Then I’m done.
I shove him, pushing his head down for good measure, sending him to his knees to headbutt the floor. “Fuck off.”
I spit the words through clenched teeth, but project them enough that anyone nearby gets the message not to lay hands on me, and the crowd parts to let me through.
The contact is brief, but I feel a collective stare follow me to the bar, and it’s a sensation I’m not used to. I’m trained to blend in, to be unremarkable, it’s the Regiment way. But down here, in this clusterfuck of a town, everyone sees everything and it chokes me like it did the first night I came here and I couldn’t fucking breathe through the breeze block in my chest.
This doesn’t feel as bad as that, though, and as I draw closer to the bar, I realise why.
Skylar.
He’s not at the bar, he’sonit, at the end, lounging against the wall with a bottle of beer I covet almost as much as the lips he wraps around it, gaze casual if you don’t know him. Like, at all. I’ve come to learn there’s nothing casual about Skylar. Every blink, every breath, has a purpose, and I know he’s not perched on the rum-stained wood because he likes crowds and bad reggae.
I’ve never seen him around this many people. But the moment we lock eyes, he’s the only soul in the room. My agitation fades, leaving me to contemplate why it was there at all when I’m used to feeling kinda high after a contact. To contemplate itlater. I don’t want to think right now. I want a row of empty bottles in front of me and Skylar’s all-seeing stare flaying me open.
I want his hands on me.
Mine on his.
I want his fucking mouth, and perhaps it shows on my face, because his stare seems to hold a warning.
Fine. I reach the bar and slip through the gap at the opposite end and open the fridge that holds the beer we both drink. Grab a handful of bottles and chuck the cash in the till to pay for them.
Then I take them to where Skylar sits because it’s the only space available and I don’t feel like drinking alone. I set the beers between us and crack two open with the heel of my hand on the bar. Drink until the first bottle’s done. I’m halfway through the second before I sense him lean a little closer and take a slow inhale.
Sniffing me?
That’s a new one.
I offer up the beer without looking at him.
He takes it and sets it down. The quietthunkof glass on wood seems deafening. So does his silence, and I turn my head without thought. Find himright there, which does nothing to calm whatever bullshit I’ve dragged in from the sea.
I need more than for him to fucking stare at me.
Kiss me. Punch me. I don’t give a fuck.
Someone behind me jostles my back. Violence rears in me again, sudden, untamed, and despite what I told Sol on the jetty, a million miles from who I am.
I spin around.
Skylar slides from the bar and blocks me, putting himself between me and a drunk local who’s already wandered off. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do whatever you feel like doing.”
“Story of my fucking life.”
My Porth Luck life.
My life since I methim.
I reclaim my beer.
Skylar gives me a look that erodes the last of my patience.
“Why are you even here?”