Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four

by Aarons, Carrie

  “No worries. I do make things, in the simplest terms. At first, it was some whittling to keep my mind, and hands, occupied once I came home from rehab. While I was there, I became obsessed with building those model ships. I guess from one addiction to the next, right? And then it turned into constructing bird feeders, or a stool. I remember I finished this thing my mom could hang on her wall, a shelving unit of sorts with baskets, so that she could put her keys and bags there when she walked in the front door. And I thought, ‘wow, I’m actually not too bad at this.’ So then, I made that piece for Presley and Keaton’s wedding, and it just spiraled from there. People started requesting furniture or special orders … and I make a decent penny off it now. But, I want to make it my full-time gig. The first step is moving out of my mom’s house … which is in the works. God, that probably sounds pathetic to you.”

  The way Fletcher talks about his addiction, so open and honestly, it freaks the shit out of me. I’ve been conditioned, from a very young age, to keep my demons and insecurities locked up tight. Those are the things that make us most vulnerable, the things people can take advantage of. Anything that breaks you down should live in the shadows. And don’t even talk about the process of healing … because it won’t happen.

  These are the principles I’ve been led to believe. I’ve never met anyone before Fletcher who completely shattered them.

  “Honestly, I think it’s something to be really proud of.” I almost whisper this, and I can feel Fletcher turn his head to look over at me.

  And without me having to say it, I think he knows that I’m not just talking about moving out of his mom’s house.

  “You think?” His voice is full of wanting to please me, to believe that what I’ve said is true.

  I nod. “Trust me. Most people I’ve met in this life wear ego and fake niceties like permanent jackets. I find it refreshing that you wear your wounds as badges of honor.”

  15

  Ryan

  Fawn Hill’s town hall is a stately building and looks pretty much how you’d assume any small-town municipal building would look.

  Red brick exterior, tall white columns in the front, the town’s name in big, white bold letters over the front entrance. There are potted plants labeled as gifts from the elementary school dotting the sidewalk leading up to the double doors, and once inside, the whole place smells like a government office. If you’re wondering what a government office smells like, it’s a combination of Clorox wipes, laundry starch, moldy wood windowsills, and the musk of old library books. I find the scent oddly comforting.

  Keaton leads the way through the winding halls of the building, and the group of us passes the courtroom, the mayor’s offices, the entrance to the library, and other wings. Then we’re at the dance hall, which is really just a bunch of recreation rooms that have their dividers lifted to make it one giant space.

  “Wow, this place looks great,” Presley beams.

  I think she just hasn’t been to the city in a while, but I don’t say it. The hall is decorated in streamers, shiny cellophane, and tons of hand-drawn pictures that look like fourth graders drew them. It’s all very small-town cute, but it isn’t … great. That makes me sound like an asshole, but I’ve been to clubs in the city that have four-story glass sculptures, go-go dancers in cages, and walls of speakers that almost blast your eardrums out.

  This is just okay.

  “Thanks. I haven’t been back to work yet, but I had a hand in this,” Lily brags, but it’s just in the nicest way that no one takes it as boastful.

  Bowen bends down to press a kiss to his wife’s forehead. “You did an amazing job, babe.”

  “All right, who wants hooch?” Penelope pulls a flask out from the pocket of her dress.

  “You brought moonshine? Where the hell did you even get that?” Presley looks shocked.

  I’m just floored that anyone would refer to alcohol as hooch. I’m even more backwoods than I thought I was.

  “That stuff will rot your stomach.” Fletcher grimaces, like he knows all too well.

  “But it’ll get me drunk. And we are free of kids tonight. So I say go big or go home.” Penelope takes a swig, sputtering as the drink hits her throat.

  Her husband takes the flask, knocks one back, and then says, “This tastes like battery acid.”

  Bowen tries his luck next, always the manly man of the bunch.

  Lily shakes her head, indicating a pass, and Bowen goes to hand it to me.

  “Eh … I think I’ll hold off.” I’m not sure I’m ready for something that hard … especially in front of the kids dancing to One Direction right now.

  “Fine. Let’s go dance!” Penelope throws up her arms, and everyone follows their Queen Bee.

  She’s the morale of the group, the one who incites happiness and fun. As a mom to three boys, it amazes me how she does it. I feel like I would be hiding in a closet somewhere, having a breakdown.

  The eight of us dance to Stevie Wonder, Tim McGraw, The Beatles, Rihanna, and a whole mess of other music. I have to admit, it’s pretty fun. There is no judgment or lingering glances across the dance floor. There is no dark lighting or potent mixed drinks. No sleazy guys trying to pick you up.

  Just some good old-fashioned fun at the town hall.

  “We Danced” by Brad Paisley comes on, that soft, haunting melody spurring lovers to find each other’s arms. I’m not sure how it happens, I’m fairly certain Presley practically shoves me from behind so that I tumble into Fletcher’s arms. But … here I am, the youngest Nash brother holding me as a slow dance starts up.

  Amusement and something close to polite annoyance paints his face. “I guess I should ask you to dance?”

  I swear, my face is ten shades of red at this moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I think someone pushed me.”

  He seems to weigh this answer, and I can almost see the war playing out in his head. Should he really ask me to dance? Or would it just be too much of a hassle? Would it be rude if he walked off? Or does our holding each other during a love song register far more consequences?

  Finally, the lines of his face settle in an answer. “All the same, you’re here. We’re both partnerless. Dance with me.”

  It’s not a question, and against the logic trying to slap me in the face, I relent wordlessly. Fletcher’s long, ropey arms hook around my waist, settling at the appropriate height on my back … but the touch still makes every pore tingle. He’s taller than I am, even with my sky-high heels on. And the solid mass of his quintessential male figure reminds me, as I press my breasts and belly to his torso, that it’s been a long while since I’ve been to bed with anyone.

  Then, right there on that packed hardwood floor, we begin to sway. I get a little lost in the lyrics, my mind swept up in how much this man really did fall in love at first sight with this woman. The sappy, lovesick damsel in me wishes that any of my relationships had been so hopelessly romantic.

  Because that’s what I am, a hopeless romantic. No matter how many times it scorns me, I will always believe in love. Even if I’m terrified of it, I’ll never stop imagining that everlasting, all-consuming, genuine love can happen. And the songs about it only reinforce my rose-tinted view of it.

  Fletcher’s breath blows hot near my temple, and I try to contain the shudder that runs through me. My arms clasp around the back of his neck, and I can’t help when my fingers trail over the soft hairs at the nape of his skull.

  “So, we talked about my emotional demons last time I saw you. How about we cover yours this time?” He chuckles in my ear, his body and hands far too close to keep my brain thinking rational thoughts.

  I’m almost glad that we’re slow dancing, our cheeks almost pressing together. It means he can’t see my face, or read my eyes in that weird, almost searching way he does.

  “What do you want to know?” My voice has an edge of warning to it, almost as if I’m telling him not to test his luck.

  Fletcher makes a humming noise, like he’s t
hinking. “Why aren’t you dating men right now?”

  The phrase he uses has a small smile spreading over my face, remembering our non-date at the coffee shop. “I just came off an epic breakup. One that should go down in the history books as the suckiest relationship ender of all time. So, needless to say, I don’t feel like a repeat.”

  I can feel him nodding as his fingers dig ever so gently into the base of my spine. My dress is basically a second skin, but I wonder, without meaning to, what his hands might feel like if there was nothing between us at all.

  “How long were you with the jackass?”

  The song meanders as Brad Paisley croons. “Who said he was a jackass? What if I was the one who wrecked it?”

  “You weren’t,” he says simply, as if he knows the deepest parts of me.

  Somehow, the conversations between us always become intensely deep. I don’t know why; I’ve never felt this sort of magnetism to anyone else before. And it honestly scares the shit out of me that Fletcher Nash seems to have my number.

  I sigh. “You’re right. This time. We were together for a year and a half.”

  “Must have been serious, then,” Fletcher remarks, and I think I hear a bit of surprise in his voice.

  My shoulders rise and dip, considering his statement. “Yes, and no. I’ve been in years-long relationships with other people before.”

  I don’t say it to brag, it’s just a fact. And one that Fletcher needs to really grasp the whole picture. I am not an innocent party in what happened between Yanis and me.

  “Oh, yeah? Tell me about it. Let the recovering addict who’s never been in a long-term relationship, solve your relationship troubles.”

  “Well, Yanis and I were together for a year and a half. Before that, I dated a guy in New York, that I met at a SoulCycle class, for a year. I was in the best shape of my life. Before him, was this surfer in California for six months, but I ended it because he kept leaving to go surf shark-infested waters in places like Tahiti or Honolulu. There was the New York City boyfriend who I was with for almost three years when Presley lived with me. And before him, I dated two guys in college for a year each, and then had my high school sweetheart.”

  I say it all in a whoosh of breath because I don’t want to leave any spaces between the syllables. It all makes me look so terrible, like the serial monogamist I am, that I don’t want to explain it slowly. Better to rip it off, like a Band-Aid.

  “Wow …” Fletcher says, a little breathless.

  “Yeah …” I agree, twisting my arms a little tighter around his neck so I can pinch my wrist.

  It’s something I do when the nerves kick in so badly, when I feel the mask of confidence I wear begin to slip. Don’t get me wrong, I’m typically the type of person who is confident. I give no warnings about who I am and tend to feel very little guilt about the decisions I make. Only when I find someone who I think can truly wiggle their way under my skin am I an anxious mess.

  “Did you love them all?” he asks, and I find the question a little rude.

  But I answer, “I thought I did, at the time.”

  I feel him nod and wish the song would just end.

  “What’s next on your list of projects to construct?” I ask, trying to throw him off this line of questioning.

  “The clock tower,” he reminds me, and I curse myself with how forgetful my nerves are making me.

  “That’s right. Any leads on a place to live?”

  “My sponsor thinks she found me a place, she’s taking me there in a few days. Honestly, I don’t care if it’s a dump … I just need a space of my own. Living with your mom is a total turn off.” Fletcher laughs because we both have already admitted we’re bad with the opposite sex.

  But I wouldn’t know what living with your mom is like, at any age. If I had a loving one, I don’t think I’d mind living with her now. Of course, that thought comes from my total abundance of mommy issues.

  “Well, I hope it works out.”

  The song is coming to an end, and when he begins to loosen his hold on my waist, I feel the breath come back into my lungs. Except when he steps out of my embrace, I feel oddly … empty.

  “I’ll let you know. Maybe I’ll throw a housewarming.” Fletcher shuffles his feet.

  I smile and turn without saying anything more.

  I need to find Penelope. Some of that moonshine is definitely in order.

  16

  Fletcher

  My hand wraps around my hard-on, knowing I shouldn’t feed the temptation but being powerless to stop myself.

  Jesus Christ, the way Ryan looked in that fucking black dress tonight … I could have died just looking at her. Just combusted right there in the middle of town hall. It was a miracle I hadn’t dropped her as we swayed to the music, that’s how goddamn jumpy I was just being around her.

  I give my cock a tug, not even bothering to undress or get comfortable as I slide the lock in place on the door to my bedroom. Fuck, I really need to get my own place.

  Soon after Ryan sheepishly ducked away from me on the dance floor, I’d found the guys I needed to schmooze for the clock tower project, and then promptly hightailed it out of there.

  I had been two seconds away from dragging Ryan out of that converted recreation room and into the abandoned library. The stacks had always been a favorite of Bowen and Lily’s … I figured I could borrow their spot for the night. It took everything in me to keep my hands in a decent place, to keep my mind sharp enough not to do something rash and hasty.

  My blood thrummed in my veins all the way home, and I swear I had a middie by the time I stepped foot in the house. Good thing Mom was still at the dance herself, because a man needed some semblance of privacy.

  Balancing myself on the desk just next to my bedroom door, I slap my free palm down on its surface and fist myself with the other. My dick is so rigid, a drop of pre-cum dripping down from the head onto my white-knuckled fingers, that I know this won’t take long.

  My pants are at my ankles, the bottom buttons of my shirt undone and pushed around my back to allow ample jack-off mobility. I’ve gotten good at this, tugging one out quietly, quickly. For the past four years, I’ve been the same teenager who had to avoid four brothers while stealing nudie magazines from under their beds to masturbate to.

  Right now though, I close my eyes and think of Ryan. Of how steamy and electric the kisses between us would have been if I led her to the library. Of how I’d pin her up against the shelves, those legs that seemed to go up to her ears wrapped around my waist.

  My hand moves rapidly, my breathing shallow in my lungs, as I weigh whether she’d let out breathy moans or quiet squeals. My imagination runs with the whispered moaning, and my balls begin to move in rhythm with the thorough stroke of my fist over my erection. They seize up and then relaxed with each downstroke as I think about removing the straps of Ryan’s black dress with my teeth.

  What would her skin taste like? Would she passively watch me ravish her? Or would her hands be pulling at my hair, tearing off my clothes? A little bit of both, I’d like to think.

  I’m so close now, right on the edge of coming when I envision what pulling her top down would look like. From the outline of her skintight dress tonight, I could tell her tits were sizable. Fuck, I’d all but glimpsed them when I’d walked in on her in Keaton’s guest cottage. Not Pamela Anderson big, but full and real enough that they’d jiggle in my hands. That I’d have a mouthful of nipple to work with.

  All of a sudden, I’m coming with a harsh shudder, my climax seizing everything in my body and turning the world upside down. My come coats my hand, my cock tingling with a sensation that even the best of poets have yet to fit into just one word. My spine burns with release, my balls aching from the sheer force of it.

  As I come down from the high, I realize I haven’t felt this disoriented after jacking off in quite a while. Probably because all of my material has been Internet-based. But the sexual tension of imagining a flesh and blood woman w
ho is only miles away … fuck, it feels good.

  Not as good as having her do this herself would be, but I’d needed this. Hell, I hadn’t even fantasized about actually getting to the good stuff. In the scene that played out in my head, I’d barely bent my head to suck her luscious tits. That’s how much Ryan Shea got to me.

  Collecting myself, I head to the bathroom and wash up, then brush my teeth and slip back into my room. It’s only eight p.m., but I’m due to meet Cookie tomorrow morning and want to be up early.

  Sinking into bed, in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, I’m still trying to catch my breath.

  God, how I could have used some of that moonshine after our dance together. My hands ached to rip that flask out of Penelope’s hands. I could practically taste the burn of it sliding down my throat. And now, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, every part of me twitches to go out in search of a bottle.

  This is why they tell you to focus on recovery, not relationships. Because everything surrounding the emotions of love and lust will drive you to drink … literally.

  It’s only by pure exhaustion that I fall asleep, drifting uneasily into slumber as visions of Ryan dance in my head.

  * * *

  I meet Cookie the next morning, out in front of Carlucci’s, the sole Italian restaurant in all of Fawn Hill.

  My family has been eating here for decades, and my mom is very good friends with the owner. When Mr. Carlucci sees me through the window, he begins waving excitedly.

  “Want to head in, or up?” Cookie asks, crushing the cigarette she was smoking out on the sidewalk with the heel of her boot.

  It’s almost eighty degrees at nine a.m., and my sponsor is wearing genuine leather cowboy boots that come up to her knee. Only Cookie could pull it off, but I’m sweating just looking at her.

  “Up?” I ask, genuinely confused.