Page 70 of Striking Range

As Skylar rounds the table and grabs my arm, I can’t help but give Jacob a smug grin that reads, he chose me, bitch!

Skylar pulls me toward the exit, mumbling, “Stop gloating, Evie.”

But I can’t help it; I keep grinning anyway.

We Uber back to his apartment—he’s been drinking too, and Kelly drove them.

The drive is silent and tense, the air around us moving into my lungs and back out, only to filter straight into his. It’s a vicious cycle, and a dangerous need begins to build inside of me every moment that I sit so close to him—every moment that it feels as if he cares.

Once we get home, he drags my drunk ass up the stairs, only stumbling slightly over his own feet. The front door unlocks, and as we step inside, he drops to his knees in front of me to take off my shoes.

I know I’ve stopped breathing; I can feel it. Or the lack of it, I guess. And Skylar can feel it too, those curious eyes staring up at me as I try to make sense of his expression.

Eventually he looks away, standing up to pull me into his bedroom and dump me onto the mattress.

“Sleep. If you need to throw up, do it in the bathroom. You can clean yourself up tomorrow.” He must be talking about the marks Ash left on me—little gifts littering my skin.

“Little puppy,” I call out as he turns to leave, his back tensing, the lean muscles outlined beautifully in his pink shirt.

Somewhere, somehow, he lost the jean jacket. It’s a shame; I really liked it.

“Go to sleep, Evie.” Skylar sounds like he’s pleading, and he hardly ever pleads. Just as he hardly ever cries, yet I watched him do that too the last time I was here, in his bedroom.

My vicious little viper, my sweet little puppy. Oh, how I’ve missed him.

“Please. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me to face this alone.” I know it’s a selfish request.

I know I’m a horrible, fucked up person. But tonight has been miserable; this life has turned into a wretched thing, and I just need him. I need his voice and his warmth and his hands on me.

If tomorrow comes and he still hates me, demanding that I leave him, then I will accept my defeat. I will bow out of his life gracefully. But for now, fuck, I need him.

I need him like I need air, like I need water, like I need the ground I walk on and the God I would pray to if only I could believe in one.

Skylar turns to face me, his expression crestfallen and hopeless—so hopeless.

I’m winning this fight. It’s bloody and brutal, and we’re both so wounded, but I’m winning. When will I learn what it has cost me?

He climbs into the bed next to me, leaning over my body to study the marks there. I feel the warmth of his fingertips as they trace over my face—so gentle and sweet I hardly feel the sting as they catch the cut on my cheek.

“Who did this?” he asks.

As I open my mouth to lie, I think of Ashley on my bed, her forehead pressed to mine, and it closes on its own.

Maybe it’s time I start telling the truth. Maybe it’s the only way for him to forgive me, for him to accept me again.

I swallow harshly. “Ash.”

Skylar’s eyes widen. “That fucking bitch. Where is she? I’ll put Kelly on her so fast—”

“No.” I can’t help the chuckle that leaves me. “Not Ashley. Ash—my father.”

I watch Skylar’s expression shift from blank to completely confused.

“Huh? He… Your dad?” he asks, and I nod, saying nothing more. The realization seems to dawn on him. “Has he… has he been doing this to you? Every time you have an accident?”

He air-quotes accident as if telling me he never once believed a lie I told, and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.

And he looks so beautiful like this—when he looks at me like he cares.