by Autumn Grey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Breaking Gravity
Copyright © Autumn Grey, 2017
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various brands and products referenced in this work. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. All songs and song titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
Cover design: Okay Creations
Interior formating: Champagne Formats
Stock photos: www.depositphotos.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books
We’re all broken, that’s how the light gets in.
—Ernest Hemingway
To Elon.
One of the bravest people I know.
Keep breaking gravity, my friend.
Two years ago. . .
IF I HAD KNOWN THE night would be ending this way, I’d have done everything in my power to stop it before it even began.
“Don’t leave me,” I beg, my gaze fixed on hers, watching as life floats in and out of her blue eyes.
She blinks and blankly stares at the starless dark sky. For just a second, I think I’ve lost her and my heart stops beating. And I can’t breathe.
I can’t imagine living without her.
Then she smiles. Air rushes into my lungs, and a sob bursts through my lips. Even looking like this, she’s just as stunning as the first time I laid eyes on her.
“Don’t you fucking leave me,” I plead again in a hoarse voice.
“Never,” she vows in a fading whisper. “I’ll always be with you.”
“God. Please don’t take her away from me,” I pray under my breath, muttering the words over and over, hoping someone will hear me. Hoping for some sign that everything will be okay.
I glance down at her neck.
Christ, the blood.
So much blood, and there’s more still trickling from the gaping neck wound.
I need to get to her.
I climb on my hands and knees and crawl to her but fail and fall flat on my face on the dirty snow, crippled by the pain slicing through my shoulder.
“Keep your eyes on me, OK?”
“So cold—,” she says. Her teeth chattering, then she coughs.
Through my blurred vision, I see her face has gone extremely pale, her breathing shallow.
“Baby, stay with me,” I plead. More hacking coughs and my desperation drives me forward. “Come on, fucking stay with me!” My voice is weak and hoarse from all the screaming I’ve done.
Sirens wail through the silent, chilly air. Snowflakes continue to fall like ashes after a volcano eruption.
Her chest rises once and then falls. I’m watching her now, waiting for her next breath to assure me that she’s still here with me.
Her eyes remain unfocused as life fades from their depths.
“No!” I scramble up but my feet are too weak, causing my body to slump back down. Darkness swirls in my vision, threatening to pull me under.
I can’t black out now, damn it. She needs me.
“You’ll always be my hero,” she once told me.
The last thought that fills my head before my world turns dark is that heroes are supposed to do everything to save lives.
I’ve let her down. All it took was three seconds to bring my world crashing down around me.
I’m no one’s hero.
Six months later
I STEP THROUGH THE DOORS of the place where I spent month after month of therapy to get my right shoulder and arm working properly again.
Just as my foot hits the sidewalk, my phone starts to ring. I shove my hand in my pants pocket to retrieve it, but the abrupt movement sends pain skittering from my right shoulder down my right arm. Holding still and feeling sweat form on my forehead, I grit my teeth waiting for the pain to pass. And just like that, the flashes of memories dance in my vision, taunting me with images of blood on white snow, blue eyes filled with trust.
The ringing stops, before it starts
back up again. I retrieve it from the left pocket of my pants and answer the call without checking the screen for the caller.
“Rowe,” I grunt into the phone.
An intoxicating giggle reaches my ear, followed by, “Hello, Grumpy.”
My lips twitch, forming a smile at the voice that belongs to my sister and best friend. “Hello, Izzy.”
“Wow. I love your enthusiasm. Can’t you sound a bit friendlier when you answer your phone?” she asks, her voice amused.
I pull my car keys from my pants pocket and open the driver’s door. “That is my friendly voice,” I say, tossing the bag in the passenger seat.
“Do you sweet-talk girls with that voice? I can’t even imagine what your less-friendly voice sounds like.”
I chuckle. “Let’s hope you never find out.”
She snorts, and I know she rolled her eyes. “When will you be here?”
I still have a few things left to pack before moving from Chicago to Florida. I needed time to think about what I was going to do with my life, and being in this city only brought more pain, the memories too hard to handle sometimes. The first time I told Izzy about what I planned to do, she accused me of running into hiding. She challenged me to face my problems head-on.
I tried, but I didn’t like what I saw. Confronting my inabilities, knowing I’d never be able to play cello again day in, day out was like living in the fucking Seventh Circle of Hell.
I clear my throat. “I’ll be home on Saturday afternoon.”
Silence fills the space between us. Unspoken words heavy in the air.
“Are you okay?” she asks—no—whispers, as if she’s terrified of speaking those three words out loud. Guilt cuts through my chest. I put that uncertainty there two years ago when shit went to hell and I couldn’t handle the pain, disappointment, unfulfilled dreams. I couldn’t handle the kind of person I’d become.
I swallow, the bile rising in my throat. My mind flashes back over the past year. Months and days filled with pain, struggle and eventually acceptance. I’d spent years chasing my dream and finally, when I was living it, one single event destroyed everything, changing the entire course of my life.
“Nate?” Her soft voice interrupts the flash of painful memories.
“I’m fine,” I say much more curtly than I intended.
“Nate—”
“I said I’m fine,” I bite out. I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. “Sorry. Can we not talk about this?”
“Sure. You know I’m always here if you need to talk.”
“I do.” She has always been there, even when I was being a dick. “Thank you.”
“So when—” she stops abruptly when a howl pierces the air through the phone. Izzy mumbles a curse and yells, “Matthew Thomas Reed. Stop pulling your sister’s hair.”
“But, Mama, Kaylie started it.”
Something clatters loudly on the other side of the phone, followed by a loud screech.
“Makayla! Leave your brother alone.”
She returns to the phone. “Sorry. I have to go. See you at Sunday brunch?”
The thought of being surrounded by my family warms me, but the thought of seeing pity in their eyes kills me.
“No, Izzy—”
“Sunday brunch, Nate,” she says in a sweet yet firm voice that tells me she won’t take no for an answer. I’m older than her by two years, but she’s had me wrapped around her little finger from the second my mom brought her home from the hospital. I’ve been such an ass lately; the least I can do is go for brunch. Besides, it’s been a while since I spent time with my niece and nephew, and I miss that.
I sigh. “Fine. But if you and Mom start with your coddling—”
“I promise no coddling,” she says hurriedly to the sound of yelling and screaming in the background. “I need to sort out these little monkeys. Love you.”
She ends the call before I can respond.
I toss the phone on the dashboard, turn the ignition, then twist around to look over my shoulder for traffic. A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, searing down my spine.
“Dammit!” I grit out, facing forward again.
Clenching my jaw, I reach for the yellow plastic bottle inside the glove compartment and pop a pill into my mouth, downing it with the bottle of water in the center console. Then I sit back and wait for the pain to recede.
The bliss that follows is fucking addictive.
Feeling the nerves and muscles in my shoulder and right arm relax, I clench the bottle in my left fist.
My salvation.
Six Months Later
MY ENTIRE BODY JERKS FORWARD as a silver Toyota on my right swerves sharply, veering into my lane. The sound of metal scraping with metal fills the air. I grip the wheel tighter and twist it to avoid getting hit again. I glance at the rearview mirror, and my heart almost ceases beating in my chest.
Shit, fuck. shit. A truck is bearing down on me from behind. I quickly turn the wheel again and switch back to my lane, missing rear-ending the fucking Toyota by mere inches. Tires squeal on the tarmac as I slam my foot on the brake fast, my knuckles pale from clutching the wheel tightly.
I’m breathing hard, staring out the window where the car has stopped about ten feet away. The driver’s door flies open, and a tall man wearing a baseball cap with the bill facing backwards steps out, looking less bothered about what just happened. He leans on the hood of his car, speaking into his phone. I glare at the asshole, my anger thrashing inside my chest like a wild beast, fighting to break free and devour him. It’s my first day of work at Rushmore School of Music, and I’m running late because this idiot couldn’t stop talking on his phone long enough to concentrate on where he was going and almost totaled my BMW.
Unable to contain my rage, I climb out of my car and stalk forward just as he sweeps a finger across the screen of his phone to end the conversation and turns to face me. He swaggers toward me smiling wide and looking unperturbed as he digs his wallet from his pants pocket and pulls out a card. He hands it over to me without preamble.
“I’m sorry, man.” When I don’t make any attempt to take the card, he pushes it into my chest.
Clenching my jaw, I scowl at the paper, then eye the line forming behind his haphazardly parked car, forcing other vehicles to inch past it. Someone yells obscenities while repeatedly and impatiently pressing the horn. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to breathe through my rising temper. There are two ways this could go: do as he says or wipe the smug grin from his face with my fist. Or both.
The little prick jerks his chin to the card while staring at me down his crooked nose. I curl my hand into a fist, but the burning sensation from the scar on my right upper arm forces me to flex my fingers.
Goddamn it.
Ignoring the crippling pain, I step forward and grip the front of his shirt. Whatever he sees on my face wipes off the smile on his. His eyes widen in terror.
Good.
He tries to wiggle out of my hand, and my fingers tighten. “Let go of me, asshole!” He squirms a little and huffs. “Get your hands off me or—”
I tighten my hold and get in his space, then arch a brow. “Or what?” I snarl.
“I’m—” he coughs and sputters, waving his phone in the air. I tilt my head, fleetingly noticing the screen saver photo: a blurred image of what looks like auburn hair and stunning, big eyes staring into the camera. He coughs again, mumbling, “Dude, I’m sorry.”
I turn my focus on him. “You’re sorry,” I state in a low voice, anger licking those two words. “You realize you could have hurt someone with your reckless driving, you little piece of shit?”
He nods quickly. “I said I’m fucking sorry!” He squeaks with some hint of stubbornness in his voice. “Call the number on the card, and the bill will be taken care of.”
My right hand spasms, sending throbbing pain up my shoulder and spine, forcing me to uncurl my fist from the fabric. Frustration soars through me, fueling my anger to fury.
Stup
id useless limb. It hasn’t been working right since the accident.
Gritting my teeth, I snatch the card from his hand and scan the details.
Mr. R. Williams, Trading Analyst. New York.
I shove it inside my shirt pocket and aim a narrowed stare at him.
His chin wobbles as he continues to stare at me as if I’m crazy.
“You might want to remember you’re in Jacksonville and not in New York, Mr. Williams,” I warn, referencing the details on the card he gave me.
“Fuck you,” he mutters under his breath as he turns and quickly shuffles toward his car while he tugs his khaki pants up.
I glare at his retreating back, then stalk back to my car.
Fuck.
It’s going to take a few days for Antonio to fix the dent on the passenger’s side car door. I really don’t have time to wait for a taxi, so I climb inside my car, belatedly realizing that the airbags didn’t deploy. I add that on the list of things to be checked, then back out of the spot, leave the chaos behind me and drive toward Rushmore School of Music. Ten minutes later, I park the car in the designated parking spot in the teachers’ parking area. Given how my morning started, the fiery ache in my shoulder and the incident with the Toyota, I’m ready to murder someone. On a scale of one to five, the pain is a ten-alarm, but taking my usual dose of medication would render me stupid the next few hours. So I toss a tablet into my mouth to taper off the pain, swallowing it dry.
I make it to class five minutes before the bell goes off. As I’m watching students file in, laughing and heckling, my eyes land on a desk in the middle of the room where loud snores seem to be coming from. Biting down my temper, I stride toward the woman snoring on the desk, my gaze fixed on the mass of red hair sprawled across the top. I stop and glare, taking in the delicate features partially hidden by the hair: pert nose sprinkled with freckles, long lashes casting shadows on olive skin, a mouth—Jesus, that mouth—that’s all kinds of innocence and trouble, top lip slightly fuller than the bottom one giving it a natural pout.
Something strange happens, some kind of stirring in my gut that I haven’t felt in a long time. I shift on my feet, uncomfortable and feeling a little lost in all that red hair. Before I can allow my mind to sort out that emotion, I slam my left palm flat on the desk with a boom, then slowly straighten and wait. The woman bolts upright with a squeal and blinks rapidly, before darting a squinted glance around the class. I clear my throat and fold my arms on my chest, then wait. Snickers and giggles erupt around the classroom, but my entire focus is on her as she yawns widely, before wielding a pair of stunning, big, hazel eyes full of sleep in my direction. Different emotions roll in them. Shock, confusion, sadness. Fear.
