Chapter 49
Skylar
"What?" Grace stares.
"What?" Zoey squeaks.
"I agreed to it. I was fine with it, guys. Not that I’m into voyeurism or anything—"
"Jesus, he sees you getting off when you’re on your own in your office?"
"And in the bakery," I say in a low voice. "I keep it hygienic. Not when I’m baking. Okay, maybe once, but I stepped away from the counter"—to where he could have a clear view of the proceedings—"and washed my hands before and after."
Zoey begins to laugh. "I’d say that was stalking but clearly, you like him watching you."
"I do," I admit in a small voice. "Also, uh, it began because he realized I was… Uh… Turned on, and he, uh… Took a chopper over, so he could, ah, you know—"
"Make you come?" Grace drawls.
My cheeks, my chest, even my arms and legs feel hot. My skin feels too tight for my body. Ohmygod, I’m going to burst into flames from mortification. I’m not used to sharing so much, not even with my best friends, and definitely not about this specific kink my husband and I seem to have developed.
Zoey laughs harder. "I mean, whatever floats your boat. And if you’re a consensual partner in it, then why not. Although, even if you weren’t—" She bites down on her lower lip. "I mean, even if you weren’t and he was watching you, he’s your husband, so I’d still find it hot.”
"You’ve been reading too many romance novels." Grace frowns.
"No shit, that’s my job." Zoey smiles widely. "Why do you think I love what I do so much? Imagine editing spicy novels for a living. I looooove it."
"It’s all very well in romance novels, but in real life, um, I’m not sure." Grace’s lips settle in a stern line.
"That’s because you’ve never met a powerful, confident man who’ll sweep you off your feet," Zoey scoffs.
"If he hadn’t had her consent in it, I would be worried. I’d even call his behavior controlling." Grace tosses her head.
"He is all of that, and I do like it when we’re together. But he’s also tender and caring and does things like carry my migraine medication around so he has it on hand, if I forget it."
"He did that?" Grace seems taken aback.
"Also, he helped me move Hugo to a better facility after he had a meltdown in his current one." I lower my chin.
"Hugo?" Zoey inclines her head. "Isn’t that your ex-colleague from the bakery you worked at?"
"Yeah. I never told you guys before, but he’d decided to join me at The Fearless Kitten.
He was on his way to help me open the shop when I happened to run out onto the road in front of him.
He tried to avoid me, ended up losing his helmet and hitting his head on the sidewalk.
It’s my fault he was injured. My fault his entire life changed.
The strange thing is I still don’t remember why I was on the road in the first place. ”
“You don’t?” Zoey frowns.
“I spent a few days in hospital after the accident. While I made a full recovery, my memories about what happened prior to being hit by the bike are fuzzy. Either way, I was back on my feet very quickly. Except for follow up check-ups, I was able to go on with my life. As for Hugo--” My chin trembles.
“Poor Hugo ended up suffering from a traumatic brain injury.
No way could I leave him helpless and at the mercy of the state.
I decided to take care of him and have been paying his additional needs bills for the last year. "
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Zoey wraps her arm about me. “If I’d been around—”
I sniffle, then shake my head. “This was before I met you guys. I was at my lowest when you walked into my shop, Z. I am so grateful that you did. It’s thanks to you I met everyone else, and I found a circle of friends in this city.”
"And you know we’re here for you. You should have asked us for help." Grace purses her lips. "All this time, you’ve been trying to manage on your own. I wish you’d told us."
"I’m sorry, Gracie, really. I wanted to share, but I didn’t want to be judged for doing this. I didn’t want to be told it wasn’t my responsibility. I wanted to do it. I couldn’t abandon him, you know?"
"You have such a big heart," she murmurs.
"Oh, Skye." Zoey’s eyes glimmer with tears. "You must have found it so difficult to cope on your own. It’s why you always seemed so tense. I thought it was the issues you were having with the fledgling business, but it was so much more."
"I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I thought I’d be imposing on you. But now I realize, I was being selfish. I didn’t give any of you a chance to be good friends. I wasn’t generous enough to let you into my life. I’m sorry, truly."
"Hey, it’s okay. You do what works for you. Don’t feel compelled to do what you think is right according to the world. Do what is right for you, first." Grace smiles. "And if that means you want to indulge in exhibitionism, more power to you."
Zoey’s eyes round. "And how do you know about that particular kink?"
"I might have read a spicy book or two." Grace smirks.
"Why you secret filth slut," Zoey gasps.
I laugh. "So, you guys don’t mind if I admit that my husband watching me getting myself off keeps me in a state of hyper arousal and makes me want to do even more dirty things to myself to turn him on?"
Grace rolls her eyes. "Now you’re showing off."
"So, is he watching you right now?" Zoey asks in a breathless voice.
"Probably, but I don’t care. I have nothing to hide." Unlike him.
The timer on my oven dings. "Gotta go, guys, and get the next batch of Cream Horns in.”
Zoey barks out a laugh. “Cream Horns?”
“Get your mind out of the butter, babe.”
She snorts. Grace snickers.
“And that’s what they’re called, by the way, so I didn’t even have come up with a spicy booktok name.
” I pretend to blow on my nails and rub them on my collar.
“Not my fault if my customers decide these innocent conical choux pastry filled with whipped cream remind them of certain parts of the male anatomy.”
“Of course not.” Grace nods.
“I might have exaggerated the conical shape, so it resembled said parts, of course.”
Both burst out laughing.
I blow them a kiss. “See you two very soon.” I disconnect, then pull out the tray of desserts and set it aside to cool, before popping the other into the oven. By the time I’m done with the next tray, Nate still hasn’t arrived. I check my phone and notice I missed a message from him.
Husband: Heavy traffic due to an accident on the freeway. Be there soon. Love you, wife.
Warmth suffuses my chest. I begin to type, ‘love you, too,’ then delete it.
I settle for liking his message with a heart, then glance around the space.
It’s dark outside, and when I check the time on my phone, I realize it’s almost nine-thirty p.m. I ended up tasting some of the Cream Horns—you know, the ones that came out of the oven not looking perfect, and which I wouldn’t have been able to serve anyway; keep telling yourself that, girl—and they were soooo good. But now, I’m not hungry.
I stretch, yawn, and start cleaning up the kitchen.
When the oven dings, I pull out the cakes and slide them onto a sheet tray on the counter before covering them with a cake dome with vents to let air through.
I’ll leave them to cool overnight and frost them tomorrow.
I decide to go up to my flat and wait for him.
I’ve been thinking of turning it into an office, now that I don’t use it as a living space anymore. Maybe, at some point in the future?
I take off my apron and yawn again, grab my phone and my handbag, and locking up the shop, make my way upstairs.
I’m so sleepy, I could probably grab a nap before he arrives.
In fact, I might as well make myself comfortable.
I bought a few essentials and keep them in the apartment just for times like this, including the pair of sleep shorts and camisole that I change into.
By the time I hit my bed, my body feels so heavy. Guess it’s from all those nights of not having much sleep—thanks to those lovely orgasms my husband has drawn from me, and which I’m not complaining about, at all. I’m so tired. I close my eyes and drift off.
A tapping on the door wakes me up. I sit up, shove my legs over the side of the bed and stand up.
"Coming!" I shove my hair on top of my head into a messy bun, then head to the door and throw it open. And blink.
Nate’s standing there. But... He’s in uniform, and he’s holding his cap in his hand. There’s a woman standing next to him. She’s also in uniform, but she’s wearing a collar that marks her out as a chaplain. A chaplain? Why is she here with Nate?
A strong sense of déjà vu grips me.
I’m dreaming. I must be. But it all feels so real. Is it a memory? Did this already happen? Why is my heart racing? Why is my pulse racing? Why is my stomach knotted?
I push down my rising panic, already suspecting there’ll be no waking from this.
I know what’s coming, but I can’t stop any of it.
Because in the back of my mind, there’s a little voice telling me it’s time to face reality.
I don’t want to! But time has run out. And there’s no running from what happened.
Images flood my brain, and I can’t stop them. I struggle to breathe.
I watch, as if from a distance. It’s like it’s not me. More like, I don’t want it to be me. And I don’t want to feel what I’m seeing, but I do. I feel every bit of it.
I frown at Nate. "What are you doing here?"
He looks me directly in the eyes. "Can I come in?"
"Nathan?" My heart turns into a heavy anchor, slowly beginning to slide down my body. Pulling me down with it. My chest feels like there’s an entire building collapsed on it. I draw in a breath, and my lungs feel like they’re on fire.
"Nate?" I manage to speak around the boiling oil clogging my throat. "What is it?"
"Skylar… Skye." The skin around his eyes tightens. "Please, can we come in?"
I step back, and he moves forward, cupping his hand around my elbow and guiding me to the sofa. The next moment, I’m sitting down, and he’s on his knee in front of me. "Skye, I have to tell you something."
I see it in his eyes then. That mixture of regret and anger and sympathy… And failure. It’s the failure that signals to me that something’s very wrong. That, and the fact that Nate fucking Davenport is taking my hand between his, and he’s on bended knee.
Something I’ve wanted, but not like this.
Not. Like. This.
I tug my hand from his, and he releases me.
I lock my fingers together and shake my head. "No. No. No. No. No."
"Skye, please, let me."
My palm connects with his cheek with such force, his head snaps back. A ripple of pain shoots up my arm. The outline of my fingers stands out on his face. I should feel regretful, but I don’t. Should feel shocked, and I do, but not because I slapped him.
"Skye, please." He takes my hand in his again, and this time, I clasp it tightly.
A tear squeezed out from the corner of my eye. "No—" I swallow. "No, please," I whisper.
"Skye—" His voice cracks. His throat moves as he swallows. His mismatched eyes are dull, lifeless. The color has leached from his face, except for my fingerprints, which stand out in vivid red mockery. "I’m so sorry, Skye."
I shake my head, and the tears flow freely down my cheeks. "It can’t be true, it can’t."
"Ben, he—"
"No!" I throw off his hand and jump to my feet, then dart around him. "I won’t hear it." I race toward the doorway. The chaplain steps into my path, but I push past her, out the door, down the flight of stairs, and onto the sidewalk. I don’t stop.
It’s not possible. Nothing has happened to Ben. Nothing. My heart is a shark that bites its way out of my chest, chewing through my ribcage, my flesh, my sinews. Spilling my blood, so it flows down my front.
I’m spinning. My entire world has turned upside down. I can’t be alive without Ben. I can't. I won’t. I notice the motorbike a second before it hit me. There’s a screech of brakes. I’m screaming, flying through the air. Then blackness.
"Starling, are you okay?"
I jolt and see my husband staring at me with a worried expression. And I know it’s true. It really happened. I remember now. I remember how my brother’s best friend came to break the news to me. How he tried to tell me, and I wouldn’t listen.
I clear my throat and meet his mismatched gaze. "You came here… To tell me about Ben."
"What?" The color drains from his face. "What did you say?"