The Education of Skylar - Chapter 1: Stranded
by Skylar Reyes (All characters depicted herein are fictional adults aged 18 or older.)
Author's Note: This is the first chapter of my ongoing episodic series, The Education of Skylar — a prequel to my Skylar's Swinger Stories series, available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited. This series follows Skylar's college years, with new chapters released every week here on Substack.
Chapter 1: Stranded
The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the December snow, scraping rhythmically but achieving nothing more than pushing the snow from one side to the other. I squinted through the blurred glass, knuckles white against the steering wheel of my ancient Honda Civic. The dashboard lit up like a bloody Christmas tree—check engine, oil pressure, battery. Everything except the ‘you’re fucked’ light, though that one might as well have been flashing in neon.
I coasted into the first gas station I saw.
The engine coughed. Sputtered. Died.
At least I had made it to civilization. The relief lasted approximately thirty seconds before anxiety slammed into me. I didn’t have money for this. I barely had enough to cover next semester’s books.
The mechanic—Gary, according to the name tag on his oil-stained overalls—delivered the verdict with the enthusiasm of a doctor diagnosing terminal cancer.
“Head gasket’s gone. Timing belt too. And that’s before we get into the exhaust system.” He wiped his hands on a rag that looked like it had been absorbing grease since the Bush era. “Two grand, give or take. Won’t have parts until Monday at the earliest.”
My stomach dropped. I pulled up my banking app with shaking fingers. $327.34. The number stared back at me, mocking.
“Can you... would you take monthly payments?”
Gary’s expression said everything his words didn’t need to. “Cash or card, miss. I’m not a bank.”
I stepped outside into the freezing air, breath fogging, and dialed home.
Three rings. Then his voice, warm and steady. “Skylar? Everything alright?”
Just hearing Mark speak steadied something inside me. “My car died. I’m stranded at some garage off 316, and the repairs are—” My voice cracked. “It’s two thousand dollars, and I don’t have it, and—”
“Hey, hey. Breathe.” That calm authority, the same tone he’d used when I’d had panic attacks before my SATs. “Where are you exactly? Text me the address.”
“Is Mom coming with you?”
“Your mom went to check on Grandma Joan. She fell yesterday and twisted her ankle. Nothing serious, but Rosa wanted to make sure she’s sorted.” Papers rustled in the background. “I’m leaving now. Just sit tight, sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
The coffee tasted like it had been filtered through Gary’s work rags. I sat in a plastic chair that squeaked with every movement, surrounded by ancient magazines and the smell of motor oil. My phone battery crept toward twenty percent. Outside, the snow continued its assault.
I thought about Mark. How he’d appeared in my life when I was fourteen and drowning. Mom had dragged me to a parent-teacher conference about my “attitude problem”—her words, not the school’s—and there he’d been. Mr. Sullivan. Fresh from the Marines, teaching English with such command and confidence that made even the slackers pay attention.
Six months later, he’d moved into our house. Another six months, and they were married. He filled the space my biological father had abandoned, for both of us.
He’d been the dad I’d needed. Patient when Mom wasn’t. Present when she couldn’t be bothered. He’d helped me with university applications, listened to my dreams of being a journalist or writer, given me books that shaped how I saw the world.
He’d also been my high school English teacher, which meant every friend I had felt compelled to comment on how hot he was.
I’d told them to fuck off, mortified. But I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t noticed.
One afternoon, I’d come downstairs for water, and he’d been there, fresh from the shower. Towel slung low around his hips, water still beading on his shoulders, sliding down the defined muscles of his chest. His hair darker when wet, grey temples slicked back.
He’d smiled, said something about the heat, grabbed his protein shake and headed back upstairs.
I’d stood there, frozen, my mouth dry for reasons that had nothing to do with thirst.
That night, alone in my bed, I’d touched myself. Not thinking of boys from school or celebrities, but him. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at my mother sometimes, hungry and possessive.
The shame had been crushing. I’d avoided him for days.
Then came the night I heard her crying out.
I was up late, studying for a test. Sounds coming from their bedroom weren’t unfamiliar—thin walls, unfortunately—but something about these sounds sparked my interest.
I paused outside their door, and cracked it open. Just slightly.
Mom was on the bed, wrists bound to ankles, ass up in the air. Mark stood behind her, shirtless in black leather pants, holding a leather paddle. He brought it down against her skin with a sharp crack that made her cry out.
“Count,” he’d said, voice low and commanding.
My heart had hammered. I’d retreated to my room, shut the door, pressed my back against it.
Then I’d stripped off my panties, bent over my bed, and spanked myself with my hairbrush. Every strike sent heat spiraling through me. I’d imagined it was his hand. His voice commanding me to count. His approval when I obeyed.
My phone buzzed. Mark’s message: Ten minutes away.
I stood, dumped the terrible coffee, and tried to ignore the way my pulse quickened at the thought of seeing him.