Fall Guy

by Liz Reinhardt

  He inches closer, and I hop off the balcony ledge and move into my room, toward my desk, bending over to pick up imaginary scraps of paper so I can keep his attention and get him to talk more.

  I don’t even take a second to truly process what he’s telling me or unjumble exactly what I think about it. I need to shake the information out of the tree like so much ripe fruit and grab every piece up before it goes rotten. I’ll be able to paw through it all with my full attention later. He follows me in and leans against the frame of the French doors.

  Winchester’s eyes are very firmly planted on my backside, so I ease out the next question, trickier than the last two.

  “And what about Remington? What happened the other night?”

  I have a nice, round backside, plenty of cushion, but shapely and proportionate. More than one guy has declared my backside the finest he’s ever seen, but it’s not enough to keep Winch on track.

  Like a spell he’s snapping out of, he gives a groggy shake of his head and runs a hand over his hair.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. I told you, my brother’s in a little bit of a bad spot now, but he’s coming through fine. Just fine.”

  I stop shaking my rump for his hormonal benefit and look at him.

  I really look.

  His eyes are shifty. His mouth is drawn tight to one side. He cracks every knuckle on his hand. Because he’s worried. He’s upset. And he can’t trust me enough to tell me why.

  I stop all the stupid crap, all the pouting and panting and breast and booty shows and just chill out and sit by his side. I reach one hand over and knit his fingers with mine, then take an extra deep breath.

  For a few quiet beats, neither one of us moves or talks or does a single thing except settle into the art of being together the way we are, brand new in this turned-the-corner instant.

  “My daddy is a stupid, stupid man,” I start, embarrassed that my voice is only a whisper, but secure in the knowledge that that’s the loudest I can manage. “He bets on things—” I shake my head so hard my own ponytail whips my face. “He bets on things that lose. Always. It’s like reverse luck. You can always count on my daddy to pick the loser.”

  I try to pull my hand away, and I tell myself it’s just to wave a stray piece of hair out of my eyes, but I know, deep in the marrow of my backbone, that it would make me relieved to not have to be physically connected to Winch while I tell this. His eyes snap at me, like your loyal dog trying to warn you there’s danger ahead, willing to bite to make you listen. He squeezes my hand, and I hold tight because he gives me no choice, and the words keep bobbing out.

  “I can always pick the winners, though.” I eye him to see if this lucky tidbit interests him in the ‘let’s go bet on the horses’ sense, but he just watches my eyes and leans forward, anticipating my next words. “Seriously always. Like magic. I could be rich, picking horses. I’m that good, no joke. Daddy figured it out when I was tiny, of course. And, at first, I helped him.”

  “Hamburger days?” Winch finally breaks in, remembering the story I told him earlier.

  “Yes. Well, they came later.” I squirm, but there’s no turning back. “For a while we were swimming in money. There was no losing. We had it all, and it seemed so damn easy. Then…we lost everything eventually. The house I grew up in. My school tuition. My mama. She left because Daddy was such an embarrassment, losing all the time. Losing can make you really…distant. And mean. And weak. And he just kept losing.”

  I can’t bring myself to tie it all together. I look sideways, begging Winch with every worry line and desperate pull of my lips to figure this whole damn story out and not ask me to say the obvious.

  The rabbit and the snare? It was never Winch walking into the trap. He hopped close and wiggled his nose in disdain.

  I’m the idiot with one furry foot in the noose, about to be slit and skinned for dinner stew with my unlucky foot on someone’s keychain, an ironic good fortune trinket.

  He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles with a ticklish brush. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  I take my furry foot back out of the trap and get ready to hop into some clover.

  But the relief in his eyes stops me in my tracks.

  So this is where we are?

  I say nothing, he says nothing, we lose nothing, we gain nothing.

  It’s cowardice.

  I put my foot right back in that noose, stew be damned. I need to get caught by Winch. I need to trust that he wants me for more than my lucky foot.

  “I could have stopped it.” My voice is firm and heavy with leaden shackles of shame.

  He shakes his head, and pulls me closer.

  “Listen to me. You couldn’t, okay? What your old man wanted to do, that was his business and you—”

  “Could have stopped it,” I slice into his excuse for me and shred it with a single, gentle slash.

  “Don’t do this to yourself,” he warns, his voice frantic for both of us.

  I’m about to drag us into danger, out of the natural orbit of our day-to-day. We’re two cowards, living the same cowering existence. We ignore the fact that life slips by while we’re busy hiding out, unwilling to risk living if it means we might fall into a trap along the way. We’re supreme cowards.

  But I want to change that. I can do it. I can start the change.

  “I could have saved my parents’ marriage.” I let the words march out and trample our stupid, delicate field of lies, spoken and unspoken. “I could have gotten him money. I could have picked the right damn horse every single time, Winch. Every time. It would have taken me less than a few hours a week. And we would have been living together, rich as thieves.”

  My voice shakes around this one version of a fairytale ending that exists, bright and clear, in the deepest depths of my imagination.

  He moves his lips in several shapes that look like they’ll disagree, then his mouth snaps into a frustrated scowl.

  “So why not?” His words lash out. “Why not make it easy, Evan? What did you gain? Daddy and mommy split. You got pushed out of your house, out of your life. The money is wasted. Your father is probably ashamed. Why do that?”

  I let the trap engage and feel gravity release its hold on me as I’m jerked through the air.

  There are four tears on my face, and I have to coat every nerve in steel to keep any more from falling.

  “I did it because…the lie got too big,” I gasp. I am swinging way out of my comfort zone, flailing and kicking for ground that’s too far away to be my possibility anymore. “He was using me. He was losing himself. She was a shell. We were in trouble. And it was the only shot…it was the one and only shot to make things right. Attempting to save my family was absolutely worth that gamble to me. But in the end—”

  One sob wrenches from my throat, like the bugle-loud cry of a wounded animal. “In the end, neither one of my parents was strong enough to gamble on us. So it all fell apart.”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my free hand, moving it with quick, vicious strokes. “My lucky eye doesn’t work for me and the people I love. I couldn’t see who would win when it came to my own family’s fate, you know? It wasn’t simple, like the horses. And I wound up getting slapped with what my dad must have felt.” A long, shuddery breath cycles in and out. “Total and complete humiliation.”

  I haven’t even told this to Brenna. She would never, ever get it. Her family is so amazing and close. She’d do anything, anything at all to help them, and they’d do the same and more for her. And I’m genuinely happy that she has that. I would never want her to be in my shoes.

  I thought Winch might get it, but now that it’s splattered out between us and he’s sitting like a boulder, it’s clear I exploded something that he’ll never understand and I can’t put back now.

  I never should have tried to pull us closer. I’m good at pushing. It’s my specialty. I can push anything, anyone, far away with no hope of bridging back what I’ve torn all asunder.

&nb
sp; I push away from Winch, ready to joke about what a pansy I am, how stupid my pathetic life is, how right he would be to detest me and my disloyalty to my own damn parents. I’m swinging high above the ground, and I give up the fight and wait for the knife to slit my throat.

  Only it doesn’t.

  “What you did?” Winch’s voice trembles until I’m positive it’s about to fracture. “What you did is so fucking brave. You know that? Not many people would have the guts to do what you did.”

  “My parents divorced. My life is ruined.”

  I shove those bitter counterarguments out under the glare of his judgment, only because I want him to strike them down.

  And he does. “Yeah. So they did. So it is. But you took a chance. You saw that things were wrong and you were brave enough to attempt to fix them. It’s especially hard when it’s your blood.” He pulls me closer, until I’m pressed against him, his breath jagged rasps coming in and out of his mouth. “Trust me, your parents wish they were half as brave as you.”

  He’s cut the noose and let me hop free, unharmed.

  “Why?” I press, giddy at my own freedom, the lightness confessing brought me, and the sweet relief of Winch’s admiration.

  “Because they live with all their own fears and weaknesses every minute of every day, Evan. You set yourself free. That’s…that’s crazy. I’ve never heard of anything like that.” His voice pools around me, and it’s like sinking into a bubble bath. “I admire how brave you are. It’s a pretty big turn on.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I stare into his eyes, hunting me, and I’m happy to be his prey.

  I should be ashamed, considering I just spilled my deepest, darkest secrets. But I’m just plain old horny.

  Winchester Youngblood is in my room, a few feet from my big queen bed. My eyes go to the plush piece of furniture that dominates the space, calling to us, demanding us to roll around in the sheets. I want to. I want to so badly.

  “My grandparents won’t be home until morning. Why don’t you work up the courage to ask me to fool around with you?”

  For a split second, I expect him to pull back, tell me no, keep things clearly delineated between us. But then his arms snap around me, and he scoops me off the floor, walks me the few feet across the room, and plops me onto the bed.

  I giggle for a minute, caught in the crazy jump of the bouncing mattress, then my giggle gets lost in the dark of Winch’s stare.

  Winch 7

  She’s lying under me on the bed, and I have my arms steepled over her, a human bridge over the river of her body. I should be doing more than staring down at her. My mouth, my hands, my body should be acting out every crazy hot scenario that’s been torturing me and keeping me awake every night for all these last few weeks.

  But something is driving a wedge between me and the girl who I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since the day I met her.

  Her hands slide under my shirt and press in a long, smooth glide up the skin of my back.

  “Winch? Seriously, they’re hours away. Even if they don’t stay the night, they always call before they leave. We’re so cool.”

  I push up on my arms and move to sit next to her, on the edge of her bed, and out of her immediate vicinity.

  “No, I know it. I’m not worried about that.”

  I stroke one hand over her forehead, trying to press away all those little worried lines that pop up whenever we spend too much time together.

  “So, what is it?” The lines furrow deeper.

  “I feel like a liar, I guess.” She knots her eyebrows over the bridge of her nose, and I explain, “You told me things I know were hard for you to put out there. And I got nothing.”

  Her lips purse into his perfect little sexy kissable shape.

  “What does that have to do with you coming here,” she smoothes her hand over the spot right next to her on the bed, “and kissing me until I agree to all kinds of other bad things?”

  “First of all, you know it’s not going down like that.” I run a thumb over her lips, she sticks her tongue out and swipes my skin, and I groan and try to keep a handle on my stupid, crazy urges. “Secondly,” I manage to get out, “I feel like a fraud. And I hate that. I always try to be honest with the people I care about.”

  She gives me a long, patient look, batting her eyelashes at me every now and then until I’m having a hard time swallowing on my own, then finally says, “So be honest with me.”

  “It’s compl—” I cut myself off before I use my crutch of an excuse, but her groan interrupts me anyway.

  “Just say it!” she cries. She sits up on the bed, knocking me back, and hugs her pillow to her chest with ferocious intent, her eyes humming with anger and frustration. “Just say ‘complicated,’ okay? Don’t lie to me, because that I can’t deal with. But don’t be afraid if you can’t tell me the whole truth yet. That doesn’t make you a fraud. It means you have issues, just like everyone else. I didn’t tell you my secrets to get you to tell me anything you aren’t ready to share. This isn’t Truth or Dare. This is you and me. We can go at our own pace. Alright?”

  A phalanx of orderly thoughts and ideas suddenly breaks order and starts civil warring in my head.

  She’s so beautifully honest.

  And what she said? It’s freeing. It makes me brave. It makes me want to be better, do better for her.

  “Okay.” I lie down next to her and hook our hands together. “I need to tell you some things.”

  She pushes her face closer, and her eyes are such a glassy blue, I feel like I can see through them.

  “Remington? My brother?” I stall, she nods, putting me back in gear. “My brother has some fucked up shit going on in his life right now. He’s got this girlfriend…I don’t know if they’re still a thing or not, you know? She loved him. She’s a real cool girl, but Remy? Jesus Christ, he could tempt a saint. And they have a kid, and he’s been…unstable. It’s all fine. Mom and Benelli watch Alayah when he’s got her, you know, so there’s nothing to worry about. But he’s a mess. A fucking mess.”

  It feels like all of that was pressurized inside me, like shaken soda in a can, and I just popped the tab and let the whole damn mess explode out.

  Evan trails her fingers down the sleeve of my shirt and presses it up, up to my elbow. She lets the pads of her fingertips glide over the slightly raised skin and the black ink.

  “It’s beautiful.” Her eyes flick to mine, asking without saying a single word.

  Giving me an out if I want to take it.

  I don’t. I can’t. I need to tell her. Everything.

  “I got it for Remy.” I study the midnight details of that ferocious black horse on my skin. “It’s called a pooka. It’s this animal, this creature that steals people and takes them on wild rides over the moors in Ireland. My brother has this thing for mythological crap, so he got a tattoo.”

  The rest is hard to come out and say.

  Evan nods, and the motion of her head on the pillow messes her hair up, makes it bunch at a funny angle, so I reach up and pull the hairband out of her ponytail. Her hair spreads over her shoulders and makes little dark waves on the blankets. She leans in to kiss me, her mouth hot and urgent against mine, a distraction from telling any more, from talking about the tattoo and what it means.

  If I have to choose between confessions about my brother’s stupidity or Evan’s irresistible sexiness, the choice is obvious. My hands pull and press all over her, first with the safety net of the barely-there fabric of her tank and tiny shorts. Her tongue flicks in my mouth, and my brain backfires.

  I lose the safety net and run my hands under her clothes and along the soft, hot skin of her stomach, up along her ribs, to the lacy edge of her bra, and, before I put my hands under the cups, I pull back down her stomach. She whimpers in protest, but it turns to a moan when I get to the waistband of her shorts. The whimper comes back in full force when I stop again.

  She rocks her hips up in an effort to move my hand lower, bu
t I’m locked where I am, in no man’s land, my palm just over the dip of her bellybutton.

  “Winch?”

  Her fingers are at the back of my neck, kneading a place that, for some reason, makes me crazy.

  “Yeah?”

  The word barely manages to choke out.

  “I know you didn’t think it was funny when I joked about the guys I was with. But it wasn’t that many. And I was always safe. Always. So if that’s what’s stop—”

  “Shh.” I kiss her so she cuts her crazy confession short. “Stop it. Now. Stop.” I look down at her. She’s keeping her jaw tight and strong to offset her shaky, embarrassed words. “I don’t care if you’ve been with a thousand guys before me, alright? We’re together now. That’s all that matters. It’s not you, nothing to do with you. There’s nothing—”

  I break off and look her up and down, letting it show on my face how sexy I find every single thing about her. “There’s nothing at all about you that’s stopping me. Trust me, it’s like an opposite problem. I feel like I gotta finish telling you some stuff. It’s not fair to let you get involved with me if I don’t. Alright?”

  Her smile is supposed to make me feel all good, like nothing could split us apart and everything is a-okay, but she has no clue. Not many girls outside my family’s circle would want anything to do with the life I lead, which is why everyone in my life is pro-Lala. And would be anti-Evan on principle.

  You have to be raised our way to understand how we do things and why.

  Even I don’t always understand. But it’s my code. So I have to make it work, and now that I got Evan involved with me, I have to at least explain it to her. Or try. Even if it means I’ll probably get an invitation to back the hell off her balcony in a few minutes.

  I give her one last hard kiss, trying not to regret all the things I’m going to miss when she tells me to leave. I thought I’d be able to keep her separate from the rest of my life. I didn’t count on feeling this impossible-to-ignore need to tell her everything.

  I sit up again and rub my hands over my face, trying to talk myself back into a few more minutes with her curled in my arms, but I can’t do it. It’s all or nothing with this girl.