Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  “And you’re doing a topnotch job,” she drawls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “May I suggest not talking, like at all?”

  “It would be wise, but then you’d miss out on my sexy timbre that makes your knees weak and your panties wet,” I smirk with a wink.

  “Oh, my God! You did not just say that!” Cady screeches while covering up the pit’s ears, who is currently getting to first base with my girl. Lucky bastard. He knows it, too; I can see it in his eyes. I see you, pooch. I see you.

  “I did say it and I know you liked it, dirty girl.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “’Cause your nipples got hard the exact moment I said ‘wet.’”

  My eyes drop down to her peaked handfuls hidden under her white V-neck t-shirt and come back up to her face with an assured smile. Yep, still hard. She gasps and covers her tits with her hands. Shame.

  “Stop looking at my boobs, you perv. Is this how it’s going to be for the foreseeable future? ’Cause if so, I might have to look for another a job.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” She sighs and gives the pup one last snuggle before putting him back in the cage, jutting her luscious lip out at his whine. “I love this place too much. And we do need help, and I suppose you aren’t the worst person to do the job. Just keep your eyes up here, homie.” Cady points at her eyes as they roll, and I throw down that big, rare smile I know she can’t resist.

  “It’s not my fault you have the best set of tits in Portland. I’m a man, and when those perfect fun-bags—”

  “‘Fun-bags?’ Seriously?”

  “Yes, fun-bags. Fleshy, creamy coffee-toned bags o’ fun. And when said bags of fun are anywhere near me, whether they’re hidden or not, I’m gonna look, baby. No way ’round it.”

  “Okay, you need to get the fuck out before I punch you in the balls. You’re officially on cat litter duty.”

  “Hold up, they have cats here?”

  Her smile can only be described as smugly deranged.

  Fucking cats. Aloof, sneaky bastards plotting our demise as they lick their balls with their sandpaper tongues, purring like the maniacal bastards they are.

  I hate cats. And this sexy she-devil knows it.

  “A whole room where they’re free to roam, nap, and plot whenever they feel like it. Have fun.”

  Motherfucker.

  She’s worth it. She’s worth it. She’s worth it. A mantra I get real familiar with over the next week. The only way I get through this shit.

  Fucking cats.

  Bleh.

  She’s worth it.

  Twenty-nine

  Songs to listen to:

  “Bated Breath” by Tinashe

  “Say it First” by Sam Smith

  “Quit” by Cashmere Cat (feat Ariana Grande)

  “Only Forever” by Demi Lovato

  Cady

  He’s doing it. I knew he would. The second I dropped that damn wall, the wall I spent a year meticulously building, Ben was there waiting. Waiting to barge right through and sink his sexy-ass claws into my fickle heart.

  This past week has been…good. Really good. Too fucking good. I don’t remember laughing this much since we were kids. I forgot how nerdy he can be—throwing in a Star Wars or Harry Potter reference any chance he got. He also has a sort of sick sense of humor—dark and dirty. Definitely dirty. I’ve blushed way too many times to count lately. But he’s also sweet. Kind and considerate. I forgot that, too. I’ve been so clouded with hate and hurt that I stopped seeing all of the good in him. And I didn’t realize how much I missed our friendship until this week.

  Ben has spent the last five days working the day shift with me at the animal shelter. And when he’s not working nights at Jake’s restaurant, he’s at home, cooking me dinner or binge-watching Netflix. And we talk. Like, actually talk. He’s told me about New York and how much I would love it, that the city was made for me. We reminisce about our unconventional but fucking amazing childhood. Mindlessly chat about the cooking channel, the Dylan-Miles drama, and who’s going to the World Series and do we even care. We discuss anything and everything outside of “us” or Blaine and I, and we do it without arguing—well, for the most part. I mean, it’s in our nature to challenge each other, to light that spark. But now the bickering isn’t spurred on by malicious hatred. It’s just normal. It’s us. And I don’t know what to do about it. I’m getting comfortable. Too damn comfortable.

  I’ve seen Blaine once since the family barbeque. I was barely present, and he could feel it. I know he could and it made me feel so fucking guilty, on top of the guilt that has weighed down on me ever since I kissed Ben. Which is why I’ve been kinda sorta avoiding him.

  I know. Don’t give me that look, okay? I know it’s a dick move, a move Blaine does not deserve one fucking iota, but I’m grasping for straws here. But not literal straws, those are fucking terrible for the environment by the way.

  I’ve gotta get my shit together.

  But it’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Ben isn’t making it easy. Every smile, every joke, I feel so…discombobulated. I’m a straight up confused mess. I know what I should want—the safe bet—but I’m afraid it’s no longer lining up to what I actually want. What I crave. What I need. It’s fucking up my head and I have no clue what to do about it.

  I’d like to say that I wish things would go back to how they were a few months ago, when Ben was gone and I was starting to find myself again with Blaine. But that would be a lie and I’ve never been a liar. A coward, maybe. But never a liar.

  My mind keeps going back to that kiss. Every single time I see him, I remember how his lips felt on mine—soft, yet demanding. They moved against mine with the grace of a prima ballerina—a perfect dance, entrancing and so fucking amazing. And the way he held me—gripped me like he was holding on for dear life, like he was terrified I would run and he couldn’t bear the thought, like he never wanted to fucking let go. I can still feel his fingers digging into my hips, his breath heavy on my neck, his…cock. The impressive outline of his cock, pressed firmly against my lady bits. Grinding. Teasing. Promising. A promise that is too good to ignore. Or at the very least, too good not to at least consider.

  Is that what I’m doing here? Weighing my options? Pros and cons. Fuck me dirty and raw, I have no fucking clue what I’m fucking doing. I’m that girl, that annoying as shit heroine who can’t make up her damn mind, even though the answers are right the fuck in front of her. Please excuse all the ‘fucks’ but damn. And yet, even though I know the solution, I hesitate. Because at the end of the day, Ben is still Ben—the boy who broke my heart, over and over—his track record speaks volumes, loud and incriminating. How can I trust that he won’t do it again?

  I can’t.

  But I want to.

  I really fucking want to.

  Which is why I’m now sitting in front of the box. The box. The cute Christmas penguin has seen better days—a tear on the left bottom corner, crinkled and smashed in right near the bird’s snow cap—and yet it’s still sealed and unopened. There have been so many times the temptation was almost too much to bear, but I held strong. I wasn’t ready.

  Until today.

  No, that’s a lie. I’m not ready today either, but… I think it’s time. And maybe it’ll help clear my head, or maybe it will just confuse me even more but either way, I have to do it. I have to see what’s in the damn box. I’m pretty damn sure I’ve been making a much bigger deal out of this.

  I use my fingernail to cut through the tape. One side after the other. Just one more…

  And there’s at the knock at the door.

  Then my name.

  That voice.

  Ben.

  I get up, the box momentarily cast aside, and I open the door.

  “I thought you had work at the restaurant today?”

  “Meh, pays to have your boss be your family. I got the day off, although I have to work a double shift next we
ekend, but it will be worth it if you agree to spend the day with me.” He bites his lip and wiggles his eyebrows, eyes twinkling with a hopeful glint.

  Damn him and those perfect fucking green orbs.

  I sigh and roll my eyes, but the smile on my face cannot be contained. “What are we doing?”

  Ben’s answering smile can only be described as Grinch-like—devious and full of all kinds of mischief.

  What the hell did I get myself into?

  ***

  “I’m sorry, can you repeat that? ’Cause it sounds an awful lot like you said we’re getting tattoos.” And if that’s the case, all I can say is—nah.

  “Oh no, you heard me right, Bug. We’re getting tattoos today. These days, it’s a rite of passage when you’re eighteen. Plus, I know you’ve been wanting one for years, you’ve just been too chickenshit to do it.”

  “I haven’t been chickenshit!”

  “You have and you know it.” I roll my eyes but honestly, I have been too chickenshit. I’ve always hated needles, but I love tattoos. They’re living art that lasts forever. How can you not love them?

  Ben’s mouth quirks mischievously, and then he proceeds to step on a bench outside of the shop and yell, “C’mon girl, carpe diem! O, Captain, my Captain!”

  I grab his arm and pull him off the bench, shushing his ongoing chant while my cheeks burn as fellow Portlandians stare and laugh as they pass by the spectacle that is Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti.

  “You did not just Dead Poets Society me,” I hiss with little to no venom, a genuinely happy smile poking through the embarrassment.

  “Why, yes I did.”

  “You know I can’t resist a good ‘O, Captain, my Captain.’” Which is true. Dead Poets Society is in my top ten list of favorite films of all time. A young Ethan Hawke…hello! Don’t get me started on Reality Bites. Yes, I love 90’s movies just as much as 80’s. I’m cool like that.

  “Sometimes, you gotta pull out the big guns,” Ben smiles, and damn it to hell, it’s a beautiful sight. Magnificent and utterly fucking panty-dropping. No, seriously, pretty sure my panties just slid down an inch, and with some definite dampness. T.M.I.? Meh, we’re all adults here. Get over it.

  “Does that mean you have some ‘Don’t You’ in your music queue somewhere?”

  He smirks then pulls out his phone. He doesn’t…nope, he definitely does. The familiar words suddenly fill the sidewalk around us and I’m instantly taken to one of the best movie endings in cinematic history—poetic in its simplicity.

  Ben raises his fist once the chorus hits and the laugh I’ve been holding in bubbles over and fuck, does it feel good. It’s deep yet light, real and joyous.

  I can’t believe I’m about to say this…

  “All right, let’s go mar our skin with needles and ink that will last an eternity.”

  “Fuck yeah! John Bender never fails,” he pronounces triumphantly, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the tattoo parlor’s entrance.

  “Words have never been truer, Benny,” I admit, and he stops dead in his tracks, his head turning toward me in shock.

  “You haven’t called me that in years,” he whispers wistfully as his eyes bore into mine, glistening and bright. “Didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.”

  I don’t say anything—my throat too tight to get the words out—but we share a smile and then he tugs on my hand again as we walk through the graffiti-covered door that reads: Keep Portland Inked.

  Here goes nothing.

  We barely walk three steps into the shop before I hear, “Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti! Get your tall ass over here, bro!” A rich and deep voice bellows from the back-left corner of the room. As we walk further into the colorful space, my eyes recognize the face the voice belonged to.

  Jackson “Jacks” Grey. And no, that was not a typo. It’s not Jax; it’s Jacks, like apple. He’s been a friend of Ben and Dylan’s since they were kids, although he’s two years older than Ben, and three older than Dylan and I. They played basketball together. He’s as tall as Ben but bulkier, with long honey-blond hair that’s partially hidden under a beanie, and eyes so blue it’s almost unreal. His golden skin is decorated in skulls, dragons, flowers, script I can’t read, and so many other intricate designs, I find myself leaning slightly toward him to get a better look. They seem to cover almost his entire body, from his neck to his ankles as his t-shirt and shorts combo give me quite the peek. He’s kind of freaking beautiful. Definitely different than the clean-cut boy I knew years ago.

  “Hey man, good to see you.” Ben smiles earnestly, dropping my hand to give Jacks the one-armed man-hug, complete with a few requisite back slaps because it’s just not a man-hug without them. Ben pulls away and brings his attention back to me, his green eyes glittering and even more breathtaking under the bright lighting in here. “Jacks, this is—”

  “Cady Adams,” Jacks drawls while pulling me into a hug. It’s warm and inviting.

  “Hey, Jacks. Long time no see.”

  “Too long,” he practically purrs as he pulls me away from him to allow his eyes to rake down and up my body, and then he wolf whistles with a wide, charming smile. “Damn girl, you sure grew up nicely, didn’t you?” I smile at his harmless flirtation.

  “I love you, bro, but unless you wanna get throat-punched today, I’d keep your hands and your eyes to yourself.” Ben warns, his easy-going nature turning lethal on a dime.

  Jacks puts his hands up in surrender, but the smile never drops from his face. “So, it’s like that, huh? You finally grew a pair and told her how you feel. ’Bout time, asshole. Only took ten years. Good for you.”

  My head snaps to Ben, who is gaping at Jacks with wide eyes and a definite blush to his cheeks.

  “It’s not like that!” I’m quick to correct.

  “Yet. It’s not like that, yet. I’m working on it,” Ben counters.

  “I have a boyfriend—”

  “A pretty boy dickhead who probably doesn’t even have a dick—”

  “Oh, he has a dick, trust,” I smirk as Ben’s eyes grow comically wide and Jacks chuckles to himself.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Ben squeals like a little girl, and Jacks and I both bust out laughing.

  “Goddess, I forgot how easy you are,” I snicker while wiping a tear from under my eye and then turn to Jackson. “All right, Jacks, while Ben locates his balls, let’s go to your booth and do this thing.” I hold out the crook of my arm and he slides his right through, wagging his pierced eyebrows at Ben before giving me a conspiratorial wink.

  “My balls are right where they’re supposed to be, damn it!” Ben bellows before mumbling to himself.

  “I’m guessing there’s a piece to the puzzle I’m missing,” Jacks whispers in my ear as we round the corner to his work space.

  I nod. “Giant,” I mutter somberly, the lightness I’ve felt today vanishing with a single word.

  “I don’t know what he did, but for what it’s worth, for as long as I’ve known him, you’ve been it, Cady. You’re his forever, and take it from someone who let his go, whatever he did, no matter how shitty or painful it was, is nothing compared to the pain you’ll feel when they walk away because you’re too prideful to ask them to stay. It’s not fucking worth it.”

  I look over my shoulder and my eyes connect to Ben’s. He smiles and my heart fucking soars out of my chest, flapping its little treacherous wings like everything is all good.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Fucking duly noted, Jacks.

  Thirty

  Songs to listen to:

  “These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding

  “You and Me” by Niall Horan

  “Make You Feel” by Alina Baraz & Galimatias “Want You Back” by Haim

  “Yours” by SG Lewis

  Ben

  “Ouch! Shit! God, I hate you! Motherfucking Ben Catalano-Moretti! Jesus, ouch! Why did I listen to you? Goddamn it, Jacks, are you trying to kill me? What the fuck di
d I ever do to you? Ow! Fuck!”

  Those are the sweet words that have been tumbling out of Cady’s mouth ever since Jacks touched the needle to her skin ten minutes ago. The adorable malice spewing from her pretty mouth has been nothing short of amusing to the entire shop, garnering ball-twisting and dick-breaking threats from her that she will no doubt make good on.

  But although her reaction to the pain of the tattoo gun is mother-effing hilarious, she’s still in pain, and I want nothing more than to hold her hand and whisper in her ear that she’s badass and can get through anything. But instead, I’m in the next booth, going through the same pain. I’m just reining it in because I’m a man and that’s what we do…until I can cry alone in my bedroom later.

  I wanted our tats to be surprises, so I’m getting mine done by Kayla—a tiny wisp of a thing with long, pin-straight, jet black hair, a septum and lip piercing, shocking violet eyes that seriously look fake as hell but I was assured were definitely real and pale white skin covered completely in inked art from her neck down. She is beautiful. But isn’t wasn’t Bug.

  Another round of curses from the other side of the partition makes me smile through the pain currently being inflicted onto my forearm. I take deep breaths and close my eyes, soaking in her murderous voice and remembering the dick-lifting show she gave me right before we sat down to our respective torture devices.

  Cady wanted her tattoo down the line of her back. At first, I thought that was a dope idea, until I realized what that meant. In order for Jacks to work his magic, she’d have to be completely fucking naked from the waist up. Yeah, to say that I was livid and jealous as hell would be an understatement. They’re may have been some choice words exchanged with my friend while Cady was in the bathroom before we started. And it may have gone a little something like this: “I swear to the gods, Jacks, if you so much as think about her tits, let alone look at them, I will break your tattooing hand in so many places, you might as well chop the fucking thing off. Feel me?”

  Of course, the asshole just smirked and gave me a little wink and it took all of my restraint not to just follow through with the threat right then. But the asshole is my friend and a good dude, so I wasn’t at all surprised that when Cady came sauntering back over to the booth, pulling her shirt over her head with confidence despite the faint blush on her cheeks, he averted his eyes.