by KC Enders
No response comes in the handful of blocks between the arts center and my brownstone. But as I hit the top step of the stoop and push my way inside, drum-heavy music assaults me.
He’s here. And he’s evidently going through some kind of a thing of his own.
I scoop up the remote to my sound system and tap the button until the volume is at a more manageable level.
“Dude. The fuck you doing? My neighbors are gonna call the cops,” I yell, scanning for a hint of which room he’s in, which level he’s on.
Footsteps pound down the stairs from the second floor, where my music room is.
“Why’d you turn the tunes down, man?” There’s a half-full bottle of whiskey in his hand, and his beanie is pushed back on his head, barely hanging on.
Dude looks rough. Rode hard and all that.
I nod toward the bottle of Horse Soldier bourbon as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a pull. “You bring that with you, or did you help yourself when you got here?”
Ian wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Fucking brought it myself, you cheap bastard.” He shuffles into the kitchen and slumps into a barstool at the counter. “And no, it wasn’t full. I just didn’t want to mooch off you again, so I grabbed this on the way out my door.”
He doesn’t look shit-faced, but he sure as hell doesn’t look like himself either.
“What’s going on?”
I reach into a cabinet and pull a pair of heavy crystal tumblers from the shelf. I hand one to him and then dig into my freezer for an oversize ball of ice. Of all the outrageous appliances on the market, the only thing I really wanted in my kitchen was a fridge that made craft ice balls. Talk about being a bougie diva. I hold one out in silent offer, but Ian waves me away and pours a generous three fingers of bourbon into each of our glasses.
We sip silently until his whiskey is down a couple of fingers—to half a pinkie, at best. Ian rolls his glass between his palms and pushes out a heavy breath. He shakes his head and then nods in quick, jerky movements.
“Nothing. Hook-up gone sideways, but I’m good—seriously.” With a last nod to his glass, he lifts his head and finally meets my gaze. “How’d it go today? You talk to her?”
I stare at my friend, the guy who was by my side when Alex walked away. The guy who sat with me through countless hours of video games. Turns out, the best way to heal teenage heartbreak is killing zombies.
“Nah. I played. She danced. That’s it.”
Ian drains his glass and splashes more bourbon into both of ours. “And what’s that like? Watching her dance, prancing around you and shit in those flimsy little scarf things.” He swipes at the screen of his phone, tapping away, head bobbing, the side of his mouth lifting into a grin. “You got food here, or should I order something?”
“Order,” I tell him, swirling the remnants of ice around my glass. I grab another ball from the freezer and drop it in. I pull a jar of cherries from the open shelving that serves as a bar in my kitchen and throw a few in the whiskey.
“So?”
“Order whatever, man. I don’t care.”
Ian laughs and sets his phone down across the counter from him, almost out of reach but not quite. “I did. But what about Alex? How … like you just play and she, what? Just does her thing? No talking about what went down? Nothing about why she just fucking left you?”
“Dude, no. Play and dance. That’s all there is. She said she wanted to keep this strictly professional, strictly business.” I pluck a cherry from my glass and pop it into my mouth, savoring the tart burst of flavor. “She fucking offered to pay me for my time. That’s how this shit is going.”
Ian’s head pops up, eyes wide and brows arching high. His hands still from where they were tapping with the never-ending beat that scrolls through his mind. “She what now? She’s going to pay you?” His shoulders bounce with silent laughter. “Nice. Take her for whatever you can. Fucking chick owes you.” That last part is mumbled, mostly under his breath.
I can’t help the surprised huff that rips from my lungs. Ian shakes his head and starts drumming his hands against the granite again, hoping to distract me or himself—I’m not sure.
“I’m not taking her money.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re the good one, the nice guy. You’re going to just help her with her shit and move on. Let her go again when she’s done with you.” His gaze drifts away as his hands continue to move.
I don’t like what he’s saying, but the sad fact is, he’s right. If that’s what she needs, that’s what I’ll do.
“Nothing wrong with being the nice guy. You know that. The only asshole out of us is—”
“Yeah, Kane. That fucking asshat. How does he do what it is that he do and still walk away free and clear? Huh? The shit he gets himself into is unreal. How is he not a walking STD? How has his dick not fallen off yet?”
I bark out a laugh, flexing my hand. It’s sore after playing for the past couple of hours. “Last thing I want to think about is Kane—or his junk.”
“Right? For fuck’s sake.” Ian sobers. “So, we covered Alex. What about Kane? He keeps pushing you, and you keep trying to ignore his shit. How are we gonna deal with the band shit? Rand said the label was pissed with what went down between you two. Said you can’t fuck up Kane’s face—”
“He actually did more damage to me.” I point to my slightly off-center nose.
“Not gonna lie, man, that shit surprised me. Didn’t know the asshole had it in him.” Ian pulls his phone closer, checks the notifications, and shoves it away again with a huff. “Didn’t know you were so fucking weak. He came back onstage, looking like nothing happened. You quit working out or something? Forget how to throw a punch?”
His phone vibrates, but after checking the screen again, he slams it screen down and clenches his jaw, muttering under his breath.
“Nah. Just trying to hold it together. The band is more important than that shit.” I think. Some days, it is, and others …
I lift my chin at where his phone buzzes with another notification. “What’s with that?”
Ian shakes his head and hits the power button, shutting the thing down completely, killing his playlist that’s been streaming since I walked in the door.
“Food’ll be here in a minute. I’m gonna hop downstairs and hit the weights real quick. I gotta … I …” He trails off, running his hands through his hair, pushing his beanie to the floor.
He scoops it up and disappears down to the gym I have set up in my basement.
The doorbell rings just as the muffled sound of iron plates clanking against each other filters up through the floor.
After what sounds like three good heavy sets of whatever he’s doing, Ian bounds back up the stairs, easy smile back in place, shoulders loose, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He reaches into the grease-stained bag and pulls out a burger, fries, and a grilled cheese for himself, shoving the bag with the rest of its contents toward me. Before I can reach in and grab my food, he’s got his grilled cheese unwrapped and half-gone.
I shake my head as he mutters, “Fucking reset food.” When his favorite food has been devoured, he wipes his mouth and breathes a sigh. “Okay, okay. Enough of the shit. Spill.”
My shoulders bounce with half of a laugh because now that Ian has gone through his mental jump start, he won’t let the real reason he’s here go—Alexis Thompson.
“Twice, man. I’ve seen her two times.” I pick at the fries piled high in front of me and shove four of them in my mouth. Anything to put off talking about Alex for just a little bit longer.
“And?”
I swallow, washing my food down with some whiskey. “And I think I might be losing my fucking mind.”
Ian’s gaze slides to his dark, silent phone before returning to me. It’s a rare thing for him to be still, soundless, but not a muscle moves. No internal music making his head bob, no beat hammering through his fingers. Nothing but his complete focus
pouring into me. “But is it helping?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then, you gotta address it with her. Tear it down and get to the why. Otherwise, it’s just one more fucking thing you gotta deal with.”
Ain’t that the truth?
8
ANGELS FALL
ALEXIS
My days have become nothing more than a string of mundane tasks, punctuated by brief moments of joy.
Dancing. Finding my balance, testing my muscles. That brings me joy.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m doing those things in the same space as Nate. The fact that I catch glimpses of him in the mirror, brows furrowed in concentration, is meaningless. The fact that I choose his face as my focus point while doing pirouette after pirouette means nothing at all.
And I’m a horrible liar. Which is a big part of why I left Nate the way I did so many years ago. As long as I didn’t have to see him—face him and look into his eyes—I didn’t have to pretend that leaving wasn’t going to kill me. Because if he had asked me if I really wanted to leave him, I never would have been able to say yes.
I didn’t want to go without him. I never wanted to say good-bye to Nate. What I did want was to dance as principal with the ballet—specifically, the New York City Ballet.
And I still do.
The music builds, and with sweat dripping off me, I falter and stall on the jump I had planned.
I can’t do it.
In my head, I know it’s coincidence, that there was nothing I did wrong, but it’s the same jump that put me here. The one that knocked me on my ass and broke me.
I can’t do it.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I didn’t notice Nate had stopped playing. He’s halfway across the room, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
“I’m … I’m fine,” I say hurriedly. Pushing the words out, as if hearing them will reassure me. Spoiler alert: not working.
“Seriously? Maybe we should stop for the day.” Nate glances at the clock, and I follow his gaze there.
We’ve been at this for hours. He turns back to put his instruments away, taking any discussion and the chance to face my stupid fear head-on with him.
My head bobs in agreement as my lips flatten in disappointment. “Sure. Okay, that’s … yeah.”
Obviously, I’ve kept us here too long. Maybe he has somewhere he needs to be.
Maybe he’s got a date.
I shove that thought from my mind because I don’t want to think about Nate with someone else. I’m not a fool; I know that he’s dated, that he moved on and lived his life after I left. I did too. At least, I tried. But the few guys I’ve dated since Nate never measured up. He set the standard for me, and I have yet to find anyone who comes close.
Like his ass is on fire, Nate has his stuff locked away, the stool tucked into the corner, and is walking out the door with his phone in his hand.
Yep. That looks like he’s late, late, late for a very important—
Nope, don’t want to think it.
I shuck my pointe shoes and wrap the ribbons around them before tucking them into my bag. I spend a few minutes with my butt on the floor, legs extended, stretching. Cooling down. Thoughts spinning in directions I don’t want them to go.
Is this a first date? Is it something more? Has he been serious with anyone since me?
I pull my feet under me and shove up to standing. After swapping out my dance clothes for something more street appropriate, I gather the rest of my crap and stuff it in my bag. With a last look around the room to see that I have everything, my focus lands on a worn brown leather wallet sitting on top of the stool.
Nate’s handsome face greets me as I flip it open. His messy curls, smiling green eyes, perfectly straight white teeth. Only he would have a license photo that somehow more than rivals the real Nate in perfection.
I scoop it up and hurry out to the lobby, hoping to catch him. But with as much time as I spent stretching and torturing myself with thoughts of him having dinner with someone else, he’s nowhere in sight. Of course.
I tuck his wallet into my bag, exchanging it for my phone. I pull up his contact and pop one of my earbuds in as I hit the Call button. When his voicemail picks up, I end the call and try again. Still no answer, so I tap out a text.
Me: Hey. You left your wallet in the studio.
Nate: FFS.
Me: ???
Nate: *For Fuck’s Sake* Sorry … was that you calling?
Me: Yep. I have it with me.
Nate: Seriously? I hate to ask, but can you bring it to me?
Me: Tell me where.
Of course he needs me to bring it to him. He can’t pay for dinner or whatever he and his date are doing without his wallet.
I plug the address he sent into my phone and pause mid-stride. It’s a brownstone here in Brooklyn. One I’ve walked past thousands of times. One I’ve wondered about, dreamed about, and probably redecorated in my mind.
Me: Be there in a minute.
I hit play on the audiobook I’ve been listening to and weave my way through the borough as late afternoon gives way to evening.
I bounce up the steps and ring the doorbell. As time ticks by, I check the address Nate sent against the one I’m standing in front of. It’s the same. I note the time and resist the urge to try and peer through the window. I hate being a repeat doorbell ringer. I never know whether I’m re-ringing too soon.
Have I given him long enough to answer? Maybe. Oh Jesus, he could be occupied. What if they skipped dinner and are getting down to business?
My thoughts jumble and swirl into a mess that I do not want to linger on. When the door opens, I flinch. But Nate waves me in as he stalks through the foyer, his phone plastered to his ear.
I close the door behind me, locking it out of habit, and then turn to take in the house before me. Classic white and black squares alternate on a diagonal through the entryway. An open living room at the front of the house leads to a gorgeous kitchen. Dark cabinets, topped with a light granite counter. Open shelving, exposed brick, and high-end appliances. It’s better than I imagined.
Nate has his back to me, hand low on his hip, curls bouncing as his head shakes. “Not a good time, man. I got—for fuck’s sake, Ian. You gotta—you—all right. Okay, yeah. I’ll see what I can do. Yeah, tomorrow. Yeah. ’Kay. Later.” He tosses his phone onto the countertop and runs his fingers through his hair before he turns to me.
“That was Ian? Ian Scott?” Another friend I left behind. I dig through my bag until my fingers wrap around the soft leather of Nate’s wallet.
He takes it from me and chucks it onto a rough-hewn wooden tray, his keys clanking as they accept the impact. “What? Oh, yeah, that was Ian. He said to tell you hey.”
I smile and dip my head in a quick nod as silence expands between us. When it’s so awkward that I have to move, I take a step back and turn toward the door with a wave. “Let him know I said hey back. Have fun tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
I shrug. “Home?”
“What happened earlier?” Nate asks, stopping me in my tracks.
“What do you mean?”
“When you stopped dancing. What was that?”
I heave out a sigh and shift my weight. “I … I thought I was ready, and I wasn’t. I got scared.”
Nate purses his lips, pulling the corner of his lower one between his teeth.
“I should go. You probably have to get ready.”
“Ready?”
“Yeah. For your date?”
“Date? I don’t—”
“You just ran out of the studio today. Usually, you wait for me to leave first.”
Nate’s eyes go wide, and a blush stains his cheekbones.
“I just assumed—”
“No date. Ian started blowing up my phone. He doesn’t usually do that, so I figured it was something big.”
“Is it? How’s he doing?”
&nbs
p; “No idea. He did a lot of babbling and talking in circles, but who knows.”
“So, no date?”
“No.”
The quick denial lifts my heart.
“What about you? Tell me about what scared you today.” He nods to the barstool, inviting me to sit. “You want a drink?”
“I’d love one, if … if you’re sure.” At his nod, I drop my bag to the floor and settle on a barstool, scanning the open shelving above the counter. “Can you do an old-fashioned?”
Nate scoffs like the question is ridiculous and sets about preparing one for each of us, sliding mine across the granite. “So …”
“Right. So, I thought I was ready to try a specific move, and it turned out, I was not.” I sip at the sweetened whiskey, and it takes everything in me to refrain from moaning. “Oh my God, I think this is the best old-fashioned I’ve ever had.” I set the glass down, afraid that I’ll suck it back and miss out on savoring the perfect balance of simple syrup and bitters and whiskey.
“What was the move?” Nate asks, his eyes dropping to my mouth as I pop one of the many, many cherries that he dumped in my glass between my lips.
God, this is good.
I try to wave his question away, but he meets my wave and raises with one of his own, his wrist rotating, indicating I should just get on with it. There’s no way he’s letting me avoid this.
“The one that got me injured. No”—I cut off whatever he’s about to say—“nothing hard, nothing dangerous. I just landed it wrong, and poof, my life was ruined.” I rotate my glass, swirling the amber liquid, and taste its perfection again.
“It’s not ruined, Alex. Paused. Delayed. Not ruined. You’re going to come back from this stronger than ever.” He leans back, his ass against the counter across from me, the denim of his jeans pulled taut across his muscles.
I take another sip and pull my hair up off my neck, twisting it into a knot. There’s a stupid-sexy smirk slashed across Nate’s mouth when I finally tear my gaze from where his jeans encase and show off his thighs. His thighs, not anything else.
“Do you have a spoon?” I ask, chasing the last two cherries around the huge ball of ice at the bottom of my empty glass. I suck the alcohol off my finger and reach for the spoon that appeared in front of me. “Thanks.”
