Page 32 of Never To Suffer

“Dani?”

I throw my head back and yell into the night, frying my vocal cords, but not caring. I can’t take one more thing going wrong tonight. I cross my arms, ready for another round of verbal sparring with whoever wants to mess with me next, and turn toward the voice calling my name.

The sight knocks the breath out of my lungs. It’s a trick, my mind playing games because of the stress. Interesting that it projects a sexy fallen angel with a motorcycle. Tall with long, dark hair that spills out over broad shoulders. Pants so tight you don’t need an imagination, and a jawline I need to feel betweenmy legs. The entire package screams out to be ridden all night long and into the morning, and who am I to say no?

There’s one flaw in this eye candy, and it’s confirmed when they take a step a step forward, letting the glow of the streetlamp hit those rich brown eyes with their hazel centers. God, this world can get so strange sometimes.

“Skylar? Is that really you?” I scream and break into a full run. I jump into their strong, muscled arms without hesitation, and they give me that bit of an extra squeeze before they put me down and stare at me like I’m a figment of their imagination. “Look at you, baby! You look incredible!”

“No, I look like a trailer park after a tornado rips through it.” They smile and it warms more than just my heart. It’s been too long since I heard that voice and drowned in those eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

I’ve known Skylar for what feels like forever, but has only been about five years. They used to date one of my best friends, Steve—they even got engaged. They were wonderful together, always laughing and supportive. Until a truck ran Skylar’s motorcycle off the road, almost killing them. When they woke up, they didn’t remember the accident, the engagement, or anything else from the last two years. In the months that followed, Skylar’s slow recovery took its toll on both Skylar and Steve. It only got worse when the doctors told them the fragments of memory they had recovered—about eight months before the accident—might be all they ever got back.

Xander and I tried our best to help, but it ended their relationship and a few months later, Skylar left us, too.

“What the hell are you doing here, fucker?!” I slap their arm hard enough to sting but not do any damage. “Also, where have you been? Also, also, why the shit did you ghost me, asshole?! Did you get my text?! Wait, no, backup. What are you doing here?!”

“I didn’t ghost you, beautiful. I ghosted life. I needed some distance between me and everything that even reminded me of Los Angeles. I needed my life back.” Their hands hold the sides of my face, and they stare at me like I’m the last cup of water in the desert. My heart flutters when soft lips press against my forehead, followed by a warm sigh of relief. “I can’t believe you’re here and you’re real. Right when I’m trying to get my stupid head straight. Like you were sent to me.”

I narrow my eyes at them. “Get your head…straight? Like, what does that mean? Were you on some kind of expedition into the depths of conversion-ville and you now go by your dead-name again or?”

They bark out a laugh, “God, no. Still Skylar, still exploring all possibilities, Beetle. You still with your honeybee, or do I finally have a shot at that guy?” They tease. I nod as they blow a cloud of smoke over their shoulder, away from me. Skylar’s the only one of my friends who adopted Xander’s nickname for me. At first, they did it to annoy Xander, but it stuck. “Good. Wait, are you playing tonight?”

“Yeah, it’s like a tour. You should see where we’ve been staying the last few nights. Oh my god, it’s been awful. Tonight isn’t much better either. The first night we stayed outside of Portland, and Xander made me watch that Green Room movie with the Star Trek guy before I left LA, which is creepy and horrible. I freaked out for like two nights because of it, but we still ended up staying in every version of the Bates Motel that exists. Connor thinks we’re gonna die in one of these dumps.” I grab their arms, my eyes wide. “Please tell me the bar isn’t stupid crazy with shit like chicken wire or caged dogs?”

“I missed how much you ramble. No chicken wire yet, and no signs of Captain Picard walking the halls.”

“Ha. Ha. Okay, your turn!”

They pinch the end of the cigarette, letting the small chunk of burning tobacco fall to the ground and die in the puddle under their boot. “Passing through. My brother and his family live around here and wanted to take me out before I head south.”

“South?”

They brush the side of my face, setting off a pyrotechnic show in my body as they stare at me for what feels like forever. I can’t pry my eyes away from theirs except to stare at their lips. Skylar has these kissable, soft, pouty lips, even with the jagged scar that runs through them and the piercings. When they drag their tongue over them, I hold myself back. I kissed them on a dare once, and it solidified itself as a core memory for me. Even thinking about it now has me all warm in places I shouldn’t be. If they hadn’t still been with Steve when it happened, we would have done so much more than make out like teenagers in that closet. Xander would have joined in, too. He has the same tastes in men as Steve, or they go after the same men to annoy each other.

“I should have called you,” they whisper. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Either of you.”

“So, are you coming back to LA? Like for real and for good?”

“I’m gonna try. I planned to give it a week or two while I worked up the nerve to call you. Guess fate had other plans.”

“The nerve to callme?” I squeak.

“I told you how I felt and ran away. I assumed you hated me, even though no matter how far I ran, my feelings for you never changed. Even without you physically with me, you even gave me hope and restored my love of music. Your songs are the ones I play over and over, with or without the bass in my hands.”

“M-My songs?” I shake the fog out of my head. “Wait, our music? Seriously?”

“It’s how I kept you close. You and Xander, every single day.” They wink. “I even had a gig a few weeks ago.” They sigh andshake their head. “Unfortunately, the singer and drummer broke up, so it fell through. They weren’t my style, anyhow.”

“Too pop for your rock and roll?”

“Too hetero-normative for my rainbows, glitter, and pronouns.”

“Ohhh, no bueno. Screw those guys and let that freak flag fly, baby.”

“It flies so much higher with you around.”

We’re a breath apart, no signs of moving away from one another. The smell of their exotic tobacco, motorcycle grease, and leather mix with my whiskey and wildflowers in the sliver of space between us. The intoxicating mixture has my mind wondering if this bar has a broom closet where we can hide or if I should pull them into the van. The swarm of butterflies moves from my belly to my heart and into my throat. Now, they’re threatening to jump out of my mouth and climb all over this beautiful person like I want to.

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