“On me.”
“Sure, yeah.” She stands. Tosses her finished drink in the trash. “I guess we should get your car.”
“Yeah.”
“And, uh… It’s okay.”
“What’s okay?”
“This… You… You don’t have to explain anything. I know what I signed up for. I know you’re… I know.” She offers me a weak smile.
I study her expression, trying to figure out what she means.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to help her. So I nod okay, follow her out the door, try to figure out what she wants.
After a ten-minute walk home, a fifteen-minute drive to Tragic Kingdom, and ten more minutes of parking (to the same album), I’m no closer to figuring out what Skye wants.
I can’t blame her for keeping her cards close to the vest. That’s Skye. That’s me. That’s us.
But it eats at me in some way it usually doesn’t.
I hate that she’s upset. That she won’t tell me why. That I can’t figure it out.
I follow her lead. Talk about tattoos and clothing design and upcoming shoots. She has a whole beach series planned. She already has a few of this season’s hottest swim trends.
Apparently, clothes are always a few months ahead. She’s already late on showing off the summer styles.
I try to carry on a coherent conversation as we leave the parking garage, but my head fights me. It keeps replaying yesterday’s shoot.
Her body between my thighs.
Her lips against mine.
Her hand in my hair.
Fuck.
I need a cup of coffee. Or an entire bottle of wine. Or both.
I step onto the concrete of the strip mall. This place can paint itself as ornately as it wants. It’s still a strip mall.
The sun bounces off the white concrete, making everything way too bright.
My stomach turns from the excessive light.
Or maybe that’s the way Skye is closing off.
It’s hard to say.
I reach for her hand.
She presses it into her side. “A pool would be ideal. The beach is nice. It’s free. And it’s more scenic. But the water is freezing until August. And by August it’s crowded everywhere. I can go up to Malibu, but that’s such a far drive.” She steps onto the down escalator. Grips the rubber railing. “It might be worth it. And I can handle some cold water. But only some. I’m not that tough.”
“You are too.”
She shakes her head. “No… I only seem tough because I wear a lot of black makeup.”
“Is that why you wear it?”
Her voice softens. “It just feels right.”
“It suits you.”
“You think?” She makes a show of rolling her eyes.
For a second, the mood is light. Then a thin girl passes us. Her Nordstrom bag smacks my thigh. And Skye’s.
My best friend frowns.
“You need help?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Up in Malibu. I can hold a reflector. Man the camera.”
“You’re going to man the camera?”
“You don’t think I can?”
“Maybe if I want a shitty porno.”
“Go on…” I arch a brow.
She half-smiles. “You never said what you like.”
“You want to know?”
“Do I?”
“It’s not gang bangs.”
“Or violent skull fucking?” she asks.
“Or that.”
“So…”
“Solo women.”
She looks up at me. Stares into my eyes like she’s looking into my soul. “It took you an hour to admit you like to watch women fuck themselves?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Her laugh lights up her eyes. “You really…” She turns to step off the escalator. “That’s really what you watch?”
“Not the only thing. But my favorite.”
“Really?”
“Are you gonna test me?”
“How would I even—”
“See how long I last on different videos.”
“Oh my God.” A laugh spills from her lips. Then another. A bigger, heartier one. “Is faster or longer better?”
“Faster.”
“What if you draw it out more when you like something? Because you need more of it?”
“Is that what you do?”
Her hair whips her cheek as she turns her head. “I don’t watch porn.”
“What do you do?”
“Somehow, I stay busy.” She laughs. Shakes her head you’re so ridiculous.
I shouldn’t ask this, I know, but I have to. “When you fuck yourself?”
Her cheeks flush. “I take my hand—”
“You have a vibrator?”
“None of your business.”
“What do you think about?” I want to move closer, but even with her laugh, she’s giving off stay away vibes. I slide my hands into my pockets so I won’t touch her. Fuck, I want to touch her. “What do you think about when you fuck yourself?”
“Men I want to bed.”
“Bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Which men?”
“You know…” She clears her throat. “Instagram models. And guys I um…”
“Anyone I know?” Who the fuck is he? This guy you like. Who doesn’t see how great you are. Who doesn’t deserve your attention.
She fights a blush. “You, uh… I should really… find a dress. So, uh… Why don’t you give me twenty minutes? Then meet me in the dressing room?” Her eyes meet mine. Her chest flushes.
Fuck, she really does have amazing tits. Her dress—a snug purple thing that hugs her chest and glides over her hips—is just low enough to drive me out of my fucking mind.