Page 6 of Whiskey Sour
“But he’s such a nice guy.”
“I think I found my forever person.”
Week after week. Month after fucking month. Of having someone else hold Skylar’s attention. His heart grows full every time, while mine’s already calcified to save itself from the pain, with only a sliver left beating because of my sunshine.
I’ve loved Skylar fortwelvefucking years. I was with him in that shit foster home we grew up in, with him when he came out, with him when we graduated high school and decided he wanted to move to Miami. Through all the tears, all the laughs, all thelifewe’ve lived together, I’ve been his only constant.
Every day with him is simultaneous torture and bliss. It’s not an exaggeration to say that my world revolves around him. Every single thought I have is of Skylar. When I’m not actively thinking of ways to make him smile, I’m holding myself back from picturing a life where he feels the same way about me. He’s in my blood, the very essence of myself, and I know I’ll spend the rest of my life desperately obsessed with him.
Because, whether he’ll ever acknowledge it himself, he belongs tome.
I don’t usually grow bitterly resentful, but I must be on something tonight, because when Douche Canoe #1 tries to get out from under me, I make sure he can’t.
By punching him straight across the jaw and knocking him out.
I punch until I have to be pulled off the limp and badly beaten body. The guy’s still alive, that much I know, but I also know just from looking at the commissioner through the chain fence that I’ve been put on a week's ban. Scoffing, I shake my head as I spit on the ground behind Douche Canoe #1, then make my way toward the commissioner. He already has cash in his hands.
“You sure were worked up tonight,” he says. Chewing on his toothpick, he glances behind me at the destruction I’ve left. “Ever consider playing with the big boys?”
I shake my head and hold out my hand. “Not interested.”
“Your loss,” he says, slapping the bills in my palm. “But call me if you change your mind, yeah? This schoolyard shit will bore you, eventually. I just know it.”
With a shrug, he pats me on the back as I pass him. I shoulder my way through the booing crowd to get outside. I’m sure all these suckers put their money on the pretty rich boy, thinking that I was a piece of easy trailer trash he could squash with a few unimpressive moves. Trailer trash is right, but easy is not.
Once I’m outside, I head to my bike and shrug my shirt back on, hating how it’s already sticking to my skin with the thick Miami humidity. The commissioner is always moving the ring around, so I have to head out of some ritzy neighborhood to hook back onto the highway.
With all the traffic, it takes me about thirty minutes to get home. When I do, I keep my eyes peeled in our crappy neighborhood as I park in the unprotected basement garage. I secure my bike with the anti-theft handlebar lock and grab my stuff, heading back out onto the street to get inside the building. Since the elevator has been broken for the last five years, I take the stairs two at a time, my backpack jostling with every step. Reaching the door, I go through the arduous process of unlocking all four locks. This place only had one installed when Skylar and I moved in, and after a pretty brutal home invasion a couple of doors down, I wasn’t about to leave him home alone with only one flimsy bolt to protect him.
I open the door and go inside, securing all the locksandthe deadbolt. Every light is on, which isn’t unusual since Skylar has aparticular fear of being home alone in the dark, but what is weird is the fact that he’s still awake.
Awake and only wearing my fucking shirt.
He’s bent over, rummaging through the fridge, his cute ass on display as my shirt rides up just enough to tease the outline of his butt cheeks. Like a man possessed, and still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, I stalk toward him. He yelps when I press my crotch against his ass, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief moment so I don’t start rutting him like an animal.
“What are you doing up?” I rasp, my hands migrating to his hips when he tries to move. “You got off work two hours ago.”
He straightens, looking over his shoulder at me. Skylar is utter perfection. He’s petite, the perfect size for me to pick up and carry. But he’s lean and strong, thanks to the nurturing and healthy eating I force on him every day. His eyes—one light green and one dark brown—have always been so mesmerizing. Right now, they’re coy and just a bit mischievous, and paired with the way he nibbles on his bottom lip, I know he wants trouble. “I got hungry. Can we?—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Cass! I just want?—”
I shut him up by spinning him around and planting my hands under his ass, lifting him until he’s wrapping his legs around my waist. Carrying him over to the kitchen counter, I gently deposit him on the surface while I run my hands up and down his smooth thighs. “If you’re hungry, I’ll cook. You’re not eating that shit.”
“But I want a nice greasy burger with fries,” he whines, jutting out his bottom lip. “And a soda!”
“There’s soda in the fridge.”
He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “That’ssoda? That’s fruit-scented bubbly water that tastes like garbage and you know it.”
“Chicken and broccoli.” I move my hands up under his shirt so I can skate my thumbs across his ribs. “With key lime-scented garbage water.”
Skylar looks like he wants to resist, but he doesn’t. He continues to pout, but when I lean forward and playfully nip at his bottom lip, he giggles and bats me away. “Fine. Can you at least use that lemon-butter seasoning I like?”
