Page 19

Scarlett

I stare at the phone screen, smiling to myself at the absolute gall of this douchebag. How dare he say anything about who I fuck when they’re the ones who told me to go ‘have fun’ until New Year’s Eve.

Not that I need their permission.

They haven’t seemed to learn yet that I’m my own woman, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, whenever I want. They don’t own me, so if I want to fuck someone, they can’t do a goddamn thing about it.

I wanted to fuck Skylar.

I might have had second thoughts when I remembered our parents were only a floor above us, but I enjoyed it. It proved to me these men aren’t the only ones who know how to please a woman, and I no longer need to subject myself to their torture for the sake of an orgasm.

I’d rather do it myself.

The thing is, I wasn’t.

For the first time in weeks, I lived in the moment and stuffed the chaos twins into a tiny box at the back of my mind. I’m not saying I wasn’t surprised by it, but Skylar demanded my attention like I’ve never seen before; it never felt like an option to think of anyone but him.

I could only focus on what he was doing to me.

He’s right.

It was difficult enough coming to terms with it myself, so I don’t owe him the admission. I liked it way more than I should have, but they’re not supposed to know that. They’re not supposed to know anything about me, but that’s what happens when you let the wrong ones in.

I know I should be doing anything else right now, but I’m too worked up to sleep. I need to speak my mind and get rid of them for good.

No answer.

Thirty minutes pass without any word from him, so I send another text.

With bated breath, I stare at my phone for a whole ten minutes like some crazed teenager. When he still doesn’t reply, I take it as a win.

My bed is small but not entirely uncomfortable; it’s just a reminder of the girl it was once meant for. She was full of hopes and dreams, and hadn’t been hurt by a boy yet—so ignorant of the brutality in the real world.

I’ve only just settled in and closed my eyes when my phone vibrates.

I know he’s bluffing—just like I was. I may have been lying about calling the cops, but I meant what I said about being done with them. It’s all just a fucking game to him and a way to keep me in check.

My birthday ended with traumatic self-discovery and a life-threatening orgasm that forced me to question my hard limits. But this?

Now I’m paranoid at three in the morning, putting on pants to walk downstairs and do the unimaginable. The room is dark when I open the door, and the scent of sex hangs fresh in the air.

“Skylar?” The same playlist from earlier is flowing softly through the speaker on his desk, but it’s barely audible over the drum of my beating heart. Creeping to the side of the bed, I hover over his sleeping form. “Skylar?” I call again, reaching out to touch what I think is his shoulder.

I can’t see two inches in front of my face, so when he grabs my wrist and yanks me onto the bed, I scream in surprise.

His groggy voice finally breaks through the silence, “What the fuck are you doing? What time is it?” Despite his shaken demeanor, his hands explore my body like he’s trying to sooth my trembling limbs.

It takes a minute to find the words because I suddenly feel like the world’s biggest pussy, embarrassed to even be here. I could go back to my room, ignore Broody’s idle threats, and get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s holiday disfunction.

But I don’t like that he threatened Skylar.

He may be an asshole, but he doesn’t deserve to be targeted by some maniac with unstable emotions—especially not because of me.

“It’s going to sound stupid,” I whisper.

“Just spit it out, Red. I was sleeping, so unless you’re asking for a round two, I’d like to get back to it.” I don’t even think he’s joking, and it makes me blush.

Thank god there’s no lights on in here.

“Would you come sleep with me? I’m sorry, I know it’s dumb…” His hand brushes against my leg, so I throw my knee over his thigh without even thinking about it. “I just don’t wanna be alone right now. We could put on a movie in the living room and sleep on the couches, or I could sleep on your floor. I don’t care.”

He must have night-vision or something, because I can’t see a thing, yet he knows exactly where I am. A thumb runs along my bottom lip, unexpectedly pulling it down to flatten against my teeth .

It’s an odd gesture, but when he says, “You’re not sleeping on the floor…let’s go,” I’m just grateful for his compassion.

After agreeing to have another cigarette before laying down, we head out to the porch to unwind in the chilly night air. He hasn’t asked what’s wrong with me, but I get the sense he knows I don’t want to indulge any more information.

I keep scanning the backyard for signs of Broody, but he hasn’t shown his face. I don’t want to underestimate his threats in case he’s crazier than I realize—I’d prefer to never find out.

Skylar notices my unease and drags me into a protective stance, his arm wrapping around me to pull my back flush against his chest. Truthfully, nothing about this feels awkward or unsettling. It’s not what I’m used to getting from Skylar, but I’d like to think we broke through some boundaries today.

Obviously, there’s the sex thing. But more than that, I feel like we have more solid ground to stand on—an understanding that our mutual hatred was probably just pent-up sexual tension.

Now that we’ve gotten it out of our system, we can act like decent human beings. Maybe we could even be friends.

“Thank you,” I say. It’s not much, especially if I’ve put his life in danger, but it’s what I can give.

His fingers strum lazily across the skin of my shoulder in a metronomic motion, though he doesn’t say anything back. His arm is solid across my chest, every exhale he takes compressing against me in a way that squeezes the anxiety out.

It also helps that he keeps not-so-subtly nuzzling into my hair when he pulls away from his cigarette, almost like he’s smelling my shampoo. I would even say it was cute, if it wasn’t so frightfully out of character for him.

We should probably do the mature, adult thing that’s supposed to happen after intercourse—define the relationship, or whatever—but I have a feeling this was only meant to be a one-night stand. Really, I’m not sure it was meant to happen in the first place .

I walked away afterwards because I’m not daft enough to expect something more from him. We’re not dating, and we’re not even regularly fucking. It was nothing more than a hate-fuck.

I think.

I wonder, though, if he wanted to talk about it because he did sound sort of annoyed when I went to bed. He hasn’t mentioned it, but I could tell he was pissed about something.

We just found something in common, and I don’t want that to get thrown out the window because I didn’t let him say his piece.

“Did you want to…” I stumble over my words, painstakingly rearranging the thoughts in my head to form a comprehensible sentence. “I just mean…are you okay with what happened? You haven’t said anything.” I try to peek at him over my shoulder, but his chin digs into the top of my head, demanding I stay put.

“Neither have you. In fact, I distinctly remember you dick ‘n dashing, but I wasn’t about to make you feel bad for it.” His sleepy tone is comforting, despite the criticism.

He’s not wrong, but the everlasting desire to push his buttons takes over. “Since when do you not want to make me feel bad?”

Skylar chuckles like he’s genuinely amused, and the resulting burst of compressions against my back make me want to laugh in turn.

I settle for a secret smile as I tuck my chin into the heat of his forearm.

The hand on my shoulder pulls back, sliding across the width of my throat as his lips suddenly whisper into my ear, “Is that what I did in there, make you feel bad?” His fingers tighten when I swallow, threatening to follow through on the second round he mentioned.

Undecided on where I stand with that idea, I tease, “Are two orgasms supposed to make up for years of trashy behavior? One per year?” His mouth is so close to my ear, I can actually feel him smile when his lips stretch outward.

“One for every time you called me Satan, maybe,” he says, thumb rubbing gently along my pulse point while his other fingers dig in .

Seriously? That’s what got him in a huff?

My breath is unsteady from the pressure on my airway, but I try to hide it for the sake of this super-mature conversation. “Is that supposed to be a punishment? Wouldn’t you expect me to just say it more, then? To keep fighting?”

“Maybe I’m just waiting for you to realize it doesn’t have to be that way. That I don’t have to be that way.” I can tell the amusement is long gone, his voice deviating to the same nasty cadence I’m familiar with when he drops his arms to sever our physical contact.

I turn to face him, full of bewilderment, because he’s the one who said our fighting is what made us hot for each other. I tell him as much, adding, “I never did anything to make you act that way in the first place. You’ve done it all on your own. So yeah, I think you do have to be that way. It’s just who you are”—I jab my finger into the center of his chest—“Satan.”

In a flash, he grabs my wrist, pulling me closer while his other hand fists a chunk of my hair.

This is our game.

Fighting comes as second nature to the two of us, so I don’t know why he would want me to see him as anything more than what’s right in front of my face.

He rips my head backward, those familiar balls of ire piercing right through me when I look up. Digging my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, I say, “You don’t like me, Skylar. What could you possibly want from me?”

The shift in his eyes has me wishing I never asked. Now he just looks hurt, like I forced him to open a can of worms he wasn’t prepared to delve into yet.

“You think I’ve been waiting over a year to touch you because I don’t like you?” he snaps, the pained crease in his brow tightening. His fingers leave my hair to come forward and stroke my face with an unexpected tenderness.

“We hate each other, isn’t that our whole shtick? You clearly needed to get laid, and so did I. You said it yourself, we live for going toe to toe. Nothing wrong with getting a good hate-fuck out of our systems so we can move on,” I explain. “We both got what we needed.”

He eyes me scornfully and takes a step back, forcing a distance between us that leaves me completely bereft of his touch. “Clearly , you did,” he scoffs.

The disappointment on his face might actually hurt more than anything he’s said or done to me before. “Sky—” I reach for his arm, but he turns and storms into the house without another word.

Great.

One more thing I’ve fucked up.

It feels like I’m mourning all over again. I’ve been seeking passion so ardently, I think I might have just spat in the face of the first person to really show me what it’s supposed to look like.

The Prince tries, I think, but it’s hard for me to accept and reciprocate when I’m always wishing it was coming from Broody and Casanova instead. Those two have their own prerogative, and while our interactions aren’t devoid of passion, it isn’t their priority. Torture is more their thing.

Skylar’s been honest about his feelings; he does want something from me and wishes I would return the sentiment. I may have shown interest in the moment, but not when it mattered most to him.

Not afterwards.

I’m completely expecting to find the living room empty, a sign that the failure to hold up my end of some unspoken bargain means he can do the same. But there he is, plopped down on the long couch with a pillow. He must have brought the bedding from his room while I was still outside, because another pillow and the comforter from his bed are lying on the adjacent couch for me.

He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, his arms crossed against his chest to keep warm without a second blanket available. When I creep towards him, he turns inward to face the back cushion of the couch.

The TV is playing one of my favorite horror movies, The Conjuring , and I think it must be a coincidence. There’s no way he knows that about me.

Or it means I just fucked up really bad.

His eyes remain closed when I bend down to kiss his cheek. I only give him a small peck to show my appreciation, but he lets me. “Goodnight, Skylar.”

I wait a second, but he doesn’t move or speak. He’s likely not asleep, but I’m just thankful for him being here. I don’t need anything else.

The comforter and pillow almost bring me to tears when I settle onto the couch and tangle myself between them, my mind racing with all the possible ways I could have made tonight go differently. There’s so much I should have said or done, but it’s too late to go back now.

I’m cocooned in his scent, stealing a warmth that was meant for him—yet he chose to give it to me instead. The first tear falls when his soft voice murmurs across the living room.

“Goodnight, Red.”

I probably deserve that.

The weekend with Skylar crawled by as agonizingly slow as I thought it would, even before the secret sex. Dad and Gretchen were their usual cheerful selves while each of their selfish, spiteful children glared daggers at one another from across each room of the house.

I tried to make up for my shortcomings with him, but he didn’t care. After Wednesday night, he spent every single day sewing together the pieces of his cold, dead heart until he returned to his normal self. Any attempt I made at being friendly or apologetic was squandered immediately.

How do you even apologize for breaking someone when you weren’t aware you were doing it in the first place?

I continued calling him by his name, but he never stopped calling me Red. I tried to be cordial at dinner by offering him food and drinks, and he blatantly ignored me. If I came outside to smoke with him, he would promptly return to the house.

I can forgive all of it though, because despite the apathetic, blatant disregard for my existence during the day, he still slept in the living room with me.

Every. Single. Night.

That’s not something he would do if he truly hated me. Not that the way he acted was mature, like at all , but being able to stuff it inside while we slept still meant something to me. I won’t forget it.

I don’t even think I dislike him anymore.

He may not have fully accepted my olive branch, we may not be friends, and he may not have any feelings towards me anymore—romantic or lustful—but I wasn’t missing them before, and I won’t miss them now.

I’ll keep showing my appreciation for his kindness by extending my own, and remain hopeful that one day he finally accepts it.

It's Sunday now, so Penelope and I are officially free to go back to our apartment and put this disastrous holiday behind us. There’s no point in telling her about my masked visitor showing up at my dad’s house; he’s basically a second parent to her, and she would probably be as pissed off as I am about it.

It’s why I can’t tell her about Skylar, either.

Sleeping with one’s stepbrother doesn’t really fall on the list of things a stable person would do, whether we’re actually siblings or not. She’d probably think it’s her fault for encouraging my sexual exploration, and it would lead to a guilty spiral about how far I’ve fallen from grace while under her watch.

Plus, what happened between us feels a little sacred after he revealed what it supposedly meant to him. I don’t want to soil that by spreading it around.

It’s just for us.