Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SKYLAR
My phone rings again—I've lost count of how many times I’ve heard my ringtone today—and I reject it without even looking at the name. I don’t care who it is; I’m not in the mood to talk. If it’s the research center, they can figure it out without me. Now that Dr. Martin is back, I’m on vacation.
I’m not doing a fucking thing today, aside from rotting on the couch. I cleared my schedule specifically for wallowing.
I reach for the remote beside me and flip the channels on the television, pretending like I’m looking for something to watch. Truthfully, I just want background noise. Something that might distract me from the thoughts threatening to tear my mind apart.
Maybe I’ll watch an action movie. Fast cars and gunshots should do the trick.
The doorbell rings, shattering my train of thought, and my eyes fall to my abandoned delivery food on the coffee table. Did I accidentally order twice? I’m definitely not expecting company.
I ignore it, hoping they’ll leave, but the doorbell dings again.
Once, twice, three times—
“Aargghh!” I growl, dragging myself off the couch and stomping over to the front door. “Ya voy, stop ringing the goddamn bell.”
I snap the door open a little too hard, wincing as the wood creaks in protest, and find myself face to face—or chest to face rather, because she’s so short—with Lana.
“What?” I bark, trying to reel in the growl burning up my throat.
Anyone else would have cowered at the grit in my voice, but not her. Lana’s never been intimidated by me, even after I presented. Her dark brows lower over her eyes, her lips hardening into a line.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she snaps, shoving me out of the way to cross the threshold.
I shut the door—a little too hard—and she whips around to glare at me. She might be tiny, but I wouldn’t put it past her to throw a punch if I don’t settle down.
Reluctantly, I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, feeling a fraction better.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice level.
“You call out of work, ignore text messages and phone calls—”
“—I’m on vacation—”
“Do you know how many times I called you?” She waves her cell phone in my face for emphasis.
I grimace. “Uhh…”
She doesn't give me a chance to answer.
“Fifteen, Skylar. Fifteen. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” She raises her voice enough that it echoes through the house. Then she looks me over head to toe and scrunches her nose. “When was the last time you showered?”
“Yesterday,” I grumble, knowing it’s a lie.
I probably should have showered yesterday, or the day before, but I couldn’t be fucked. Not when the faintest trace of marshmallow still clings to my skin…
With a sigh, I step past Lana and head for the living room again, collapsing on the couch where my ass has made a well-worn indent in the cushion. She follows behind me, making a disgusted face at the collection of abandoned delivery containers spread out on every surface of the room.
“No manches,” she whispers, glaring around. “What woman fucked you over this time? Don’t tell me it was the one we talked about…”
“No one.” My voice comes out strained.
“Uh huh.”
“I’m serious,” I lie, refusing to meet her eyes.
Lana marches across the room, planting herself on the opposite side of the coffee table so I can’t ignore her. “Did someone die?”
I shake my head.
“Did you lose your job?”
“No,” I grunt.
“Then, this is obviously over some girl.” She gestures to the filthy table with a sweep of her hand. “What else would have your clit in such a twist?”
I don't dignify that with a response, instead reaching for the remote again. I still have no interest in watching TV, I just need something to do with my hands.
But Lana is there a second later, ripping it from my grasp.
“That’s it,” she snaps. “Get up.”
“What? No.” I glare at her, reaching for the remote.
She shakes her head curtly, her hair swaying with the movement. “You’re getting up and washing your ass, now move.”
A pit forms in my stomach, defiant anger brewing in my chest. “Fuck off, Lana. I didn’t ask you to be here.”
“No, you just let me believe you were dead.” She flips off the TV and marches to the mantle, placing the remote there, well out of my reach. “Now, get up.”
“No, I’m not fuc—”
“Skylar Alejandra, do not make me call our mother.”
I huff. The last thing I want is that woman showing up with a suitcase and moving into the spare room. Absolutely not. I moved out to the middle of nowhere for a reason.
With a grumble and a string of muttered curses, I haul myself off the couch again, shooting Lana a scathing look.
“That’s what I thought.” Her voice is still sharp as a blade. “And put on something nice when you’re bathed.”
“Wh-Why?”
“Because we’re going out,” she says, shooing me up the stairs. “Now, hurry up. I skipped lunch to be here and I’m hungry.”
I mutter and groan all the way up the stairs, stomping to my en suite bathroom and slamming the door behind me. But one look in the mirror is enough to wither my annoyance.
Lana wasn’t blowing things out of proportion.
I look like hell.
My hair is a greasy mess, and my skin is paler than normal. The bags under my eyes make me look sick, like I haven’t slept in a week, and… is that cheese on my chin?
Fuck.
Reluctantly, I drag myself into the shower and scrub my body, soaking beneath the scalding stream until my skin is almost numb. Unfortunately, it doesn’t numb anything on the inside, and the depression in my chest feels heavier than before.
I dress in a pair of dark jeans and a collared shirt before running a comb through my hair. Good enough.
My living room is unrecognizable when I get back downstairs. All the food containers are gone, the surfaces wiped down and clean. The throw pillows are back where they belong, and it smells like lemon cleaner instead of rotten leftovers.
Lana is sitting on the end of the couch, looking pleased with herself.
“Don’t you look a million times better.” She grins wide, giving me a once-over. “Do you feel better?”
Physically, sure. My skin no longer feels grimy. I guess that’s a plus.
But emotionally… I’m still a wreck.
“We’ll circle back,” she says when I don’t reply. She jerks her head toward the door. “Are we taking my car, or are you going to let me drive the Corvette?”
At that, I laugh, the first time I’ve laughed all week.
“You fucking wish.” I grab my car keys off the hook by the door and follow her out onto the porch. “I’ll drive.”
Thankfully, Lana lets me drive in peace without asking a million questions. Until we get to town. Then the only thing on her mind is chicken fingers.
“Drive thru is fine,” she offers, but I shake my head.
“If you wanted drive thru, we should have brought your car.” I pat a tender hand on the dashboard. “No eating in Priscilla.”
“Priscilla,” she groans, sounding personally offended. “That's what you decided to name this sexy beast?”
I laugh and whip into the parking lot of Pete's Bar she always is. That’s gotta be part of the big sister handbook or something. I blink back the sting burning at the corner of my eyes, my stoic mask snapping back into place, before I look at her again.
“And if I do it all? If I apologize and grovel and do everything I can to get her back… and she still rejects me. What then?”
Lana pauses with a chicken finger halfway to her face, her expression sagging.
I know she wants to be optimistic—hell, I do too—but the harsh reality is that Riann may not want anything to do with me.
She might have already found a pack to claim her, the way she said she would.
Going after her might be a ticket straight to heartbreak.
“What if she’s hurting just as badly and waiting for you to say something first?” Lana attempts a weak smile, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “Besides, isn’t it better to be disappointed than live with regret that will haunt you for the rest of your life?”