Page 41 of Striking Range

“Boys,” Camile interjects. “Are you two okay? Did you fight? It’s not good to fight. We can mediate, you know.”

“Mom,” Skylar warns.

“I’m just saying! You’ve been friends for so long now. I know you love each other—”

“Mom!”

Camile abruptly stops speaking, her eyes falling back down to her half-empty plate.

“Skylar Edmond Parish. Be careful how you speak to your mother.” Phillip’s voice is stern, but not angry.

Ash would have bitch slapped me.

Skylar is quiet for a moment before he murmurs, “I’m sorry, Momma. Thank you for your help, but everything’s okay.”

Camile relents, smiling as she returns to eating.

But everything is not okay. I want to cry and scream and maybe punch Skylar in his perfect face.

“Everett, praise me,” he had said. Moaned. Cried.

I have to get him out of my head. These memories, his voice, his taste—the feeling of him pressed against me. It’s the only way to survive this.

And with this thought in mind, I avoid any and all conflict or confrontation for the rest of the morning, which just means I barely speak to Skylar.

Then, once it’s no longer considered rude to do so, I flee.

My voice comes out rushed but calm as I say, “Well, I have things to do, but thank you so much for breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Parish.”

Camile pulls me into another hug. “Of course, sweet boy. Come by whenever you want.”

“You’re leaving?” Skylar asks me; his first direct question of the day.

I nod, not bothering to look in his direction.

Phillip shakes my hand. “Have a good day, son.”

I wave, offering them a tight smile before slipping out the front door.

I’m opening my driver’s side door as Skylar comes running out of the house.

“Everett,” he calls. And as I ignore him and get in the car, he jams his hand inside to keep me from closing it. “What the fuck?”

“What do you want, Skylar?” I snap.

His brow furrows, the soft lines of his face pulling tight. “Where are you going?”

“Home?” I look at him in confusion.

What does he mean by where? I don’t live here, and I certainly don’t live with him. Doesn’t he have a boyfriend to get back to?

“Why? Come over.”

I scoff. “I can’t. I’m sick, remember?”

Skylar rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seriously? You ran out of Seabird like there was a shooting about to happen, and then I didn’t hear from you this morning. I was trying to cover for you. Why are you so angry?”

I stare at him, images of Jacob’s hands all over him playing behind my eyes. And then, even worse still, my own imagination feeds me images of what most likely happened after I left. What could have happened once they were alone.