Fall With Me

  What?

  The tips of my ears burned, and I wished I could somehow unsend that text. Never mind. I’m being stupid. Are u free tonight?

  There was a pause before his response, which caused my stomach to twist. Got to work 2night, but I’m all yours 2morrow if u’ll have me.

  Is that a joke? I typed back. Doing that stupid smile thing, I allowed myself a hobble and a shimmy before I added Tomorrow wld be perfect.

  We exchanged a ­couple of more texts, deciding on meeting at my place around seven in the evening. He was going to bring food, and maybe I should go get some wine since I was probably going to need some liquid courage and something, in case it went bad, to drown my tears in.

  Chapter 12

  “You know, I’d expect one of your brothers to do something like that, because damn, sometimes those boys have shit for brains.”

  Sitting on the edge of my recliner, I winced as my father passed in front of my couch. This was not how I expected my Monday morning to go, but I wasn’t surprised. Somehow, my parents hadn’t heard about me, the book of doom, and Henry’s windshield. Today was obviously reckoning day, and I’d called and told my mom what I’d done.

  Thirty minutes later, my father showed up.

  Gavin Ark wasn’t a tall man, but he was stout and he had the build of a defensive linebacker. Only a little bit of gray spotted the hair above his temples, and it made me wonder if he was experimenting with Just For Men hair color.

  “Especially that younger brother of yours.” His rant was really gearing up. “Sometimes I think Thomas doesn’t have two functioning brain cells he can rub together. Do you know what he did yesterday?” He stopped at the corner of the couch, planting his hands on his hips. “He went down to get some pop out of the fridge in the basement and left the damn door wide open, like he was trying to cool the entire house.”

  My brows rose.

  “And then I hear you threw a book through a windshield?” Lifting a hand, he scrubbed his fingers through his dark brown hair. “I didn’t even know you can throw a book through a windshield.”

  “Apparently you have to hit the right spot,” I murmured.

  His eyes narrowed, and I zipped it shut. “We raised you to be smarter than that. And your mother told me that you said Henry didn’t provoke you.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted sheepishly.

  He sighed as he stalked over to where I sat. “Honey, I know you are not a fan of Henry. No one in this damn town is, but you cannot go around vandalizing his property, and I know you know that.”

  I nodded.

  Dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder, he squeezed gently. “Do you need the money to take care of the window?”

  My mouth opened, but emotion closed off my throat. Tears burned the back of my eyes. My parents were ticked off to discover I’d done something so stupid, but more than anything else, they were disappointed. Dad was right. They had raised me better than what I’d done, and yet, my dad was still willing to jump in and bail me out.

  Like they had when I’d been living on my own for a month and my car had broken down. Like they had when I filled out my financial aid too late my sophomore year and covered my first semester of online classes until the aid kicked in. Like they had virtually all my life.

  Man-­oh-­man, I loved my parents. I knew how lucky I was. Not everyone could have such an awesome parental unit, but I did. I really did.

  Swallowing the ball in my throat, I smiled up at him. “Thank you, but I have the money.”

  He pinned me with a knowing look. “How much will it deplete your savings?”

  “Not much,” I lied. Truthfully, it would be a hit, but . . . but I wasn’t their little girl they needed to swoop in and save anymore. Besides, they worked hard for their money and I’d like to see my dad retire at some point in this century. I fixed my glasses since they’d started to slide down my nose. “I’m going to be okay.”

  Dad stared at me a moment longer and then he stepped back, folding his arms. Something about the sudden hard set of his jaw had me worried. “So, what’s this I hear about you and Reece?”

  “What?” I shrieked, hopping up from the recliner.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I heard that you two have been spending some time together.”

  I gaped at him. Reece and I had only hung out one night, and I so was not going to even think about that night in the presence of my father. Ew. “Who told you that Reece and I have been hanging out?”

  “I ran into Melvin at the hardware store yesterday morning. He told me that Reece was seen waiting for you to get off work a few nights back.”

  Crossing my arms, I rolled my eyes. “Melvin is delusional.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  Was that disappointment I was hearing in my dad’s voice? Of course it was. I’m pretty sure Dad wanted to adopt both Reece and Colton.

  “Now, I don’t want any details and maybe he was just being a good guy and making sure you were getting home safe since what happened to those girls in the town over . . .” He trailed off, waiting.

  “Maybe Melvin needs to stop gossiping.” I tucked a loose strand back as I glanced out the front window. It had finally stopped raining this morning, but it was a dreary day. “Reece and I . . .” How did I explain what Reece and I were when I had no idea? “We’re hanging out,” I finished lamely.

  His brows furrowed together.

  “We’re friends,” I rushed on, feeling my cheeks heat. “We’re supposed to have dinner tonight.”

  A slow smile crept over his face. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.” I shifted from foot to foot.

  He nodded slowly. “You know, he’s a good boy. I’ve always thought that you and him would be good together.”

  “Don’t tell Mom.”

  The smile spread and his dark eyes danced.

  “Dad! Don’t you dare say anything to Mom. She’ll read into it, start planning our wedding, and she’ll call Reece’s Mom!”

  “They’d both probably start knitting booties for a nonexistent grandchild,” he agreed with a chuckle.

  “Oh God,” I groaned, wrinkling my nose. “Not funny.”

  “I won’t say anything,” he replied, but I so knew he was lying. As soon as he left, he’d be on the phone to Mom. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Come give me a hug.”

  After squeezing the living daylights out of me, he headed outside, stopping on the porch. “Lock the door, Roxy.”

  Nodding, I did just that when I closed the door. Even though those two girls and the one who was missing—­Shelly Winters—­didn’t live here, I wasn’t stupid. And as I headed back to my studio, I mulled over Reece’s suggestion of getting a gun.

  “No,” I said out loud with a laugh. “I’d seriously end up shooting someone accidentally.”

  Plus, the incident with the book showed I didn’t have the best self-­control when my emotions were running high. Granted, throwing a book and pulling a trigger were two very different things, but it still wigged me out, the idea of having that kind of end-­game level of power in my hands.

  As I poked around the paintbrushes, my thoughts drifted to tonight. Excitement hummed through me, but the happy buzz was coated with unease. I was going to have to tell the truth about what happened between us, and knowing how much Reece hated lying, it was a huge risk.

  I could lose him before . . . before I even really had him.

  But there wasn’t a part of me that seriously considered continuing with the lie even though I doubted Reece would ever know the difference. To do so was wrong and cowardly, and I had decent-­size lady balls.

  I just needed to find them.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon working on a painting of Jackson Square in New Orleans. I’d never been, but I was obsessed with the place ever since I read an epic paranormal romance that mo
stly took place there.

  I’d made Charlie read the books, too, and when we were younger, NOLA was on our bucket list. One of these days, I promised myself I’d go there, not just for me but also for Charlie.

  Then I’d be able to tell him all about it.

  I’d printed out many different views of the square, and had decided on the view where the three steeples from the gorgeous church rose above the statue of Andrew Jackson on his horse. This would probably be one of the hardest paintings I’d decided to embark on, based on the amount of detail and layering it required.

  Hours flew by as I worked on the ring of white flowers that were planted in front of the bronze statue of Jackson. My wrist ached from the thousand or so tiny flicks that ensured the petals had definition, but the dull pain was worth the results so far. However, I still wasn’t sure I was really going to be able to pull it off with watercolors.

  It was close to five when my phone rang, startling me. Coming out of the daze I was always in when I was painting, I hopped up from the stool as I wiped my hands on my old jean shorts.

  A giddy smile appeared when I saw it was Reece calling. “Hey,” I answered as I picked up one of the brushes.

  “Hey babe, I got some bad news,” he said. There was a rustling of clothing, as if he were pulling a shirt on over his head. “I’m going to be late tonight. Just got called out for a hostage situation.”

  I froze, stomach dropping. “A hostage situation?”

  “Yeah, it’s probably nothing but some drunk redneck who needs to be talked down, but they’re calling out SWAT.”

  Blinking rapidly, I placed the paintbrush back down. “You’re on the SWAT team?”

  “Been on it for about the last three months,” he explained, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I would’ve known that if we’d been talking to one another. “Babe, I’m really sorry to have—­”

  “No. You don’t need to apologize.” And I meant that. “I just hope everything is okay and that . . . that you’re safe.”

  “Babe,” he said again, and the way he said it caused my heart to do a standing ovation. “I’m always safe. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I know . . .” I whispered, swallowing.

  “I’ve got to run, but if you’re up for it, I can swing by afterward, as soon as I can. I want to see you, with or without Chinese food.”

  I smiled as I crossed the room, pulling the curtain back. All I could see was a huge oak tree. At least, I thought it was an oak tree. “I want to see you, too. Come over whenever.”

  “It could be really late,” he warned. “It might not even be until tomorrow morning.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just text me in case I’m asleep,” I told him. “Just come when you can.”

  “Will do. I’ll see you then.”

  My breath caught as I clenched the phone. “Please be safe, Reece.”

  There was a pause and then, “I will. See you soon.”

  “Bye.”

  Turning from the window, I placed the phone on the table as I stared at the painting. Sure, I was disappointed that I might not get to see him, but what I was feeling had nothing to do with that. It paled in comparison actually.

  Reece had told me not to worry and he honestly sounded like this wasn’t a big deal, but it was a hostage situation. How can that not be a big deal? I had no idea he was on the SWAT team. Not that being a police officer wasn’t dangerous all on its own, but throwing SWAT team in there? God, I hadn’t really thought about how dangerous it was for him.

  My stomach in knots, I folded my arms across my waist. It was like being thrust back to when Reece was first in active combat and dealing with the constant gnawing dread that something terrible would happen.

  This was why I could not really fall for him. Sex was okay. Dating was great. But really falling for him, letting myself get so deep with him? Hell no. I could lose him like I . . . like I was losing Charlie.

  Like I’d already lost Charlie.

  And that was a different kind of love, and look how painful that was turning out.

  I returned to the painting, and whenever my thoughts started to wander, I refocused. It was close to seven when I took a quick shower just in case Reece wasn’t that late, and when nine o’clock rolled around, I made myself a tuna sandwich and ate while obsessively staring at the phone.

  Against my better judgment, around eleven, I pulled up the local news on the Internet. A breaking news headline flashed under a picture of red and blue lights outside of a heavily wooded area.

  My stomach tightened as I scrolled through the short write-­up. There wasn’t a lot to be known about the standoff Reece was currently at except that it was a man holding his wife and—­it was believed to be—­two small children in the home against their will.

  “Oh God,” I whispered, unable to imagine what that woman and her kids must be going through and how anyone could put their family through something like that.

  Restless and unable to watch TV, I ended up changing into one of the oversized shirts I’d lovingly borrowed from my older brother. It reached just below my thighs, long enough to pass as a dress. It was covered in dried paint, perfect to work in. I pulled my hair up and back from my face and then got back to work on the painting.

  Hours blurred together, a haze of mixing together shades as I tried to capture the right tone for the bronze statue and began the almost painful sketching of the horse and Andrew Jackson. Drawing it in faint pencil on the canvas was the only way I could do it, but once the paint was on, I didn’t think ­people would notice it had been sketched first. Sometimes I felt like a cheat for doing that, because there were artists who could paint anything freehand. Me? I was so not one of them.

  I probably should’ve spent the time working on the web project, but I promised myself I’d do that Tuesday evening. I had several days left before the deadline on this one, and painting . . . well, it was what I needed right now.

  Paint was dried on my aching fingers when my phone dinged, alerting me to a text message. I shot off that stool like it bit my behind and grabbed the phone. It was from Reece. Two words.

  You up?

  I responded quicker than a gunslinger in the Wild West, firing back a yes. After a moment, he shot back be over in a few.

  My heart was racing as I glanced up to where the time showed on the phone. Holy crap, it was almost three in the morning. Hurrying out into the living room, I placed my phone on the coffee table and was about to haul ass back to the bedroom to change when I saw headlights through the front window.

  I dashed over and yanked the curtain back. The headlights were right in front of my car. They’d stopped. A second later, they turned off. Deep inside, I knew it had to be Reece, and he must’ve texted me while he was on his way here.

  Like a wild animal that had run out in front of a car, I couldn’t move as I watched a tall shadow take form and head across the sidewalk. When a soft knock on my door sounded, I might’ve squeaked. A little.

  Spinning around, I dropped my glasses on the coffee table and then darted over to the door and stretched up. I couldn’t see crap out of the peephole, but knowing it had to be Reece, I opened the door.

  Holy hot guy . . .

  It was Reece and he was dressed like something out of my fantasies. A tight black shirt accentuated the broad shoulders, defined upper arms and chest. There was no mistaking how cut his tapered waist was. The shirt was tucked into black tactical pants and the black boots he wore completed the badass ensemble.

  Okay. I was totally down for this part of the SWAT uniform.

  I dragged my gaze up as I stepped back, letting him in. He stalked forward, a large duffel bag in his right hand. His knuckles were bleached white. So caught up in eyeball screwing him, I hadn’t realized he was checking me out in the same hungry, intense way I’d been doing to him. It was in that moment I realized
I was only wearing the shirt.

  I so did not even need to look down at myself to know I looked like a hot mess.

  Reece closed the door behind him, locking it without peeling his eyes off me, which I thought, took some talent. I drew in a deep breath. “Is . . . is everything okay?”

  There was something in the way he stared at me as he placed the duffel bag behind the recliner. It was raw, wholly unfiltered and a bit . . . unstable. As if he were a band stretched too tight.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I didn’t know what to say as I stared up at him. A shiver danced over my shoulders.

  His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “The guy—­the hostage situation. There was no talking him down.”

  I held my breath.

  “When he started shooting out the windows, we were ordered to go inside.” As he spoke, his blue eyes darkened to a stormy sky. “It was too late. He’d shot his wife and himself. Wasn’t a small caliber, either. The kids saw it. One of them was too young to understand, but the boy . . . yeah, he knew what happened. He’ll always know.”

  Tears rushed my eyes as my mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, Reece, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Not a part of me had thought that night would end like this for him. I’d known it was a serious situation. Obviously, I’d known it could end badly, but it was hard to fathom how he’d felt waking up this morning and making plans, then getting that call, having no idea he was about to see someone end another person’s life and then their own. The same with that poor woman and those kids.

  But then, in a way, I guess I did know.

  When I woke that morning when I was sixteen, it had never crossed my mind that I’d lose my best friend that night. One never knew when their life was about to be irrevocably altered. There was no warning. If anything, it always came when everything was calm and good.

  “What can I do?” I asked, blinking back tears—­tears for a woman and family I had never met, tears for the fact Reece had to be within ten miles of that situation, especially given his history. I wanted to ask if he was okay, make sure that he was, but before I could do anything, he was on the move.