Falling Over
A Falling In novel
Andrea Hopkins
Copyright © 2018 by Andrea Hopkins
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Prologue
Cady
I was six years old when I first met Ben Catalano-Moretti. He had just moved in next door with his uncle—my now step-dad, Jake Moretti. My brother and I were immersed in mud, in an attempt to make the most perfect mud pie anyone had ever seen. That’s when I saw him. A boy. The boy. The only boy who would ever own my heart.
I watched with curious eyes as the boy made his way to our filthy bakery. He never once glanced up from his cherry red Chucks that matched my own. He stopped in front of me without a word—so quiet, so still, I could hear his breath expel from his perfectly-shaped lips—too perfect for a boy, I thought.
He seemed so sad. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. He was just a kid. My age, most likely. Why was he so sad?
I can remember the day as if it happened only minutes ago. The urge to take away that sadness built so rapidly within my little body, all I could think about was making him smile—or at the very least, getting him to look up.
So, I did what any six-year old girl surrounded by endless rows of mud pies would do—I picked one up, and naturally, I smashed it in his face.
Through Dylan’s obnoxious rolls of laughter, I waited with bated breath for the boy’s reaction—hoping like all hell I didn’t royally screw everything up. I was seconds away from apologizing when his eyes finally met mine. I swear to this day, everything around me just completely vanished—no more howls of laughter, courtesy of my twin, no more flour-covered mother talking animatedly to the new neighbor—all I could see were those eyes. Entrancing pools of emerald perfection staring back at me like I could quite possibly be a patient in an insane asylum—a cringe-worthy mixture of shock and horror. But then…he smiled.
It was a crooked but bright, heart-stopping, pulse-pounding smile that I think surprised even him. It was a smile that for years to come would render me utterly helpless against the conniving brilliance of it. That smile, that stupid, beautiful smile changed my life.
Combine that with those ridiculous, mesmerizing green eyes that affect me to the point of annoyance—the eyes that see everything, more than you want them to see—it created a lethal combination that left me powerless against him. I fell in love.
Hard.
Fast.
Unstopping.
Head over heels—or in my case, red Chucks—in love. Madly. Foolishly. All-consuming and blinding love—freely giving away my naïve heart to the boy who accepted it with that charming smile and open hands, only to eventually squeeze every single drop of life from the pulsing organ. Until all that was left was a girl full of nothing but a bleeding bitterness, and the perpetual sting of betrayal.
I used to love Ben Catalano-Moretti.
But now I hate him.
Part One
Summer
One
Songs to listen to:
“Here” by Alessia Cara
“End Game” by Taylor Swift “Unrequited Love” by Yuna
“Roses” by the Chainsmokers “Say It First” by Sam Smith
“Always Been You” by The Sweeplings “Lie to My Face” by Alice Merton
Ben
“Yo, Moretti, pass me the joint, man.”
Taylor, Lincoln High’s very own superstar point guard mumbles as I’m whipping his ass in NBA 2k. The dude may know his shit on the actual court—not that I don’t; I am the best shooting guard in the school’s history since the damn ‘80s. But as much as I love basketball, it isn’t everything; just something I happen to be good at. Of course, this weed is strong as eff and we’re on our second joint. Add in the few rounds of shots I watched him down and I suppose that may be the reason he’s so off his game. But whatever, I’ll take the win. If not just so I can hang it over his big-ass head for the night.
I take another hit, letting the smoke gather around my lungs, relishing the slight burn that never felt so good, before blowing it out into the opaque basement air. I pass the joint without a word, concentrating on my continued assault on Taylor and his weak-ass Spurs. Portland’s Blazers all day, every day, baby.
Tonight is the obligatory end of the school year house party. Every graduating senior, myself included, is here, and most juniors too, save for my best friend-step-brother-cousin Dylan, who is currently romancing the shit out of his boyfriend and my Cady. Although, I have no right to actually call her that. But she is mine. She just doesn’t know it. And she never will.
Cadence Maria Rose Adams.
Cadybug.
Bug.
Cady is Dylan’s twin, which also makes her my step-sister-cousin-whatever-the-shit-you-wanna-call her.
I just know her as my everything and my nothing.
The one and only girl I have loved and the one and only girl I can’t love—I won’t let myself love. No matter how hard she makes it for me. No matter how much my heart is begging me to. No matter how much I ache to give in—to just…let it be.
I can’t. It’s too risky.
So, what do I do?
I fuck every girl that is willing—which adds up to almost every girl in our high school and the surrounding schools—thus pushing Cady further and further away from me. I also have the habit of threatening every jerkoff in school not to even look at her, let alone touch her. Yeah, I know. I’m an asshole.
But lately, it’s becoming increasingly hard to keep my distance. It doesn’t help that she gets more beautiful with each passing day. She’s not a little girl anymore—she’s a woman. A sexy as fuck woman who doesn’t even know it, which just makes her even sexier. She doesn’t give a shit what people think of her. She says what she wants, wears what she wants—usually some kind of flowy mini-dress she expertly created that leaves every straight guy around her a salivating bundle of unrelenting hormones, which of course she doesn’t notice. Throw in the worn chestnut brown motorcycle boots she found at some consignment shop that she can’t not wear or her signature red Chucks—she’s like the badass girl-next-door. A perfect, lethal combination of sex, innocence, and rebellion.
Did I mention she’s also a virgin?
Most likely due to me, you know, sending out a mass text threatening the life of any prick who even glances her way. It might have hindered her social life—or lack thereof. But like I said, I’m a selfish asshole. If I can’t have her, no one will. Of course, that little tactic is a lot easier to manage in high school and living under the same roof, in which I see her every day. The real test will come in less than a week. While she stays here in Portland finishing up her last year of high school, I’ll be interning with a friend of my uncle’s in New York City for the summer before attending NYU.
I thought it would be a good idea—easier on me and my stupid pussy-ass heart to gain some distance between her and I. But now, as we’re only five days away from separating, I can feel every douchebag just waiting with bated breath and their immeasurable cocks in their hands, for me to board that plane so they can finally get a taste of Lincoln High’s forbidden fruit, and I’m finding myself regretting the decision to move to the other side of the country with each salacious grin. I just know that once I leave, all bets are off. They’ll surround her like sharks wild with the smell o
f fresh blood. I’m risking losing her. Yeah, I know, I don’t technically have her, but I do. At least I’d like to think that I do. That if I walked up to her and told her the truth—that she isn’t my step-sister or just my friend, that I never once thought of her that way. That from the moment she threw a damn mud pie in my face at the ripe age of seven, I was hopelessly, quietly, insanely in love with her, and it gets scarier and stronger every single effing day—she would jump into my arms and whisper the same words back to me before kissing me for the first time…well, the first real time.
Did I not mention the other, more assholish and slightly manipulative way I’ve kept her at arm’s length?
First off, yes, I know I’m sounding like the biggest prick in Northeast Portland, all right? I know this, and I’m more than ashamed of it. Happy? And secondly, it wasn’t my intention to lead her on, to keep her on the hook. I just…sometimes it just gets too hard not to touch her. Not to give in to my desire for her, the annoyingly incessant need for her. I’m weak. I’m human. I’m young. I slip up and make mistakes. Those mistakes include kissing her at the age of twelve because I heard the asshole James Clark brag to all of our friends that he was going to kiss her after school when he walked her home. Let’s just say, due to an unforeseen accident that left him with a black eye and tear-stained cheeks, James Clark never walked Cady home. I did. And midway through that walk, I stopped her, and to this day, had the greatest kiss of my life. It might not have been the hottest or most expert, but it was…unlike anything I have ever felt. It was like magic.
Fucking Harry Potter magic.
So yeah, pretty much any time I feel like I’m losing control of our situation, my hold, my place, when I feel like this fucked up relationship is threatened, I…ensure that it remains intact. That she remains mine but not mine, officially. Jesus, I really am an asshole, and an asshole that isn’t making any sense, not even to myself. I blame the weed. But there it is. Some dude ignores my promise of bodily harm and attempts to get her attention, and I sneak into her room and pull her into my arms—just giving her a hint of the truth, just enough to sway her back into my direction.
Ass. Hole.
Sick bastard.
Prick.
Douche of the century.
Yep, that’s me.
Taylor passes back the joint, ripping me away from my strewn thoughts. I take another hit but instantly choke on the smoke as I hear the conversation between two dumbass football players walking down the basement stairs, oblivious to my presence. They’ll regret that.
“Goddamn, did you see Lucy out there?”
“Forget Lucy, dude, did you see Cady? Fuck me, I wish I were Garrett right now. The things I would do—”
The asshole didn’t get to finish his sentence. Before I knew it, I had the douche that dared to speak her name shoved against the wall by his preppy-prick popped collar. Seriously? A popped collar? Disgraceful.
“I’d think long and hard before you finish that sentence.”
“Shit, Ben. Bro, I know she’s like your sister or whatever. I didn’t mean anything by it, man. She just looks so damn—”
A plethora of groans and “oh, shit’s” filter through the room as I ram him even further against the wall.
“I swear to God, Brooks. Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth.” I’m seething. I rarely drop f-bomb thanks to my mom, Evie, who has drilled the alternative into my head for the last ten years. The high I felt before is long gone, replaced with the gnawing urge to break something or someone. I have to take a long-measured breath before speaking again. In through the nose, out of the mouth. “What the hell were you saying about Garrett? And what the fuck does he have to do with Cady?”
“Uh, man, I don’t want to start shit.”
My grip tightens on his polo with the stupid gator on it and I might have growled something unintelligible. Whatever it was, it worked.
“Fuck, all right, um, Cady and Lucy are upstairs on the dance floor. Garrett might have been in between them while she was grinding her, um, against his, um.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“Fuck, Cady and Garrett are practically dry humping upstairs.”
Red. All I see is red. I’m going to murder that son of a bitch.
“You’re lucky. You should thank Garrett when he’s in the fucking hospital. But I swear if I hear you speak her name again—”
“I know. I know. I’m dead. Sorry, man.”
I release my hold on Brooks, tossing him on the ground before bounding up the stairs, three at a time.
Once I’m through the door, I’m hit with the pounding bass of some old-school hip-hop. It’s flooding through the entire house as a sea of people are immersed in all kinds of drunken debauchery. Every kind of alcohol you can think of is littered across the kitchen island. Random partygoers are taking shots of God knows what while ladies mix their own sugary drinks. An intense and rowdy game of flip cup is being played off to the side while a huddle of athletes are in midst of watching our star short-stop damage his esophagus as he chugs a mass amount of cheap alcohol with the beer bong.
Yeah, I’ll stick with the weed.
I ignore the hoots and hollers from everyone around me, pleading for me to join in. I brush off the probing hands of the relentless girls—most of whom I have already fucked and refuse to hit it a second time. No. I have only one focus. One mission.
Find Cady, shove her into the nearest Uber, and then break a piece of Garrett’s precious but not indestructible body.
At this point, you probably think I have some anger issues. Well, I’m here to tell you, you’re wrong. And no, I’m not in denial. Seriously, on any given day I’m totally cool. Chill as effing ice. But when it comes to Cady, if a dude even so much as looks in her direction…that ice gets pelted at their face. I just black out. See red. Like cherry mother-effing red, and I Hulk the eff out. I know you’re trying to remember that cute, soft-spoken Ben from Evie’s memory, but I’m not that kid anymore. Not really.
I stop in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room, surveying the crowd until I spot her. Goddamn it. Sure enough, Cady, wearing the shortest damn dress I have ever seen her wear, is grinding her ass—the insanely perfect ass that has haunted my dreams since I was twelve—against Garret’s unimpressive (that is not just shade, I’ve seen him in the locker room; ladies, small doesn’t even do his poor excuse for a dick justice) crotch. My hands clench into fists so damn tight my knuckles pop. I’m about to stalk over there, ready to quite possibly injure a future NFL quarterback, when she catches my eye. Instantly, I cease my advance. Her bright cerulean eyes root me to my damn spot and I feel like I have to catch my breath. She’s looking at me like she’s never effing looked at me before. There’s a fire brewing in her gaze so wild and dangerous, I can feel my own retinas burn from the intensity.
And then, she smirks. It lasts about three seconds before she turns around, loops her arms around the douche bag, and laughs as he whispers something in her ear.
What. The. Fuck?
Is she taunting me?
No, that’s not my Cady.
She wouldn’t…
That’s when she turns her head back to me, eyes searing as she unhooks her arms from his neck, grabs his hands and places them on her ass. My ass. Then proceeds to move her hips in a way that should be illegal, and mother-effer, that’s enough games for tonight.
It takes me four long but quick strides to reach the biggest mistake Garrett will ever make.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask both of them.
Only Cady answers. Wise choice, Garrett.
“What the hell does it look like? We’re dancing.”
“For tips?”
I’m gonna pay for that one. God, I’m stupid. Cady’s eyes practically pop from their sockets, but at least she stops torturing me with those luscious, dick-rising hips. Garrett snorts and I glare at him with murder in my eyes. He turns away like the pussy he is.
“Are y
ou insinuating that I’m dancing like a stripper?”
“If the clear stiletto fits, honey.” Why? Why did I say that?
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart,” I mutter before turning my attention over to the other asshole who still has his hands on Cady’s ass. “Take. Your. Hands. Off.” His eyes flicker between Cady and I, indecision plaguing him. She covers his hands with hers, keeping the grubby paws firmly planted. “Cady!” I growl.
“Don’t growl at me!” She hisses at me before turning her attention back to the dead man walking. “Garrett, you don’t need to listen to him. You’re fine. You can keep your hands where they are.”
“What the lady wants, the lady gets.” Garrett dumbly says with a shrug before squeezing one of her cheeks.
Oh, so it’s like that. This is gonna be fun.
“If you don’t take your hands off her ass right the fuck now, I will break each finger one by motherfucking one. Then I will personally send K-State your X-rays and you can kiss that precious starting spot goodbye.” My very own smirk appears as I see the color slightly drain from his face as he gulps down my threat.
He meets my eyes briefly, finally taking his hands off when he sees the promise in them.
“Whatever, she isn’t worth it.”
Oh, Garrett. You were so close.
I grab the back of his collar, pulling him away from Cady and punch him square in the nose. My lip twitches at the delicious crunch that sounds before blood begins to gush down his squinted, pretty-boy face.
“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem is that you disrespected her right after disrespecting me. You know the effing rules!”
“As of today, your dumb-ass rules are null and void. You’re leaving, homie. She’s fair game.” The idiot actually smirks. He effing smirks.
I punch him again. In the same damn spot.
If his nose wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now.
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 1
