her.
I made a promise to myself, to her, years ago, that no matter how much it gutted me, I would stay away.
It’s why I promptly left the courthouse even after Emory whispered to me that they were throwing Ash and Allie an afterparty.
I made it half a mile down Main Street before I turned my bike around, downed half of the flask I brought in my pocket, just in case, and crashed through the front door of Allie’s restaurant.
Now Skylar is looking at me like I’m the devil incarnate as she snatches her arm out of my grasp.
But I’m nothing if not an asshole, so if she thinks I’m letting this go, she’s dead wrong.
“Who broke your wrist, Skylar?”
My voice is steady but firm, leaving no room for my question to go unanswered, but it does anyway. She takes a step back, putting space between us. Her eyes don’t just radiate anger; they’re heavy-lidded and glassy like she’s been drinking.
“That’s none of your business.” She goes to turn away, but I’m right behind her, closing every bit of distance she creates.
“Too bad I just made it mine.”
She whirls around so fast, her long auburn hair almost catches me in the eye. “Are you serious? We haven’t spoken in years, and you want to know why I’m wearing a fucking cast? As if it matters to you.”
I ignore her last comment because I can’t form the words to explain to her just how much it matters to me. “Ash didn’t mention anything.”
She scoffs, turning away again, muttering her next word more to herself than to me. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Skylar, tell me what happened.”
She’s completely ignoring me now as she walks to a counter set up with beverages on the other side of the restaurant and grabs an open bottle of champagne.
“Skylar,” I try again, following her as she pushes open the side door that leads to the outdoor patio. It’s freezing as fuck, so no one is out here. She slams her ass into a chair, taking a long swig of the fizzy wine.
Scrubbing my face, I fight the urge to light up a cigarette.
She hated when I started smoking back in high school.
She used to hide my packs, so I’d have to tickle her until she finally gave in, but she always made me promise to quit.
I did quit. For a little while, anyway. But then I broke her heart, and when she left town, smoking was the only luxury I let myself have.
She takes another sip of champagne and that’s when I notice goosebumps running down her exposed arms. Who the fuck wears a dress like that in the middle of winter?
I shrug out of my leather jacket and drape it over her shoulders, my own arms now bared to the elements.
I swapped my suit jacket for the leather one earlier, so now I’m in nothing but a dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up to my elbows.
“I don’t need your stupid jacket,” she scoffs, attempting to shrug it off.
“Too fucking bad.” I place a firm hand on her shoulder, keeping it in place.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Because I don’t want you to freeze to death? You’re right. I should be arrested. You want to call the authorities, or should I just walk over to the station and turn myself in now?”
Her eyes roll around in a complete circle, but then her mouth does this little half-turn thing, like she’s trying to keep from smiling, and surprisingly, she hands me the bottle of champagne.
“It was a car accident,” she breathes like she’s tired of having to say the words. When I don’t say anything, she adds, “My wrist.”
“When?” I don’t mean for my voice to croak, but the images of Skylar surrounded by smoke and scattered glass are making my throat constrict.
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Were you driving? Who were you with?”
She grabs the bottle back, taking another deep pull. Some of it dribbles down the corner of her mouth. I take it from her, watching as she wipes her lips with the back of her hand.
“What’s with the twenty questions?”
“Just tell me, Skylar.”
She sighs. “I was with my dad. He was driving, and I—”
“You what?”
“He took his seatbelt off to get something from the backseat. I was looking down at my phone. Neither of us saw the deer until it was too late.”
“Is he—” I’m not sure why the words get caught in my throat.
It’s not like I really knew Skyler’s father.
He came to all the lacrosse games to support Ash and gave me dirty looks on the few occasions I actually showed my face at the front door instead of climbing through her window, but other than that, I think I’ve maybe exchanged five words with the man.
Golden boy Ash, on the other hand, was like the son he never had.
It made me hate her dad a little bit. Not because I was jealous, but because he didn't appreciate his daughter since she wasn't on a sports team and didn’t want to follow in his footsteps by becoming a CEO.
“He was killed instantly.” I’m not sure what startles me more, her blunt words or the detached, emotionless way she utters them, like she’s merely reporting it on the evening news. Her voice no longer cracks like it did moments ago.
“Jesus, Sky. I’m—”
“We weren’t close,” she interrupts. “I mean, I didn’t want him to die, obviously, but…it’s complicated, you know?”
Yeah, I would say I know what having a complicated paternal relationship feels like, but I don’t say that.
Neither of us ever really talked about our parents back then.
Some vague comments here and there, but I think we didn’t want to make our time together about anything other than us.
I always had a feeling her father was the reason for her incessant apologies, though, and that made me hate him more than a little.
“Anyway, I was still wearing my seatbelt, so it was just a fractured wrist. Lucky me.” Sarcasm colors her words as she wiggles the fingers sticking out of her cast, clearly feeling the effects of the champagne and whatever else she’s had before I got here. “What about you?”
With each sip, her eyes grow softer, and she looks a little less like she wants to stab me with an oyster fork.
Eventually, she puts her arms through the sleeves of my jacket, allowing the leather to envelop her.
I feel only slightly guilty talking to her this way.
Sure, I’m taking advantage of her intoxicated state, but I’m too selfish to let it end.
Still, maybe I should at least get on her level.
No way in hell am I drinking that bubbly shit she’s downing, but I still have my flask.
“What about me?” I ask her, unscrewing the metal container and taking a swig. The burn of the whiskey isn't nearly as good as the first pull of a cigarette, but it will have to do.
She points the bottle at me, squinting her left eye. “Where’d you get the shiner, Declan?” She giggles, slamming the wine down on the table before deepening her voice. “Or should I say ‘who did this to you?’”
She’s mocking me, and somehow I love her even more for it.
I could lie, but something about the vulnerable state she’s in makes me want to tell the truth for once in my life.
Then again, if she knew the real reason for it, she’d blame herself.
I know she would. That’s just who she is.
In the end, I decide to give her as close to the truth as I can.
“Apparently bikers are really protective of their sisters. Who knew?”
It’s only once the words leave my mouth that I realize how she might take them, but instead of anger, I’m met with merely a small nod of understanding before she downs the rest of the champagne, shaking the bottle over the ground when she realizes there’s nothing left.
“Look, I didn’t mean—”
“You got a cigarette?” she slurs, placing the now-empty bottle haphazardly at the edge of the table.
The unexpected change of subject pulls a deep chuckle from my throat because the mere thought of Skylar Galloway smoking a cigarette is absurd.
“What?” Her eyes snap to mine, an incredulous pout forming across her lips.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
She looks up at me through long lashes. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Declan Astor.”
“Oh yeah, like what?”
“Like the fact that I smoke.” She pinches the necklace she’s wearing. It’s a delicate gold chain with a locket attached to it. “Especially after sex,” she adds, peeking up at me to gauge my reaction. “There’s nothing like a good cigarette after fucking, you know?”
“You’d have to fuck to know,” I say, and don’t correct her when she takes it the wrong way.
“I’ve fucked plenty of guys, Declan. Tons, in fact.”
She continues fiddling with the locket, and even though I know she’s trying to mess with me, I can’t help the anger that radiates down my spine.
What if a boyfriend gave her that locket?
I picture some fucker moving her hair to the side so he can clasp it in the back.
Was she naked? Did his hand dip down to graze her tits? Was it after—
“Are you going to answer my question or what?”
Her voice interrupts my internal spiral.
That’s right. She asked me if I had a cigarette.
I would scold her for pretending to smoke if she didn’t look so damn cute right now.
I shouldn’t humor her, but it’s hard not to give her exactly what she wants when she’s looking up at me with those big, mossy eyes.
“Yeah, I have a cigarette.” I dig into my pocket, pulling out my half-smoked pack and lighter.
I practically chain-smoked this morning as I wore a hole in the floor of Luke’s garage.
Turns out someone did fuck with my bike, which I found out the hard way when my engine stalled on the way home from Cade’s the other day.
That’s not what had me filling my lungs with carcinogens for the better part of an hour, though.
No, as usual, my mind raced with thoughts of the freckled redhead sitting in front of me.
The same one who is now biting her lip in anticipation as I pull a cigarette out of the pack.
Placing the stick between my lips, I light the tip, inhaling slightly to make sure it’s lit.
The instant buzz settles through my bones, simultaneously calming me and setting off the neurotransmitters telling me I need more, but I ignore the cravings.
Pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, I hand it over to an eager Skylar.
She takes it from me with her good hand, raising it to her lips and taking a tentative puff.
“Deeper,” I coax, and her eyes narrow, flicking to mine for a second before she obeys, taking a long drag of the cigarette. Predictably, she immediately starts coughing as the smoke burns into her lungs.
“It’s been a while,” she admits, handing me back the cigarette so she can cover her mouth.
“Sounds like it.” I take a deep drag, not letting my eyes leave her until the chemicals fill my lungs, the nicotine coursing through my veins, before I exhale through the side of my mouth so as not to get any smoke in her face.
But when it clears, the playful, silly woman who sat in front of me seconds ago is gone, and in her place is the sad girl whose heart I broke.
Her eyes move to the glowing embers, and that’s when I realize what’s happening.
“Of course you started again.” Her voice is shaky as she stands up and rips off my jacket, tossing it down on the table before storming toward the restaurant door.
She stills as she grips the handle and looks back at me, tears welling in her eyes.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you broke that promise too. ”