Fall With Me

by J. Lynn

  The words fizzled up on my tongue, going out like a spark in a downpour. I knew how crazy it was to be upset, because he said it shouldn’t have happened when it had in fact never happened, but it was the point behind it all. A different set of words flooded out of my mouth. “You really do regret it, don’t you?” My voice sounded too hoarse. “I know I can’t be the first chick you got so drunk—­”

  “That I don’t remember being with?” he cut in. “Yeah, you’re the only girl I’ve done that with.”

  I didn’t know if I should be relieved to know that or be really insulted. Shaking my head, I grappled with the mixed bag of emotions. “You . . . you wish that night never happened, right?”

  “Yeah, I do.” The blunt honesty was like taking a bullet straight to the chest. “Because I wa—­”

  The stockroom door suddenly opened. “Man, I have really bad timing when it comes to this shit,” announced Nick. “Sorry to . . . yeah, intrude. I just need to grab some . . . stuff.”

  My escape was in the form of dark and broody, and I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I used the distraction to my benefit. Reece had dropped his arms as he faced Nick, who was grabbing the new napkins with Mona’s logo splashed across them. I darted away from Reece and hauled butt through the open door. I didn’t look at Nick and the blood roaring in my ears drowned out anything either of them could’ve said.

  The odd burn in the back of my throat had to do with allergies. Probably mold somewhere in the building, I told myself as I headed behind the bar and forced a wide smile when I saw the girls sitting there.

  “You guys need drinks?” I asked cheerily, reaching almost blindly for a bottle.

  “We’re good.” Calla’s gaze drifted over my shoulder, and I didn’t need to look to know that Reece had exited the stockroom. I saw him within seconds, crossing the barroom floor. He dropped into the empty seat next to Cam, his profile stoic.

  “You okay?” she asked, voice low and sincere.

  My smile was going to split my cheeks. “Of course.”

  Doubt crossed her face, and as I turned around and pushed my glasses up to my forehead, I told myself to pull it together. This was her night—­her and Jax’s. I didn’t need her worrying about me. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I probably wiped off what was left of my makeup. Oh well, didn’t matter at this point. I fixed my glasses and whirled around.

  Calla, Tess and Avery stared at me.

  I drew in a shallow breath that scratched at my throat and then grabbed the hem of my shirt, pulling it straight. “So, do you guys want to know why Hufflepuffs do it better?”

  Avery grinned as she leaned forward. “Do we want to know?”

  I nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes—­yes you do.”

  Tess bounced once, way enthusiastic to hear my reasons for why being sorted into Hufflepuff was a good thing, and I think I fell in love with her in that moment, but Calla wasn’t fooled. She nibbled on her lower lip as she watched me refill Avery’s glass with soda. And I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over to where all the guys sat. Cam and Jax, who appeared to be on the verge of an epic bromance were deep in conversation with Jase, but the moment my gaze drifted across the table, I forgot what I was doing with the ice scoop. Holy hell, I didn’t even remember picking it up. Why was I holding it?

  Reece’s eyes met mine, and the air slowly leaked out of my lungs. The intensity in his stare traveled across the distance between us. It struck me then—­why had he picked tonight to finally breach the standoff between us. Not that it really mattered, but I was curious.

  I didn’t need to have any of Katie’s ability—­she was convinced that when she fell off the pole while, um, dancing and hit her head, she developed psychic power—­to know what he was thinking and what the concentrated power in his stare meant. I might have dodged him in the stockroom, but he was far from done with me.

  Vibrant blue eyes, the shade of the sky seconds before dusk washed away the startling color, peered out from a thick fringe of dark brown lashes surrounded by golden hued skin. Those eyes were set in a face that still held a hint of boyish charm, but the hard line of the jaw, stubborn and dominant, and those expressive, well-­shaped lips spoke of masculinity. A beauty that could be as harsh as it was majestic.

  My gaze moved over the canvas and then to the paintbrush in my hand, the ends of its bristles stained blue.

  Dammit all to hell in a handbasket. And not a cheap handbasket, one of those Longaberger baskets like my mom collected.

  I did it again.

  Resisting the urge to throw the brush at the painting, I wondered if the handle was sharp enough to give myself a lobotomy, because seriously, that was the only valid response to painting Reece’s face.

  Again.

  As in way more than once.

  Not only was it really kind of pathetic, it was also sort of creepy if I thought about it. I mean, I doubted he’d appreciate knowing I was painting or sketching his face. I’d freak out if some dude was secretly painting my face and had several versions hidden away in his closet. Unless it was Theo James or Zac Efron. They could totally paint my face all they wanted and then some. Reece also probably wouldn’t want to know that I woke up this morning with his eyes burned into my thoughts because I’d dreamed of him again.

  Also as in way more than once.

  Maybe he wouldn’t mind, an evil little voice whispered. After all, last night in the stockroom he’d gotten all up in my personal space. He totally fixed my glasses for me. There was a moment when I thought he might kiss me.

  He also told me the night he thought we had sex should’ve never happened.

  So, that evil little voice was a misleading bitch who liked to stir up shit.

  Pushing my glasses up my nose, I sighed as I dropped the brush next to the little jars of watercolors sitting on top of the old nightstand that looked like the primary color wheel threw up all over it.

  I really needed to stop painting his face.

  Why couldn’t I be a normal wannabe artist, painting rolling hills and vases of flowers or some other stupid, abstract stuff? Oh no, I had to be the artist ­people would think had stalking tendencies.

  Sliding off my stool, I wiped my hands along my denim shorts and then carefully peeled the sheet of watercolor canvas free. Some ­people liked to paint on recycled paper, but I’d always preferred the texture and look of canvas, and all you had to do was gesso the canvas so the watercolor would work.

  What I needed to do was roll it up, trash it so no one in the world could see it, but like every time I committed any image to canvas, no matter how embarrassing it might be, I couldn’t part with it.

  Painting, the same as sketching, well . . . it became a part of me.

  “I’m such an idiot,” I muttered as I walked the almost dry painting to the makeshift clothesline I’d strung the length of the bedroom I’d converted into a studio.

  I hung the portrait from clothespins and then backed out of the room, closing the door behind me and swearing that if anyone ever stumbled inside the room and saw that painting—­or any of the others—­I’d curl up in a little ball in the middle of the interstate.

  The soft hum of the TV in the living room tickled my ears as I started down the narrow hallway. Ever since I was a kid, I didn’t like silence, and it got worse after what happened with Charlie. A TV or a radio always had to be turned on. At night, I always had one of those standing fans running, not so much for the cool factor, but mostly the noise.

  Two steps took me past my bedroom and the one and only bathroom. My apartment was a bit on the small side, but it was nice. Ground level, hardwood floors throughout, an open floor plan combining the kitchen and living room, and a door that led out from the kitchen onto a neat deck and green area, as well as front access.

  It really wasn’t an apartment complex either. Just a huge, old Victorian smack-­dab
in the middle of the Plymouth Meeting, a town a few miles outside of Philly. The Victorian had been remodeled back in the early 2000s and converted into four two-­bedroom apartments. Charlie would’ve called it quaint and he would’ve loved it.

  An elderly ­couple, Mr. and Mrs. Silver, lived in the other ground floor apartment, some dude I rarely saw had just moved into the apartment above me a few months back, and James, a guy who worked at the local insurance place lived in the other apartment with his girlfriend, Miriam.

  My phone dinged, drawing my attention to where I’d left my cell on the arm of the couch when I got home from the bar. I saw it was a text.

  I winced and almost hid behind the couch. It was from Dean and all it said was: Love to see u again.

  Yikes, I suddenly felt spazzy. I didn’t even want to touch my phone.

  Last week, when I brought Dean home—­the guy from Olive Garden who had peach fuzz according to Melvin—­things hadn’t gone as I’d hoped.

  The night had ended with some kissing. Kissing in a good location, out on the small deck, under the stars, but nothing more. Probably had to do with Mr. Silver hobbling out on the deck shared with the apartment next door. The elderly man looked like he was going to beat the poor guy with his cane.

  But even if we hadn’t been interrupted, nothing else was going to happen between Dean and me. He was a nice guy, if not a wee bit overcommunicative, but when I thought about him, I didn’t feel anything.

  Maybe had to do with . . . God, was I going to finish the thought? That the kiss I shared with Dean was lackluster because it was nothing like when Reece had kissed me—­crap! I’d finished the stupid thought.

  Funny thing was, I wasn’t in the business of looking to feel anything in the first place, so in a way, Dean was safe. He was fun to hang out with and there was absolutely no chance in holy hell of my heart getting involved, but that wasn’t fair to him.

  I sighed as I passed the couch, leaving my cell phone where it was. Dean was nice, but there was going to be no second date. I had to find my lady balls and tell him that, but I needed a nap before I did that. Maybe a bowl of chips and—­

  My stomach flopped as I came to a stop in the dining area, facing the kitchen. Movement outside of the small window above the sink caught my attention. It was quick—­a flash of gray or dark brown, but it was gone too quickly for my craptastic eyesight, even with glasses, to register what I saw. When I made it to the window, I clutched the edge of the cool steel of the sink and stretched up on the tips of my toes. Peering out the window, the only thing I saw was the basket of pink flowers I’d bought from the market last week, sitting on the wrought-­iron bistro set that had seen better days, petals swaying in the breeze. I thought I heard a door shut, but as I settled on my feet, I shook my head.

  Now I was seeing things.

  Turning around, I leaned against the sink and drew in a deep breath as I moved my neck from one side to the other. Closing down Mona’s last night meant I hadn’t gotten home until after three in the morning and I’d woken up way too early.

  Woken up with that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that . . . that horrible emptiness that had no real cause behind it. Just there, making me restless and itchy in my own skin. It had lingered until I picked up the paintbrush, and I knew it would come back again.

  It always did.

  Pushing off the sink, I grabbed a banana from the sad fruit basket that was mostly filled with pieces of chocolate just as a knock came from the front door. One look at the clock near the fridge told me who it was.

  Every Saturday, since I’d moved out when I was eighteen, four years ago, my mom and sometimes my entire family stopped by at noon. Just like every Friday I visited Charlie.

  Thank God I’d closed the studio door, because the last thing I needed was anyone in my family—­Mom, Dad, or my two brothers, to see paintings of Reece. They knew who he was.

  Everyone knew who he was.

  Unlocking the door, I threw it open to have a wave of heat smack into me and a gallon of brown liquid shoved in the general direction of my face. I stumbled back. “What the . . . ?”

  “I made you sweet tea,” Mom announced, thrusting the still warm plastic container in my arms. “Figured you’d be out.”

  I could make any drink at the bar known to man, but I couldn’t make sweet tea to save my life. For some reason, I couldn’t get the sugar to tea bags to water ratio correct. It was beyond me.

  “Thanks.” I cuddled the jug close to my chest as Mom blew into the house like a five-­foot-­and-­three-­inch tornado with short, spiky brown hair. “It’s just you today?”

  She closed the door in a whirl and adjusted her red-­rimmed glasses. Not only did I get my lack of height from Mom, I also got her crappy eyesight. Yay, genetics! “Your father is golfing with your brother.”

  I assumed “your brother” meant my older brother, Gordon, because my younger brother, Thomas, was going through some kind of goth stage and wouldn’t get within five miles of a golf course.

  “He’s going to have a heart attack in this heat, you know? It’s absolutely ridiculous that he’s out there. Same with Gordon,” she carried on, making her way to the secondhand couch I bought when I moved into the apartment four years ago. She dropped down. “He needs to be more responsible—­your brother, since he has my grandbaby on the way.”

  I had no idea how playing golf in August had anything to do with his wife being three months pregnant, but I let that slide as I carried the jug to the fridge. “Want anything to drink?”

  “I drank so much coffee that I’m surprised I didn’t float my way here.”

  My nose wrinkled as I opened the door. Taking a startled step back, I stared into the fridge, my fingers tightening around the handle on the jug. “What the . . . ?” I muttered.

  “What are you doing, honey?”

  Unsettled, I stared in the fridge. On the top shelf, next to the case of soda, was the remote control to the TV. I’d never in my life ever accidentally put the remote or any other non-­consumable goods in the fridge. I didn’t know anyone in real life who’d even done that, but there it was, sitting on the shelf like a tarantula perched to attack.

  I glanced at the sink window, stomach tumbling as I thought of the blur of movement I’d seen outside earlier. It was nothing, and I had to be a lot more tired than I thought I was, but still it was weird—­very weird.

  I shook my head as I snatched the remote from what I was beginning to think was the fridge in Ghostbusters II, and put the tea in to cool.

  Twisting on the couch, Mom patted the cushion next to her. “Sit with me, Roxanne. We haven’t talked in a while.”

  “We talked on the phone yesterday,” I reminded her as I closed the door and brought the remote back to where it needed to stay, on the coffee table, like a good little remote.

  Her brown eyes, just like mine, rolled. “That was forever ago, honey. Now get your ass over here.”

  I got my butt over there and the moment I sat down, she lifted a slender hand and gently poked at the messy ponytail I was rocking. “What happened to the red streaks?”

  Shrugging, I reached up and tugged out the hair tie. My hair was long, reaching my nonexistent breasts. Other than the purple streaks, my hair was a deep brown. I messed with it a lot, so much so I was surprised it hadn’t fallen out of my head yet. “I got bored with it. You like the purple?”

  She nodded as her eyes narrowed behind the glasses. “Yes, it’s very much you. Matches the paint stains on your shirt.”

  Glancing down at my old Twilight shirt, I saw that there was quite a bit of purple splattered across Edward’s face. “Ha.”

  “So . . .” Mom drew the word out in a way that had warning bells ring-­a-­dinging in my head. “You know, the offer still stands. Right?”

  My spine stiffened as I met her earnest stare. The offer. Ugh. The offer was a
living, breathing crutch that I sometimes—­okay, almost always—­wanted to lean on. The offer was to move back home, at twenty-­two, drop the computer graphics classes and the bartending and the web design I did on the side, and devote 100 percent of my time to my real passion.

  Painting.

  I was seriously lucky that my parents would be willing to support a broke-­ass artist, but I couldn’t do that. I needed my independence. It was why I moved out and it was why it was taking me ten billion years to finish my classes at the community college.

  “Thank you,” I said, clasping her warm hand in mine. “I mean it. Thank you, but you know . . .”

  She sighed as she pulled her hand free and clasped my cheeks. Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I know, but I just need to make sure you haven’t forgotten.” Drawing back, she tilted her head to the side as she smoothed a thumb just below my glasses. “You look so tired, worn out.”

  “Geez, Mom. Thanks.”

  She gave me a pointed look. “What time did you get off from Mona’s?”

  “Three in the morning.” I sighed as I leaned back against the cushion, letting it swallow me up. “I got up early.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Sympathy tinged her tone.

  My momma knew me. I nodded.

  There was a pause as she folded one knee over the other. “You saw Charlie yesterday?”

  I nodded again.

  “Of course you did,” she said quietly. “How is my boy?”

  Hearing her refer to Charlie like that made the wound of seeing him the way he was now so much harder. My parents . . . God, they were more parental figures to Charlie growing up than his own parents were. Sighing heavily, I told her about my visit with Charlie and how he hadn’t acknowledged me again. Concern filled her dark eyes, because she too remembered what happened before.

  When I was done, Mom pulled off her glasses and fidgeted with the slender arm. “I heard about Reece.”

  My eyes widened until I thought they’d pop out of my head. She heard about Reece? About our hookup that was not really a hookup? Mom and I shared a lot, but I drew the line there.