18
Kevin
Ilie awake, listening to Skye’s soft snores. Her hair drapes over my chest, fanning around her head. The alarm clock by the bed ticks away time with an amplified sound, like a drummer counting each second. Shadows dance along the walls each time a car drives by. I look at Skye’s small form beside me, and a wave of guilt sweeps through me. Was bringing her here the right thing to do? How can I protect her when I can’t even protect myself?
My mind wanders to memories of war.
I lifted my hand, signaling my men to stop. A child, not more than twelve years old, watched us from across the road. Silence accompanied the metal clang of our gear.
“He’s just a kid, Marino.”
“You know what we’ve been told, Johns. It doesn’t matter if it’s a man, woman, or child. Anyone could be a risk,” I whispered.
The child’s mouth moved, but he didn't speak out loud. I readied my rifle. He made a quick gesture with his hand behind him. My finger curled around the trigger. Another young boy hurried toward him, and they ran off together, laughing.
I was a hair’s width away from shooting a child. The constant fear and anxiety made it hard to tell what was a threat anymore. Everything felt like a threat. Including myself.
Skye wraps her leg around mine, pulling me from my thoughts. She nestles against me, still sleeping. I wipe sweat from my forehead. My chest heaves, and I try to slow my breath. Skye’s arm drapes across my chest, and I run my fingers over the heat of her skin.
“What’s wrong?” she asks with a groggy voice.
“Nothing.”
“You’re breathing really heavy, and I can feel your heart racing.” She says, using one hand to wipe her eyes.
I pull away from her, but she keeps me there. “Skye, I have to go.”
I try to move her arm away from me, but the effort proves futile. Her arm is like an iron band. How is she even this strong? The girl never eats.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” Her voice is still heavy with sleep.
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream.”
“Lie back down, then.” Skye turns over, facing away from me. She reaches her hand back and grabs mine, draping it over her like a blanket.
I turn over and lie behind her, but I keep distance between our bodies. She scoots back, pulling my arm further around her. I can feel the heat of her in front of me, pressed against me. I can smell the strawberry-scented shampoo in her hair. I take a deep breath, inhaling more of her sweet scent. She calms my breathing, and my heartbeat slows.
As the stress of my memories fades away, I harden against her. Embarrassed, I scoot away from her, trying to keep my cock from pressing against her ass. Though it wants to. Oh, it wants to . . .
“It’s okay,” she whispers.
Heat flushes my cheeks, and a heavy rush of guilt pulls the blood away from my cock.
“No, it’s not. Did you see what happened to you yesterday?” I try to pull away from her again, but she keeps a firm grasp on my arm.
“I know what happened. You’re the one who helped me through it.”
I’m not a white knight. I’m not a savior. She’s mistaking me for someone else.
Skye turns to face me. It’s too dark to see her eyes, though I can feel them on me. Her hand grazes my shoulder. Her fingers trail down my arm. She leans into me, letting her lips clumsily find mine in the dark. My hand slides along her back as she kisses me. I kiss her, the guilt dissipating. Blood fills me again. I wrap my hand around her neck, pulling her into me. She whimpers.
Fuck, what am I doing?
I pull back, holding her away from me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“That noise you made. I don’t know what it means. I don’t want . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to—”
“Trigger me?”
Yes. Trigger her. I don’t want to cause her more anguish than I already have. I don’t want my lips or my hands to remind her of any other touch.
“Skye . . .”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says with an annoyed sigh, turning away from me.
I flip on the light beside the table. When I sit up, I reach over, grab her shoulder, and lean into her. “I’m sorry, Skye. I don’t know how to navigate this with you. I’m scared.”
She turns over and raises her blue eyes to me. “What the hell are you scared of?”
I drop my gaze. “We’re both such messes. I don’t see how anything good can come from this. We’re in close proximity to feelings and temptations. Fuck. I don’t know. This seems like a bad idea.”
“I can make my own decision about what’s a bad idea or not.”
“That’s the problem with this living situation, though. What’s real and what’s just convenient?”
“You think I kissed you because it’s convenient? Are you kidding me?” She sits up and blows her hair away from her face. “I’ve never wanted anyone, let alone someone out of convenience.”
Fuck. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure as fuck sounds like it. If I wasn’t the way I am, and if I wasn’t eighteen, you’d have tried to sleep with me by now, am I right?”
I think long and hard on that. Had bruises not marred her skin, if her mind wasn’t plagued by pain, or if her face wasn’t so young and innocent, would I have?
“I might have.”
Her lips draw into a tight line at my response.
“But I might not have. I care about you, Skye. I’m not sure I would’ve wanted to ruin that, even if our circumstances were different.” If I was different. “Go back to bed,” I tell her as I climb out of bed and leave the room, closing the door behind me.
As soon as I hear the click of the door behind me, I lean against it. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my limbs tremble. I recognize this battle. My heart and mind are at war.
With heavy steps, I walk to the kitchen and fill a glass with leftover rum. I swear, once this is all done, I’ll stop drinking.
My phone sits on the table nearby, and the background image catches my attention. It’s a picture of Emily in my lap before everything went to shit. A wide smile covers her face. I pick up my phone and go through the contacts, stopping at my mother’s name.
Me: Hey, Mom.
I hover over the send button, staring at the screen like it might tell me what to do. I let loose a heavy sigh and drop the phone on the table.
I can’t do it.
I lift the glass of rum to my lips and swallow. Next time. I’ll call my mother next time.
I take another glance at my phone. Emily’s face stares back at me. I wonder if Skye has seen this. If so, she never mentioned it. What would I even say? Oh god, what if she finds out about what I did to Emily? The trial that cost me everything. I’ll have to tell her eventually, but like the call to my mom, it will have to wait for another time.
I glance at the clock above the stove. Five a.m. No one ever said it had to be p.m. I take another sip from the glass.
I feel just as guilty for rejecting Skye as I do for letting her kiss me. And getting hard because of her. If I sleep with Skye, her father will probably have me drawn and quartered in his fucking town square. But there are bigger things I wish I could explain to her. Why I’m apprehensive and scared. It’s me I’m fearful of, not her. I haven’t been with anyone since Emily, and we all know how that turned out. I don’t want to hurt her.
And I love Emily. Fuck, I still love her, but I don’t want to end up in prison again. If Emily even so much as catches a glimpse of me, that’s probably where I’ll end up.
I fill my mouth with another sip of rum, letting it numb my mouth before I swallow. I grab my phone and head to the couch to lie down. The blanket doesn’t comfort me as I wrap it around myself.
I go through the old texts between Emily and me. The older texts were so full of attraction and excitement. The later ones were little more than single word responses. There were so many apology texts from me. So many. Even after the apologies, I still did the same thing the next day. No wonder we got to the point we did.
I long to press over her name and delete the thread of texts, trying to erase the person I was. The one I don’t want to be. I’ll always be that person if I keep living in the past, wondering what I could have done differently.
I consider changing my background image, but it feels so final—like the last tie I have to her.
Another day.
I put down the phone, take another sip of my drink, and replay what happened between Skye and me. I had to reject her. I mean, I had to.
Right?
What would happen to her—or to me—if I let things go further? I’m not sure it’s worth the risk to find out.
I swallow the rest of my drink and take my glass to the sink. I’m drawn to the hallway—an invisible string pulling me toward my bedroom. An apology is probably in order. I find myself standing in front of the door, my hand on the knob. I don’t knock in case she’s asleep. I inch the door open and peer into the room. The bedside lamp is still lit.