Breaking Gravity (Fall Back Series #2)

by Autumn Grey

  Holy sweet Mother Mary.

  “That’s what you wanted to ask me?” His tone of voice is light, playful even, but I can’t be sure. It’s just weird to see him like this

  “Um. . .you are such an inspiration to me. I’m sorry about the accident.” I say breathlessly, and I cringe inwardly.

  Definitely not sexy. Not when I sound like I spat out the words in a hurry.

  I clear my throat and plow on. “Do you think you’ll go back to playing at the Symphony?”

  I blame the nervousness gnawing at my stomach, just having all that intensity in his eyes on me. I can’t even remember the last time anyone stared at me like I was interesting to look at. I can literally hear my skin humming with confused pleasure, and blood thrums in my veins. This feeling, this intangible emotion running through me, is addictive and freaking scary. It feeds that large part of me that craves attention. I can feel it sucking greedily, giving me a high like no other. I could easily get used to this feeling.

  It’s dangerous, and our situation is beyond complicated. It’s highly inappropriate to have these feelings for my professor.

  This has to stop. Nip the crush I’ve had for this man in the bud and concentrate on my studies.

  His eyes leave my face and move to the laptop in front of him, taking the warmth with them.

  I should be ashamed that not having him look at me bothers me.

  I should be ashamed that I starve for his attention, even though I’ve lived the past twenty-one years without his eyes on me.

  I should be ashamed because not long ago—exactly two seconds ago—I thoroughly chastised myself for allowing him to affect me the way he does.

  But I’m not, and it’s probably sad. I just want him to look at me one more time, which is why I find myself opening my mouth and saying, “I mean, your career was on the rise, and one article mentioned that you were being considered to take the position of the head cellist—” The rest of that sentence dies on my tongue the second he lifts his head and meets my gaze.

  What I see in his eyes stops me short.

  Pain.

  So much pain it’s a force all on its own, splitting the air around us into shreds.

  I step forward without thinking, the need to console him is strong, but I stop mid-stride when his expression turns guarded.

  “See you tomorrow, Miss Blake.”

  I shift on my feet before saying, “I didn’t mean to pry—”

  His eyes narrow, a muscle ticking furiously in his jaw. “Stop talking.” My mouth snaps shut. “Don’t you have a class starting in ten minutes?”

  Right. “See you tomorrow in class, Professor.”

  I whirl around and literally fly out of the room, feeling the heat of his stare on my back the entire way. My eyes and nose burn. I’m not sure if the tears threatening to spill are because I’m embarrassed or because of my stupid feelings.

  This is stupid. I reach my desk and shut down my laptop, then collect my things, unable to get the look on his face out of my head. I know that look, because it’s the same one I see in my own eyes whenever I look in the mirror. A look born from loss, hurt and life fucking you over.

  HOLY SHIT.

  I’m not even sure what I’m feeling right now.

  I want to punch the wall for showing weakness.

  I want to split my head open and rip out the awful memories chopping greedily at my heart, then shove them in a dark pit.

  I force myself to look away from the door Miss Blake disappeared through and run both hands down my hair.

  When I walked into the office after the meeting with Bowman—after finally accepting the associate professor position—I found Miss Blake smiling, her fingers flying across the phone screen. My gaze swept across her meticulously clean desk with pens and pencils arranged in the usual way: according to color and size.

  I stood at the door, taking in her relaxed features. The tight bun on top of her head—not even a single hair out of place—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled too hard. The snort that burst out of her mouth as she read the text, the cute blush spreading across her freckled nose and cheeks.

  Seeing her like that improved my already good mood and lowered my guard. Plus, there’s just something about the way she looks at me when I catch her staring unaware. Awe? At least it’s different from the pity I’m used to seeing on most people’s faces. I may sound like a vain prick. Fact is, I haven’t felt like this in a long time, and damn if I won’t chase the high wherever I find it.

  Miss Blake accused me of flirting with her. Honestly? I may have been subconsciously doing it, wanting her to keep smiling.

  God. She’s fucking beautiful with those larger-than-life eyes that seem to say what her mouth doesn’t. And those freckles on her face? They enhance her attractiveness instead of diminishing it. I fleetingly remember the screensaver photo on that fucker’s phone a few weeks ago. Could he be her boyfriend? And why do I care?

  I shouldn’t, yet my mind keeps wandering to her even when she’s not in the room with me.

  She asked me if I would ever go back to playing at the Symphony, catching me off-guard. My mood went south from there. The pain—the memories—slammed into me like a tornado, ripping off the scabs from barely-healed wounds.

  She probably thinks I’m an emotionally unstable asshole, when all I wanted was for her to see that I’m not a toad. Well, not on most days anyway.

  Fuck if I know why I wanted her to see me in a different light than she’s used to seeing me in.

  I try to shake off the unsettling feeling that always accompanies her whenever we’re in the same room. I can’t exactly put a finger on what it is about her, which annoys me to no end. Her quiet demeanor soothes me. She’s unlike most women who talk endlessly, trying to fill in the silence with idle chatter, when all you want is for them to keep their mouths shut.

  Which makes Miss Blake dangerous. A woman like that has the power to get under my skin and stay there.

  Eager to drown out those thoughts, I reach across the desk for my iPod. After scrolling through the playlists, I select a list and press PLAY. “Wayward Son” by Kansas starts to play as I pick a file from the pile in front of me and flip through the documents, impressed by Miss Blake’s meticulous filing skills. The names have been arranged alphabetically, and they correspond to the Excel Worksheet that she forwarded to my laptop. Little colored stickers are pinned on top of the files to indicate how many years each applicant has been practicing music. Most students who are admitted to Rushmore have been immersed in music for more than ten years.

  The next few hours go by quickly as I go through the names and qualifications, making sure the applicants are qualified and up to par with Rushmore’s standards. I don’t like wasting time, especially during auditions, which is why I comb through the student’s documents. I sit back and eye the growing pile of applications. I weeded out mostly students who haven’t shown enough dedication to music to convince me they are really serious about pursuing a career in this field.

  Pushing back my chair to stand up and stretch my body, I grip the edge of the table as a sharp pain pierces through my shoulder and down my spine. I’d been so caught up with work that I completely forgot to take my medication. Sweat beads on my forehead and I inhale deeply, waiting until the pain passes before sitting back down and pulling out a plastic bottle from my bag by the desk. After tossing one into my mouth, I swallow it dry and lean back, waiting for the burning sensation to recede and the feeling of weightlessness to set it.

  “The prodigal son returns,” a female voice says in a mocking tone, jarring me out of the peace that’s cloaking me.

  My head jerks up and my gaze zooms in on the woman leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her facial features—so similar to the woman from my past—twist with anger. The lightness settling in my body evaporates, replaced by a heavy throbbing inside my chest.

  God, no. “Hello, Elizabeth.” I force the words out of my mouth.

&nbs
p; She studies me silently, a storm already brewing in her eyes. Then she steps inside the office and comes to stand in front of me. Her fists are clenched tight, causing her knuckles to whiten.

  “When did you come back?” she asks casually, as if we’re discussing the weather, but the hard look on her face says she’d rather I was dead.

  “Last summer,” I reply, feeling my body lock, readying for the shit-storm that’s about to hit the roof.

  “Have you started playing the cello again?”

  I shake my head and wait.

  “Good,” she bites out with a snarl. “You took my daughter away from me, so it’s only fair you got a taste of your own medicine. You poisoned Camille against me.”

  “Don’t do this, Elizabeth,” I warn in a tight voice.

  “Do what exactly?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it? You’d always been a selfish son of a bitch—”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “You took her away from me!” She pounds her chest, her eyes wild with resentment. She has managed to convince herself that I turned her daughter against her all these years.

  “Are you serious right now?” I can feel my temper rising, no matter how much I swore I’d keep my cool if I ever saw this woman again. “You threw your daughter out after she told you your husband was making passes at her. You accused her of being jealous. You told her that you never wanted to see her again after that. You refused to attend her funeral. What kind of parent does that to her daughter?”

  Her mouth gapes, obviously stunned by my outburst. She quickly recovers and jabs a finger in my direction. “You turned her against me! You convinced her to go with you to Chicago—”

  Abruptly I’m on my feet, sending my chair crashing back into the wall behind me, forgetting where I am. “She was a fucking grown up, Elizabeth. When will you ever accept that?”

  “It’s your fault she’s dead!” Sobs wrack her body as her hands cover her face. “She’d still be alive if you had stayed in Jacksonville and not dragged her with you to Chicago.”

  I’m trying hard to breathe past the pain in my chest, to hear anything other than my pulse pounding relentlessly in my ears. My hands curl into fists. I press them on the desk and drop my head forward.

  Of course it’s my fault. I made peace with that fact a long time ago. I don’t fucking need anyone telling me the obvious, especially the woman who felt threatened by her own daughter and threw her out.

  “Is that all you came here to tell me?” My jaw is clenched painfully tight. “To blame me for Camille’s death?”

  She clears her throat and says with a shaky voice, “The money she inherited from her grandfather. . . it belongs to me now.”

  I laugh bitterly and shake my head. “This can’t be happening,” I mutter under my breath, then say, “So that’s it then. Her inheritance.” The tension in my body escalates, and I feel like it is about to break into pieces. “Fucking unbelievable.”

  “But it’s mine now that she’s gone!” Her voice is full of indignation.

  “Sorry to disappoint you. The money was donated to Lend a Helping Hand Organization in Chicago.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I don’t even dignify or justify that statement with an answer.

  I remember the look on Camille’s face when she came home one night and informed me that she wanted to use the inheritance to help other people who were in need of housing and education. The organization also fostered children who had a talent in music but had no money to further their career. I will not let Elizabeth destroy that memory.

  Lifting my head, I dismiss her with a wave of my hand and say in a cold voice, “Next time you feel the urge to talk to me, call my assistant to book a fucking appointment. Have a good day, Elizabeth.”

  Her bottom lip trembles as she glares at me, then she turns and storms out the door.

  Running trembling fingers through my hair, my eyes close tight. I take deep breaths to calm myself.

  Fucking hell!

  I had a feeling that woman would eventually show up in my office. I had assumed she’d pay me a visit when I was teaching the course here in Rushmore during summer break. Not that I could avoid her forever. Elizabeth teaches cello here at Rushmore. What I didn’t expect was her waltzing inside my office and picking a fight with me over some stupid inheritance.

  Christ.

  Turning around and grabbing my chair with a lot more force than necessary, I sit down and drop my head in my hands and try to control my rapid breathing. Then I grab my phone from my desk and dial Izzy’s number.

  “Hey, Nate,” she answers, her usual perky self.

  “Meet me at Reed’s at five o’clock.”

  “Hello to you, Mr. Manners.”

  “Sorry.” I sigh, rubbing the nape of my neck with my hand.

  “You okay?”

  “Shitty day. Want to hang out tonight?”

  She snorts. “Yeah, because I’m at your beck and call. Did you forget I’m a mom of two hyperactive little monkeys? And my stomach is the size of Texas and my feet. . . shit. They won’t fit inside any of my shoes.”

  I sit back in my chair and smile. “Stop being so melodramatic, little sis.”

  “Melodramatic? Have you met me? I look like a whale.” Her voice is high now, the latter spoken in a sob.

  “You’re hijacking my job,” I declare in fake annoyance.

  She stops sniffling long enough to ask, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re not allowed to make fun of yourself. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Jackass,” she laughs, and I finally smile, delighted to hear that sound.

  “Ask Mom if she can babysit the kids. We need to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” She sounds more animated now. “Celebrate what?”

  I exhale, running my fingers through my hair. “I finally signed the contract. You are now speaking to Associate Professor Rowe at Rushmore School of Music.”

  She squeals and giggles. “Oh gosh! That is amazing! Congratulations! This is good. Very good.” She finishes the sentence with a sob. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “I know,” I say softly, knowing that if I mention the fact that she’s tearing up, I’ll be in trouble. Her hormones have taken over her life for the past few months, and they practically rule her mouth. She rarely goes out, instead she prefers to stay home with the kids, worried that something will happen if they are not in her direct line of sight. “Will you come?”

  “You don’t mind me showing up barefoot, do you?”

  “Dress however you like. I just want you there with me so we can celebrate. I’ll pick you up at your house.”

  “Shit. I need to look pretty,” she mumbles anxiously. “I can’t remember the last time I put on makeup. Oh my God! I need a dress that won’t make me look like a hippo!”

  “Hey, hey, Izzy. Stop it,” I say firmly, cutting through her hysterics. “You’re beautiful. You do not need makeup to look beautiful, all right? Why do you think Bennett never lets you leave his side when you’re together?”

  “Because I dazzle him with my smile?”

  I laugh. “Yes. And because he loves you just the way you are. You had him so whipped by the time you were nineteen, he couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful you were. He used to look at you like you were his lost star. Still does. Makes me gag sometimes.”

  She bursts out laughing. “You didn’t speak to him for almost two months after you found out that he and I were secretly seeing each other.”

  I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

  She laughs again, and this time I feel the lightness return to her voice. “You’ve got yourself a date, mister. I’ll check with Mom and see if she can babysit. By the way, we’ll have to celebrate again at brunch on Sunday or you’ll never hear the end of it from Mom.”

  “Deal. Be ready at four thirty.”

  “Love you,” she says, and she ends the call before I can say the words back.


  Feeling a little relief after the phone call, I shut down my laptop and shove some files inside my bag. Between the five classes I taught today and the visit from Elizabeth, sitting in the office and pretending everything is all right is the last thing I feel like doing.

  Once I’m seated inside my car, I pull the Jeep I’ve been using since last week after the incident out of the parking lot and drive toward Antonio’s garage to pick up my BMW. After paying whatever I owe him for the repairs, I switch the cars and leave the Jeep at the garage since it’s due for its annual service and drive home.

  THE RINGING OF MY PHONE pierces the silence in my car just as I’m pulling into one of the parking spots across from the restaurant where Sean and I are supposed to meet. I dig it out of my bag and answer without checking the screen.

  “Elon, dear,” my mom greets. For just a second, irritation rushes through me.

  See, my mother and I have this weird relationship where I silently resent her for checking out on my sisters and me when we were young and letting us deal with our abusive father. Sure, I love and respect her. She’s my mother, after all. I just don’t understand why she couldn’t stand up to Dad or leave his ass. I’d never show my bitterness in front of my sisters. We’ve already gone through so much to let trivial things like my silly feelings get in the way. And if I’m being honest with myself, I am mostly terrified of turning out to be like her. Rick is a good case in point. It took me a lot of courage to leave Rick, that bastard.

  “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”

  She sighs wearily. “Can’t I call you without you concluding something is wrong?”

  Shit. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just—”

  “You still despise me, I know. I miss you and your sisters, and sometimes. . . sometimes—” She stops talking abruptly, and I hear her boyfriend, Pete, say something in a low voice on the other side of the line.

  My eyes search the front of the restaurant for my date. My jaw drops, my eyes trailing Sean as he paces up and down the pedestrian walk, dressed in a kilt and calf-length boots. He completes the look with a white T-shirt with Iron Man printed on the front and a leather vest. His long, dark hair is pulled away from his pretty face and flows down to mid-shoulder.