Forever Falling (Sunshine and Moonlight Book 2)

by Paige Randall

  “Sit,” she said and pushed him into a chair. “You like to watch?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. As long as I can get in on it too.” Might as well give it a go.

  Brunette sat on the edge of the bed and Red came over and sat between his knees, pushing them apart wide. She licked his balls through his pants. “You’ll leave this room the happiest fourteen year old in the fucking country,” she assured him.

  They undressed and started kissing. They put on quite a show for Callum. They were natural born performers. Red watched Callum while Brunette went down on her. She told Callum he should undress. He did. Brunette watched Callum while Red went down on her. She pulled her tongue out of Brunette to tell Callum they didn’t mind if her jerked off. He did.

  After they all came, they sent Callum downstairs for beers. He pulled on his jeans, made his way through the thick cloud of smoke in the living room, found a bathroom and pissed. He spent a moment with his refection realizing he was about to fuck two girls, not one, for his first time. In the kitchen, he pulled three beers from the fridge, then took the stairs two at a time.

  The bed was made, pillows were plumped and they were gone.

  Callum arranges for a week-long lift ticket. That should be enough time to sharpen his skills on the slopes and to ski the resort a few times over. He thinks he’ll ski for the afternoon, enjoy a few cocktails in the hot tub and find a companion before dinner. He can work fast in a bathing suit. He realizes he doesn’t have a suit and goes back to the shops to pick one up. Black. There is a nine o’clock show at a comedy club in Park City he’ll get to later. Maybe he’ll stop by that hat store and visit the girl who looked like Megan Fox. That’s her name Megan Fox.

  After a short wait, he boards a gondola with a young couple who immediately share that they just got engaged. Fuckers. Callum is almost tempted to see how fast he can break that up. He can and he knows it. Ring or no ring, she looks at him like she’d enjoy a taste. He leaves it alone. She isn’t bad, but he’d rather ski today. Callum reaches the top of the mountain and takes a few minutes to survey the trails before he points his skis downward and lets himself go. And he does fly. Despite feeling a little rusty, he takes the hills at top speeds. The air rushing at his face gives him a feeling of freedom he has felt few places other than on slopes like these. He loves to ski.

  By Callum’s third run, he is completely confident, like he has been skiing every day of his life. As he sails down the mountain, the air screams past his ears. This is why he is here, not giving a shit about anything but getting to the bottom of the mountain. This is about the journey, not the destination.

  He can ski and forget what Elizabeth’s dark hair looks like spread over his white sheets and how she would run her tongue along his lips when she wanted him to go down on her. He forgets how she holds his face when she comes to look straight into his eyes. He forgets how she laughs with her eyes closed and the sound of her voice. It all goes away as he glides down the mountain.

  On the fourth run he hits new speeds. The slopes are a little crowed, but he can make his way. Most skiers here are fairly advanced, traveling along at speeds comparable to Callum’s. After his fifth run he goes in for a cocktail, then another and buys a set of head phones. He listens to AC/DC loud on his sixth run. Back in Black is perfect ski music. Until the lights go out.

  Three

  When he comes to, he is in some type of cart, being pulled by a four-wheeled something or other and all he can hear is the screech of the engine and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Mister I am so fucking sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry coming from someone, somewhere, like a gnat buzzing in his ear. He is in extraordinary pain.

  “Will you shut the fuck up,” he whispers to the air hissing past his face. His head explodes in pain at those six words and then everything goes black again.

  The next times he opens his eyes, white walls surround him. Bright lights sear his corneas and pain throbs in his leg. The pain in his head is nothing short of agony. Through blurred vision, he can makes out a girl in the corner. She sits in a low chair, hugging her knees, wearing a hideous hat with two strings hanging down the sides of her face all the way to her shoulders. The unzipped bib of dark blue ski pants, hangs around her waist. This must be the owner of the voice from before.

  “Get your fucking feet off the furniture,” he says, before realizing the volume of his own voice is the greatest torture of all.

  She stares at him silently afraid and slowly slides her feet to meet the floor.

  An intercom system pages some fucker, STAT, and a nearby machine flashes lights and sounds that feel like they’ll put him into a seizure.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he whispers, with as much anger as he can muster.

  She stiffens at the tone of his voice but starts to move toward the bed. When a physician enters the room, she cowers back to her seat.

  “My uncle’s up,” the girl tells the woman with a stethoscope and long white coat. The presumed doctor might be hot, but he can’t tell with his vision all fucked up. Blonde. Tall. Slim. In charge. Glasses. He likes glasses. He likes removing glasses.

  “I’m not your…” he starts but the maybe hot physician interrupts him.

  “Hello Mr…” She searches his chart for a name. “What’s your Uncle’s name?” she asks the girl.

  “Callum Townsend,” says girl with ugly hat and she tucks his wallet behind her back.

  The fucking little thief!

  “He’s visiting from England.”

  “Mr. Townsend, how are you feeling? You had a bad fall.”

  “I feel like shit and I did not fucking fall,” he growls.

  “You and your niece had a collision on the mountain. A bad one. You’ve suffered a fairly severe concussion. Do you remember the incident?” She asks, taking his pulse.

  “I remember enough,” he says. She has nice hands.

  “We’d like to do an MRI to be sure there it isn’t anything more going on.”

  She stares at Callum to make sure he is absorbing her words, so he nods to move things along. The nod hurts like a motherfucker.

  “Also, your femur is broken and will require surgery. We need to insert screws here and here.” She holds up an x-ray and points to the break with a pen like he might give a single shit about a word she is saying. He is done.

  “I’m sorry to say it is a nasty break and you’ve got a long road to recovery. We’ll schedule you for surgery as soon as possible. You’ll be here two or three days and then you’ll need to follow up with an orthopedist.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ,” is all he manages.

  The physician excuses herself and he is left staring at the kid with the fucked up hat.

  “Who the fuck are you and why did you tell her I’m your uncle?” He whispers in a very quiet rage.

  She pulls her chair closer to the bed, quietly. “I did this to you. I am so sorry. They only let family in. Uncle seemed better than daughter since you have the accent and I don’t.”

  “A tiny little shit like you did not take me out on the slopes. Utter bullshit.” She’s about half his height and a third of his weight. She finally pulls off the hat. Light brown hair piles atop her head, tied in great disarray. Blue, he thinks, evil looking eyes pierce from a serious face with a smattering of freckles across a small nose. His vision is clearing, but focus is painful. He closes his eyes, disgusted with her. Why am I even communicating with a fucking child?

  “I did hurt you.” She does not elaborate further which is fine because he isn’t exactly up for conversation.

  “Run along then,” he instructs, but she doesn’t move.

  He dozes and when he wakes, he feels slightly better. Or higher. He looks at the bag hanging above and dripping into his vein and wonders what he is on but not enough to bother asking. A side effect of the drugs perhaps. Whatever it is, he’ll take it. Now a woman, a mother maybe, is standing next to the girl, who still sits in the chair in the corner with the fucking ugly hat in her lap. When h
e opens his eyes, the woman moves to the bed and takes his hand in hers like she knows him. Who the fuck are these people?

  “Mr. Townsend?” she asks him.

  “Ask your daughter. She’s quite a little pick-pocket,” he says and turns to face the wall hoping they’ll both go away.

  “Listen, Mr. Townsend. I am so sorry to bother you, but Marina feels responsible for what happened today and we’d like to help you.”

  “Who the fuck is Marina?”

  Whoever she is takes a deep breath and stands tall with her hands on her hips. “I’m going to assume you are high as a kite and you did not just use that word as a precursor to my daughter’s name on purpose.”

  She has an accent, but he doesn’t recognize it. It is a little like John’s Austin drawl but different. He can’t distinguish the subtleties between regional American accents anyway.

  He shrugs, facing the wall. Yes he is pretty damn high, but he can still shrug with the best of them.

  “Do you have any people we can call?” she asks.

  People. Well there is his ex-girlfriend who is in London making a baby with her husband who used to be Callum’s best friend. But he isn’t really spending much time with his best friend anymore since he learned how Callum had been fucking his wife for the past year. There is a mother who isn’t speaking to him because he is a destructive asshole, and he threw away his restaurant and his self-respect. There is a brother, Eric, who is somewhere on a different continent, but Callum doesn’t even know which one at the moment. And there is Anna. And there is John. And their two babies. He is in no way going to ask them to rescue him. He can get by on his own.

  “I don’t have any people currently. Thanks. I’ll be fine.” He can’t remember why he is even talking to her. Who the fuck are these people?

  The girl gives her mother a powerful look with sad puppy eyes and her hands held together. The gesture is somewhere between praying and begging. The mother turns slowly to face Callum. He checks her over. Red hair but not bright red. Sort of darker reddish. Blue eyes with very long lashes, maybe a few freckles. Good nose, not small, not big, just strong. Impressive cheek bones and jaw line. Tiny waist, but she fills out her jeans nicely. The sweater makes it impossible to get a feeling for the tits. She is sexy almost but trying not to be. No makeup. Ponytail. She is a strange combination of contradictions. She could be hot with some makeup and a good haircut.

  “Mr. Townsend…” she starts slowly. “Marina, my daughter, feels responsible for your fall and we’d like to offer to care for you until you get back on your feet. You’ll need help after surgery and some supervision after that concussion…” She doesn’t sound done, but he is.

  “No.”

  “No, what?” she asks, not understanding.

  “No. I don’t need any help. Go away. Take your kid with you. And take that ugly fucking hat before it makes me throw up. And where the fuck is my wallet, Brat?”

  The mother eases her daughter toward the door with a whisper he can’t hear. Marina lays the wallet at his feet on her way out. She looks like Charlie leaving a stolen everlasting gobstopper for that sadistic bastard Wonka. Good.

  He thinks he is in for some kind of lecture, but she sits in the chair vacated by Marina, raises her feet to the cushion and hugs her knees. Not a words passes between them. He falls asleep within a minute.

  Later he signs forms and they take him for the MRI. She is still there. Eventually, there is a surgery. It is all blurry, but when he opens his eyes, she is there. He is moved to a room and there she is. He isn’t sure it is the same day or if he lost one. Maybe two. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. He falls into yet another deep, dream-filled sleep.

  The next party was Eric’s own. Their mother went out of town to visit an old friend, and she had no problem leaving a seventeen year old at home alone with a fourteen year old for three days. And there they were again. Red and Brunette kissed Callum hello, each taking a cheek at the same time.

  Before he could get the “Go fuck yourselves” out of his mouth, Red slid her hand into the back of his pants and squeezed his ass.

  “More?” she breathed. “Please say yes.”

  He brought a joint, a bottle of scotch and took them to his room. Red tried to push him into a chair

  “Fuck that,” he said. “Do you like dick or don’t you?”

  “We do,” Red said. “But we like when you watch, too.”

  Ever the diplomat, Brunette negotiated. “First a watch then a fuck, okay?”

  “No thanks,” Callum said. “I’ve seen how that goes.”

  Brunette tried again. “First the fuck and then the watch?”

  “No. Same time,” Red interrupted. She had a good sense of logistics.

  And that is how Callum lost his virginity at the tender age of fourteen. First Red slid a pill into her mouth, then Brunette’s, then his. He didn’t question her, he just swallowed, tasting her finger. They lay down on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, Callum in the center, waiting for the Ecstasy to take effect. When it did, he knew this would be the greatest day of his life, but he was wrong. It was the first of many such days.

  Red finally climbed on top of him, pulled off his shirt and kissed him like he had never been kissed. Brunette took his pants from him and took him into her mouth for just a moment before moving onto her back. Callum fucked her while Red sat on her face, cupping her own breasts, watching Callum watching them both. Watching and fucking. Everyone was happy.

  After, Red climbed onto his chest and played with his hand. Brunette curled into his side and nuzzled close into his neck, clasping his other hand. They encompassed him completely. His brain sailed to places he wasn’t sure were real or imagined and his body fell in love.

  “You are so beautiful,” Red observed.

  “Will you be ours?” Brunette asked.

  At that point he probably would have committed mass murder on their behalf. If they asked him to jump off London Bridge, he just might have done it. He might have cut off his own pinky to be theirs for the summer.

  “We could love you, you know.” Red added to sweeten the deal. “Would you love us?”

  Their question suddenly seemed serious. “Yes,” he said very emphatically. “I will love you. I will love you both. What are your names?”

  Their names were Laila and Daisy, or so they said. He thought Red, or Daisy, took her name from the Gatsby book and Laila, Brunette, took hers from the Eric Clapton song. They were Americans from Boston, spending a year abroad. The important part of that was they had an apartment to themselves. They were nineteen.

  Callum spent every day of that summer at their apartment. His mother worked enough that she hardly noticed and he made sure to be home when she got home at the end of the day. No questions were asked as long as the dishes were washed, his room was neat, and he didn’t cause any trouble.

  “Where are you off to in such a rush?” Eric asked.

  “See a friend,” Callum answered. That was usually enough. Eric was a lifeguard and worked long hours.

  Callum was too young to work so he just fucked all summer. Fucked and cooked. Laila’s family owned an Italian restaurant in Boston and she taught him to appreciate Italian food beyond the bland spaghetti and meatballs he was used to.

  The sex was constant and they liked to play. They would tie him up and suck him off and then feed him Spaghetti Bolognese in bed. They would stick a dildo into his ass and fuck him in the shower and then teach him to make risotto with seared scallops. One day Daisy dripped hot wax onto his back while he fucked Laila in the ass and then he made them linguine with clam sauce.

  “This is fanfuckingtastic,” Laila said, sucking long strands of pasta with her mouth shaped for a kiss.

  “Callum we love the way you fuck and we love the way you cook.” Daisy said.

  Laila simplified it. “Callum. We just love you.”

  They left the linguine on the table. He tucked each of them under an arm and took them back to bed.

&nbs
p; No one in England fucked more or ate better that magical summer.

  When Callum awakes, he sits up and immediately vomits between his legs.

  And there she is. “That’s just the anesthesia, not a problem at all.” She pulls the blanket off and replaces it with a clean one.

  “Why isn’t the bedding soiled?” he asks.

  She lays another waterproof pad across his lap. “Everyone throws up after surgery. We were ready for it.”

  He lays back and closes his eyes, trying to decide if he is going to vomit again. “Are you my nurse?”

  “I’m sort of your private nurse,” she says and he falls back asleep, not understanding.

  The next time he wakes, a woman with long braids and a thick accent he can’t identify is taking blood from the port in his hand. She is gentle and quick.

  “How are you feeling darling?” She loads the dark red tubes into her cart.

  “I feel like I’ve the worst hangover of my life.”

  She rubs his arm supportively, wishes him well and pushes her cart out the door. The headache has abated some, but the fog around him is thick and the drugs are strong. After a moment he notices her sleeping in a recliner in the corner. Red curls spills around her face and her shirt is buttoned wrong, revealing a pink lacey bra. Pink and lacey is unexpected and makes her a bit more interesting. He lets her sleep and she stirs after an hour.

  “Who are you?’ he asks with his stern voice before her eyes are open. She startles wide awake and jumps to her feet. Watching her confusion is entertaining.

  “Don’t you remember me from the ER? I’m Marina’s mom,” Her hands rest on her hips. They are indeed nice hips.

  “I remember. Do you have a name?” He feels unreasonably angry, but he can’t remember why. He’s hungry, too.

  “I do have a name.” She doesn’t seem to respond well to anger.

  “May I know it, please?” He accentuates the British in his tone, faking good manners.

  Her face softens. He is so doped up, he isn’t in his right mind. She should be patient with him, he thinks.