Page 18 of Never To Suffer (The Hollywoodland #4)

OFF MY FACE

M?NESKIN

“I’m your brother and you didn’t think to pick up the dang phone and call me?

Eight months and I don’t hear shit from you?

” He paces the hardwood floor, causing it to creak and moan in certain spots while I half-listen to his lecture.

The other half of me pictures a life in this room, the room he’s offering me if Los Angeles doesn’t work out.

Dad bought the house a few years back as a fixer-upper project and gift to Marc.

The house has plenty of room for my brother’s growing family, and a studio area above the garage for Dad to live, once he retired.

Dad’s heart had other plans, and we lost him a month after he signed the deal.

Marc took on the rebuild himself, finishing everything but this room—Dad’s room.

It’s a jarring time capsule clinging to the seventies with its dying breath. Either that or the room is coated in moss. That’s the only thing I can think of that matches the color of this room.

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… Marc, what I’m supposed to say beyond I screwed up.

Which I’ve already said.” I came prepared for him to be upset, and I deserve every word.

I’ve been a dick to everyone since the accident, and Mark didn’t deserve that.

Sorry doesn’t even scratch the surface of healing all the wrong that sits between us.

I’ll take whatever he needs to dish out.

“You call me out of the blue and tell me you’re in rehab in Canada? Rehab? Why don’t I think it’s for the arm?”

“It wasn’t.”

Mark glares at the bottle of beer in my hand, so I put it down on the table. “It’s fine, Mark. I tell my sponsor exactly how much I’m drinking; I’m not trading drugs for becoming an alcoholic. But if it helps you feel better, I won’t drink while I’m here.”

“What the fuck, Skylar? Why would you do that?!”

“Well,” my voice stays soft and even. I trace the hawkmoth tattoo on my hand as I talk. It’s comforting when I’m stressed out. “The center in Canada had an excellent reputation, and they offered me a spot on short notice?—”

“No, you asshole! I mean, why would you go through that alone and keep us in the dark?” He crouches in front of me, so we’re eye to eye. “You need a support system when you leave those programs, Sky! You don’t have that, do you?”

“I’m…working on it.”

“Steve?” he asks, hope laced in the name. Even though Marc didn’t reject my life choices, most of my family did. But they all accepted Steve. He’s an idiot meathead, but he can make anyone love him with a wink and a smile.

“Not Steve. Not yet, anyhow.” I stare up at the ceiling, letting my words fade away while I close my eyes.

Los Angeles calls to me every day since I left.

She wants me back, but my past there still has too tight a grip around my throat.

I close my eyes. “Before I can stay here, you’ve got to tell me if she’s here. ”

“Catherine?” Marc says our sister’s name like it’s left a rotten taste in his mouth.

Catherine dead-names me every chance she gets.

She thinks I did all this to take attention away from her, because I'm the middle child and she’s the baby.

She’s a carbon copy of my mother, holding herself and her opinions in high esteem, thinking that social media can teach her everything about psychology, queerness, transitioning, who to pray to, and who to vote for.

For years they ganged up on me, sending me pamphlets on conversion therapy, giving my phone number to random pastors, and telling anyone who would listen how hard they were praying for my soul.

“Nope. I haven’t talked to Cat since Dad’s funeral. She moved to Utah or some shit. I guess you haven’t heard about Mom?” I shake my head, and he nods his. “She died two months ago. I found out in a letter from Cat. Can’t say I miss her, but I hope she’s finally at peace.”

I don’t believe in hell, but if it’s real, I hope Mom had a first-class ticket there with no stops. Dad and Marc couldn’t be any more different from my mom and sister, like two different families. They were my protectors and welcomed Steve and every other member of my found family into their lives.

“Did you get the drugs from the weird goth kid? The one dating the cute girl with the wild hair?”

“Okay, back up. You sound like one of those grumpy stay off my lawn guys. Or mom.” I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, struggling to get comfortable on a couch that’s too short for someone like me.

“No, it wasn’t Xander. I didn’t get hooked on street drugs, okay?

I went to rehab to avoid getting hooked on something worse than prescriptions. ”

“You were getting hooked?”

“It had me in a chokehold, Marc. The painkillers they gave me for my arm weren’t enough, and I craved more.

I had the needle in my hand, ready to jab it in my arm.

But Chase and Xander found me and helped me get into rehab.

I didn’t plan for this to happen, or to disappear on purpose, but I didn’t want to hear the disappointment in your voice. ”

“So, a movie star and a kid who might be a drug dealer sent you to rehab?”

“Fuck, why is this couch on the damn ground?” I stand up, ignoring his question, and stretch my back. I prepare myself for another round of lectures, but when I turn back around, he’s laughing. “What?”

“Dad always said you were the dramatic one. He was right.” He walks over, putting his hands on my shoulders, and stares up at me.

“You see so much of the world people miss, and I don’t mean because you’re tall.

You’ve always been one to find out what’s inside people, and it’s helped you find the right people at the right times. Including finding yourself.”

“So, should I leave?”

“No,” he laughs, gently slapping my face. “Skylar, I’m happy you found help. I’m happier that it worked. I’m annoyed as hell that you didn’t call me sooner. I’ll get over it.”

“I’m sure there’s a decent enough motel around.”

“I’ll help Marybeth pull everything out to set up the guest bed.”

“Marc?” He stops before the door. “Would it be okay if I slept up here? I don’t want to wake the kids up if I… uhm. I get nightmares and?—”

He pulls me in for a bear hug and doesn’t let go until we’ve both had enough time to shed a tear or three.

I can’t sleep. My hands itch, my brain won’t stop buzzing, and no matter how cold the room is, I’m burning up.

So, I grab my cigarettes and my phone and creep out onto the back porch, glad they don’t have an alarm system running to this part of the house yet.

I move away from the house in case they have any of the windows open to the room the kids sleep in.

I light up and pull my phone pit, expecting a message or two from my sponsor.

It’s been off all day, so tuck it back in my pocket while it boots up.

I’m unsettled by the silence of the backyard. People who enjoy spending time in their own minds baffle me. I don’t mind being alone, but the silence becomes so much louder than any city traffic. It’s also more dangerous.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Princess Beetle

Skylar, we miss you. Come home?

I turn the phone off again and shove it in my pocket. I doubt Xander told her about the rehab, or if she understands why I stopped all contact, but both thoughts turn my stomach. I want to answer her, to tell her I’m trying. But I’m still working up to it.

I stub out the cigarette and head back upstairs to start my nightly ritual over again.

The next morning, Marc and I are both up with the sunrise. Marybeth, my sister-in-law, told us to get out of her kitchen, so he takes me down the street to the repair garage to show me around and spend some time tuning up my bike. He’s curious if I can still do this—I’m wondering if I want to.

“So, how long can we keep you here?” Marc asks after a long spell of nothing but shop noises.

“I get that you’ve got to give LA a try before you decide if you’re moving here, but I want to make sure you know we’re serious.

There’s always a place for you, and the boys would love it. Hell, we all would.”

“Thanks.” I glance up and can tell by the hint of a scowl he expects more than a one-word grunt. “Marc, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I’m just not sure this place will work for me.”

“Yeah, leave it to Dad to find the perfect piece of property and not notice it’s full of conservative pricks. But we’ve found some decent people, too.”

“You fit in better than I will. Either way, I’d like to head out tomorrow or the day after. A friend offered me a bartending gig while I’m getting my LA legs back.”

“Where will you stay?”

“It’s LA. There are plenty of places.” I concentrate on the part I’m cleaning so I don’t have to see him, but it doesn’t do any good. “I dunno, probably a cheap motel until I can afford somewhere. Couch surf if I still have any friends left down there.”

“You’re not couch surfing,” he sighs, tossing a rag onto the tool bench and picking up his phone. “Marybeth’s sister lives nearby, and you can stay?—”

“Marc, she lives an hour outside the city. I’ll be okay, I promise.

If I don’t find somewhere, I’ll call Chase or Laurie.

” Mark’s forehead wrinkles deeper the longer he stares at me.

“Chase paid for my rehab stint and checks in with me regularly. Laurie sends me dog videos on social media, and that’s her way of telling me we’re okay, even if it’s weird. ”

“Promise me you’ll be in touch with them and you’ll tell me where you’re staying.”

“Sure. And I’ve still got Shawn on my ass, too.”

“I’m not trying to ride your ass, Luca…shit… Skylar.” There’s an apology in the way he sighs, but he grew up calling me Lucas. He only does that when he’s annoyed or pissed off at me. It’s emotions, not hurtful.

“You wouldn’t ride my ass anyway, Marc. I’m a top.” I wink. “Usually.”

He mumbles under his breath, “Dick.”