Chapter Nine #2
Ashley moves her mouth from my ear to my own as she rubs me, and I angle my head to kiss her and still be able to stare into those blue eyes over the side of her face. Her tongue is in my mouth, and his eyes are on me—a combination I didn’t know would get me so fucking hard.
I see the moment that confusion and curiosity turn to rage. Rolling his eyes with a huff, Skylar turns away from me, whispering something to Kelly before heading back toward the bar.
To negate the sting of it, I let my eyes close; I let myself take in the feel of Ashley’s mouth.
She’s an excellent kisser, all soft lips and sweet lip gloss.
Feminine and soft, the way most college girls are.
And I sink into this; I let myself pretend that I want it—that I want it as badly as I want him.
This way I can ignore the nightmare, the never-ending lust. The desire I can’t seem to outrun.
It’s fine. Everything is fine, and this is exactly how things are supposed to be. Me, here with Ashley, and Skylar on the dance floor with Kelly.
Only, as I open my eyes again, Skylar isn’t on the dance floor with Kelly anymore. He’s dancing with Jacob.
The giant is wearing his letterman jacket and a pair of blue jeans, every bit the playboy jock he is. His hand is on the small of Skylar’s back, pushing their hips together as Skylar throws his head back and laughs.
Jacob is grinning down at him, all bright-eyed and excited. He probably plans on taking Skylar home—on taking his virginity. Does Jacob know Skylar is a virgin? Probably not. He’ll love that. Men love a good conquest.
But Skylar isn’t some conquest to be tackled. His first time is meant to be soft and sweet and memorable. Not some drunken affair with a frat guy he barely knows.
And as I’m imagining all of the different ways Jacob could deflower my pure, innocent best friend, that alter ego of mine begins to rear its ugly head.
Jacob cards a hand through Skylar’s curls, whispering something in his ear that makes Skylar shake his head and stare down at where their hips connect. His other hand is traveling lower and lower, creeping its way down to Skylar’s ass.
And then Jacob spins him, grabbing his hips and pulling him back against his chest, rocking their bodies side to side.
Skylar rests his hands over Jacob’s—he doesn’t shove them away from his hips, oh, no, he holds them there as he lets his head tip back onto the guy’s shoulder.
His big blue eyes close in what seems to be contentment.
“You okay, baby?” Ashley asks, and I realize I’ve gone soft under her palm.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a lot of noise in here.” I give her a soft smile.
She replies with a grin. “Not an exhibitionist, I see.”
With an answering laugh, a fake one, I focus back on the dance floor. As Jacob runs his hands up Skylar’s stomach, Skylar rolls his head to the side, feeling my eyes again.
The thread between us pulls taut.
Our eyes clash. My rage meets his, an internal war happening between us. Stop touching him, I tell Skylar with my eyes, but he doesn’t hear me. Those full lips tilt downward, his flushed cheeks only making him look that much filthier as he lets that giant touch his chest.
Does he not understand that everyone here could be watching him? That, when he’s acting like this, nobody in his vicinity can be faulted for stopping to look upon him and never turning away. It’s impossible—not when he’s this lovely.
As I watch them dance, my mood keeps declining. Especially as I catch Kelly watching me from her table with this look of pity that implies more than I can handle.
I grab Ashley’s hand from my thigh, tilting her chin to make eye contact. “If I’m honest, I just don’t feel that great. I think I’m going to take off. Can we reschedule? I’d really like to see you again.”
There is a flash of hurt in her eyes before she smiles brightly, nodding a few times. “Of course. I hope you feel better, Everett. Call me, okay?”
Promising to call, I gather my phone and wallet. I make my way to Kelly, leaning into her as I reach her side.
“I need to get out of here,” I tell her. “Want to swim?”
She eyes me for a moment. “I came with Sky.”
“He looks busy enough,” I huff.
There is a second of hesitation where she looks between the two of us across the bar from each other.
She sighs. “Let me say goodbye.”
She approaches Skylar, and he leans forward for her to whisper in his ear. His eyes flash to mine briefly. I turn away, not wanting to see whatever is written there.
A minute or two later, she’s in front of me. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go.”
I don’t question her nickname, simply following her out, happy for the escape. If I’d sat in there and watched that fuckhead grind his dick against Skylar any longer, I would have shot myself. Or him. And I’ve never even held a gun before.
So, instead, Kelly and I swim for an hour or two, making jokes about strangers from the bar and complaining about upcoming midterms. Then I Uber home.
No way am I going back to Skylar’s apartment to see if he even bothers to show up. Or worse, to be in his bed when the two of them stumble home together.
It’s only once I’ve snuck into my own bed back at the Carmichaels that I remember that I have breakfast with the Parishs in the morning.
Fuck.
As Mrs. Parish opens the front door, her grin speaks for itself. Skylar’s parents have always loved me, maybe even more than my own.
“Evie!” She pulls me in for a hug, dragging my weight onto her despite the fact that she’s five feet 4 inches and I could easily crush her curvy self.
Her sweet voice coats my headache and eases the tension of it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Parish.”
“How many times do I need to tell you, honey? Call me Camile.”
I smile at her, letting her guide me inside and into the kitchen. Her yellow sundress smacks against her calves, her flip-flops slapping with every step.
I dressed well myself: brown slacks and a white button-up. Brunch with the Parishs is always a pleasant event, and I like to be presentable.
It is a huge difference from Sundays with the Carmichaels.
Phillip Parish is helping his wife cook, currently stirring country-style home potatoes. He’s in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, his brown hair slicked back. He’s got the same blue eyes as Skylar, standing at 6 feet and all muscle.
All of the Parishs are beautiful—they’re exactly what the Carmichaels pretend to be. The perfect all-American family—complete with their perfect son.
“Everett,” Phillip greets me, waving his spatula as I approach and reach out a hand to shake his.
“Good morning, Mr. Parish.”
He chuckles. “Always so polite. You should show my son how that works; he’s late… again.”
I look around the room, noticing that, yeah, Skylar is not here. Is he still with Jacob?
“Don’t be too hard on him, sir,” I respond. “He had two games, work, and school this week.”
Finding my seat at the table, I watch the two of them effortlessly work around each other.
“You’re too sweet to him, Evie,” Camile says. “No wonder he loves you so much.”
I try not to read into that, to remind myself that Camile is the type to think that everyone loves the people around them for no good reason.
But… why am I defending Skylar when he was probably out all night with another man?
I don’t have an answer to this question, so I take to peering around the house for the millionth time. Skylar grew up in a one-story, five-bedroom, white picket fence home. They have a pool out back and a basement with a pool table.
It’s clean, and not in the way my house is clean. The Parish home looks like a real home—lived in, not a floor model.
I spent a lot of time here when we were kids, imagining what it would be like to live somewhere so warm. And everywhere I looked, whether it was in the pictures on the walls or in the faces of his parents, I saw Skylar.
Camping out in the backyard, hiding under the blankets on his bed with a flashlight, riding bikes around the cul-de-sac—no matter where I look in my memories, he’s there.
Without Skylar, my childhood wouldn’t have been so bright. I find myself grateful, thinking of how I only had to survive ten years without him.
It only takes a few more minutes of reminiscing before breakfast is ready, and right as the table is set, the front door opens and slams shut.
“Hey!” Skylar’s voice rings out. It warms the air around me. “Sorry I’m late. Evie isn’t coming; I think he’s sick—”