Page 36 of Striking Range

What else do you want, Evie?

That is what I want to ask, because I don’t know anymore. But I’m almost certain that he doesn’t know either. He’s always been straight, and now he’s got this curious look in his eyes when he looks at me, and I can’t help but wonder if he looks at other guys like this, too.

And if he does, will it hurt? Will it kill me? If he does, does that mean something it shouldn’t?

Does this mean I want him?

Chapter Nine

Everett Young

Watching Skylar bask in his win, laughing under the setting sun, dripping wet and so delicious, feels like the ultimate sin. As if it’s an invasion of privacy to want him this way, with this much intensity.

But I can’t help it. I can’t stop my thoughts from wandering or my fingers from craving the feel of his warm skin beneath their touch.

His voice may not be high-pitched, but it sure is sweet when he calls out to me—my stomach warming as he aims that million-watt smile my way. Skylar somehow manages to turn every breath he takes into an invitation to get closer.

And the sickest part? He lets me watch him. He lets me touch, even though we’ve kissed, even though he’s come out, even though I continuously lose my cool and show him this side of me he’s never seen—that I’ve never seen.

With all of these variables working together, he still pulls me in, closer and closer still.

For reference, I have never been the jealous type. I wasn’t previously aware that I’m the kind of man to get possessive. Sure, I’ve never cared to date, but I’ve fooled around. I’ve had fuck buddies.

And yet I’ve never been the kind of guy to feel this… rage.

But now I do, and I hate it. I hate the way it manifests inside of me and sours my thoughts, my actions, turning me into someone I do not recognize.

I am inherently kind, naturally gentle. This viciousness, this desire to eliminate any person who stands between Skylar and me—it doesn’t suit me at all. It doesn’t feel good.

How do I fix it? How do I fix me? Preferably before Ash finds out I’ve been fantasizing about my male best friend and smacks me around some more.

It’s with this determination to change myself that I am climbing into bed, Skylar already passed out next to me. He’s tired, having played until the last second during his match and then swimming for hours with me, Henry, and Kelly.

I settle onto my side and watch him as he lies peacefully on his back, dark curls falling onto the pillow beneath his head, warm puffs of air escaping his parted lips. His lashes flutter every few heartbeats, and I wonder what he’s dreaming of and if he ever thinks of me enough to place me in his subconscious.

The smooth planes of Skylar’s chest rise and fall with each breath he takes, nipples soft and relaxed against his slightly tanned skin. The comforter has wrapped itself around his narrow waist, one arm tucked under his pillow.

He is so beautiful, so vulnerable here with me. All of his defenses are lowered. No one else sees him like this—gets to take all of him in with no consequences to fear. I am the only one—outside of his family—allowed within striking range while he is unable to attack. The only one allowed to get so close when he is defenseless.

I am unreasonably terrified that someday this fact will no longer be true. That somebody like Jacob, the giant football player with his easy smiles and big arms, will hold Skylar as he curls up into a little ball and dreams away.

I wonder if Skylar has messaged him.

My fingers trace his ear, retreating as he moves his head—tilting toward me to ward off the feeling. In response, I brush the hair off his forehead, feeling the silk of the curls and wrapping them around my fingertips.

I want to pull on them, to wake him up to the sensation and see how he reacts. But I don’t. I’m not allowed—never allowed.

Even if I want to, I can’t allow these wanting hands to travel down to his soft, pink lips. To caress the bridge of his nose and over the sharp edge of his jaw; the curve of his neck. I wonder what sounds he’d make if I leaned over and took one of his nipples into my mouth.

I bet no one has ever heard his sounds before.

Would he get hard? Would he grab me by my hair and keep me there, or would he shove me away? Could I slide under the blanket right this second and take him into my mouth, feeling the weight of his desire and tasting the most intimate part of him?

I pull my hands away from his hair, turning to lie on my back. I am startled by my own thoughts. I’ve never felt so dirty, so perverted.

This is a sign—I need to listen to Ash. Not only to keep my only means of transportation, my income, my fucking safety, but because this isn’t right. It’s dangerous. It’s a path I’m not meant to follow, turning me into a man I do not recognize. One I do not like.

I know there is nothing wrong with being gay; I see no issue with how other people function the way the Carmichaels do. But I can’t just wake up one day and turn off the side of my brain that was raised to believe in the path laid out for me.