Page 50 of Wild Eyes
“It’s okay. Here.”
He hands me my phone, and I have a text from my dad. Or my manager, since that seems a more apt description for our relationship. After seeing West’s parenting skills, I’m wondering if my dad has ever fulfilled a true parental role for me.
Dad:
Saw the article. At least the media was polite enough to alert me to your actual whereabouts. You’re going to need me if you plan to work with Ford Grant. You don’t understand the business aspects of what you do. And don’t worry about your nose. I know the best surgeon in town. No one will even be able to tell.
He doesn’t ask how I am doing. His top priority is making sure I know he’s disappointed in me and adding a flippant reminder that the way I look is what’s most important to him.
“I’m starting to understand why Britney shaved her head,” I blurt out in a tearful voice. “Being treated like you’re just an object for people to behold is fucking demoralizing.”
I keep my eyes on the phone because I can’t bring myself to meet West’s gaze. I just shared too much. And I don’t want to share too much with anyone.
The pressure around my body builds anew, pressing in from every side, and my breathing goes shallow. A panic attack is wrapping itself around me, sinking its teeth into my flesh. Ripping away at me piece by piece.
It’s always a runaway train I don’t know how to exit.
Until I’m yanked right off of it.
West makes a deep, growling noise. It rumbles in his broad chest and vibrates through his hand where he’s still gripping mine. He swipes the phone from my limp hand in one smooth movement and tosses it out into the inky expanse beside us.
For a solid three seconds, I watch in abject horror as what feels like my one lifeline sails through the air. Theplopit makes when it slaps the water’s surface echoes in my ears.
I stare, mouth agape. “What…what did you just do?”
“Something you should have done a long time ago.”
I turn to West, and fury pours down the column of my spine as I yank my hand back violently. “Howdareyou?”
Obnoxiously, West looks casual as he crosses his arms and glares back at me, not the least bit cowed by my venomous tone. “No, Skylar. How dare anyone—anyone at all—make you feel like an object. That man has failed you at every turn. He calls himself a father? He’s supposed to love you.”
“And what? You’re with me for twenty-four hours, and you love me now?” I spit the words, ignoring the fact that being loved by someone like West feels like it might be impossible.
Someone like West would never love me.
He shrugs. “No. But I likeyou.” He emphasizes the word and points across the table at me. “I might like you more than you like yourself. Like you enough to tell it like it is.”
That line lands like an atomic bomb, obliterating every safety net I’ve strung up to protect me. Eradicating the carefully bricked-in corners of my consciousness.
At this moment, I hate Weston Belmont.
Because he’s right.
My body vibrates with pure indignation as I lean in across the table to stare him down. “Fuck. You.”
He doesn’t even flinch. He just studies me. “That’s better.”
“What’s better?” I bite, annoyed by my curiosity.
“Your eyes. This is the first time they don’t look sad. Or blank. Or fake. You look like you’re ready to light me on fire or shove me right off this dock.”
“Nice. You throw my phone in the water and tell me I have crazy eyes. How fucking refreshing.”
He smiles at me slowly, seductively. It’s as if the confrontational moment excites him. And the way he smolders at me has me vibrating with something far from fury.
“No, fancy face. Those”—he points at my face, finger flicking from side to side—“are wild eyes. The eyes of a woman who just chose fight over flight. Don’t smother that. Keep ‘em and you’ll come out on top. Trust me.”
I glance down, nostrils flaring as I breathe heavily. Annoying as it may be, I do trust him. But I also feel flayed open. Exposed. He has a way of seeing every vulnerable piece of the broken girl I am beneath the shiny veneer.
