Page 9 of Striking Range

Skylar taps my chest, regaining my attention as he grins. “Wanna take the first shot of the night together?”

Chapter Three

Everett Young

I’m technically older than Skylar by six months, something I never let him forget, so I’ve been twenty-two for a while now. Not that it means much, not when twenty-two is such a boring age. Now, when I turned twenty-one, it was a different story—Skylar was pissed. He wouldn’t even let me go into bars until he got his fake ID. He had a serious case of FOMO.

But tonight we’re partying as if none of us have yet to cross that threshold, to behold the wondrous age of twenty-two. As if it’s life-altering.

Shot after shot, I watch as more people enter the apartment and things get livelier. Kelly and Henry begin telling the volleyball guys embarrassing stories about Skylar, and I become aware that they only know a certain side of him.

The volleyball star, the asshole, the jock.

The man of the hour himself is in the kitchen, taking shots with Dante. And Dante… Well, I can admit that the guy is a giant. He’s about two inches taller than I am and straight muscle—dark brown hair, green eyes, and a decent five o’clock shadow.

He’s laughing at something that Skylar is saying as I watch them from the living room, his big arm thrown around Skylar’s shoulders. Dante is always doing that, I’ve noticed.

“I think he’s drunk,” Kelly says, coming up next to me as she nurses her own drink.

“Already?” I have my own buzz going, sure, but drunk is a bit much. I eye Skylar again, taking in the flush of his soft cheeks and the way he sways slightly when Dante leans into him too hard. “Huh.”

Two hours later, the party is still in full swing, and Skylar is most definitely drunk. He laughs at every joke he hears, leaning against shoulders and snapping back at people who make targeting comments.

That’s his typical drunk façade, and most of the time his sober one too. My little poisonous snake.

Even if he’s only two inches shorter than me, Skylar’s muscles are leaner, and those big blue eyes and floppy brown curls make him look small and adorable—like a puppy. When I first started calling him that in middle school, he straight-up decked me in the nose, made me bleed and everything.

Now, he doesn’t even bat an eye.

I hold his arm as said little snake plops down next to me on the floor of the living room. Not that I’m the best support, being decently drunk myself. Everyone here is fucked up, actually.

I watch the crowd around us, a few people sitting in a circle with Skylar and me, and enjoy the energy.

“Finding your next victim, you manwhore?” Skylar slurs, leaning into me with those judgmental eyes.

“Not quite. I normally wait until I can barely stand.”

This makes him laugh, loud and full, which of course just makes me grin harder. The best friend effect, if you will. I want to laugh when he laughs; I want to hit him when he annoys me; I want to protect him when he’s in trouble.

“How very Everett of you,” he jokes.

I shove him playfully—only, I don’t know my own strength when I’m drunk, and I watch as he tips backward, his drink spilling onto his chest and running up his neck.

There is one moment of silence between us, where he just stares at the ceiling in shock.

And then—

“Asshole!” Skylar screeches. Still, he doesn’t bother to move from where he now lies.

“Oops.” I wipe at the sticky liquor on his neck, licking it off my fingers in lieu of having to drag my ass to the kitchen for a napkin.

Walking sounds hard right now.

After a few more passes of my fingertips over his neck, collecting what tastes like Vodka, I decide he’s now acceptable, and my eyes find his. Skylar is already staring at me—assessing, curious, and calculating.

I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the dark patch of his shirt where the liquor soaked in.

There is so much laughter in the room, the music pounding through the floorboards and into my body. I can’t read him well when I’m incapacitated, so I squint down at him in question.