Falling: A Love Story Page 2

  “Why exactly am I here?” I’m dog-tired, and probably should’ve stayed home. Now that he and I are alone, I can get the answer to the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since I got out of my car.

  He forks a jumbo fried shrimp and chews it slowly. When he decides he’s ready, JC says, “Em only agreed to see me if her sister could come along.”

  And this is the only reason I’m part of this travesty. But, I know there’s more. “Not only am I a fake date for the sister, but I’m also her ride home, since you and Emma will leave soon.” He doesn’t answer because we both know I’m right.

  “Shit. Well, when you put it like that, I sound kind of like a dick. But, I really like Em, bro. I think she could be the one.”

  As his brother, it’s my job to reel him in when he gets too far gone, so I rely on the strategy myself, JC, EC agreed on years back. I snap my fingers to get his attention. I look long and hard into the eyes he inherited from Chuck. He doesn’t blink, and his eyesight never wavers. And, I know it. He means every word. He’s telling the truth.

  “Well, fuck me, man.”

  He looks away, his tone low, saying, “I know, right? And, it’s only been one day.”

  Suddenly, an undefined emotion that makes me uncomfortable slides down my throat before I say, “Ma will be happy. She’ll have you two married within a year.”

  The slight red tint that blooms on his cheeks and the bright smile on his lips lets me know JC is cool with whatever happens. Honestly, I’m not even sure how I feel about that. On the one hand, he looks happy as fuck, which I’m stoked about, but on the other hand, he hardly knows this Emma chick.

  “So, can you take her home?” he asks.

  Even now, I can see those legs and the flirty top, and before I can think about it, the “yes” barrels up from my gut and smashes my mouth wide open. The corners of JC’s mouth lifts, and all I can do is hope he doesn’t do more than share his all-knowing grin. If he asks me anything, I’ll say some bullshit like how I’m here for him so he can seal the deal with Emma. That’ll be my story and the one I’ll stick to, if the question comes up. My ready response has absolutely nothing to do with how she had me at her simple ‘hi’ and shy wave. If I admit that, it’d make me seem like a pussy, and I’m no pussy.

  “... you and Chelsea...”

  My hearing perks up at her name. Chelsea Juliet Robinson, the middle name her sister, Emma, shared as a way of introducing us. But, in my head, she’s ‘Blue Balls Giver’. Seriously, I’ve been hiding a boner all evening. I’ve never—and I do mean never, ever—had such a raging hard-on for a woman like her before. I’m so fucked.

  We’ve been inside the restaurant for about an hour now, and I still remember her name, which is another first for me. What’s the point of remembering names when I don’t plan on seeing them in the light of day or introducing them to anyone in my life? That probably sounds pretty asshole-ish of me, but it is what it is. However, there’s something about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it, and honestly, I don’t think I want to, but whatever it is, I know her name. It’s engraved in my mind. Even with that awful hair color of hers, I can say that I definitely have something for Chelsea. JC could’ve asked me to fly her to the moon and I would’ve found a way to get her there safely just because I want to be in her presence.

  Something catches my eye and I completely tune JC out. Chelsea is on her way back, leading the way with her sister behind her. Her hair is loosely curled with a large chunk of it swinging over her right eye, while the rest falls past her shoulders. She’s wearing my new favorite color: white. This dress is sinful as hell. The front hugs her hips like a second skin. I want nothing more than to drop my hands there to hold her in place as she rides me reverse cowgirl style. Just so I can touch her skin. She turns slightly toward Emma and gives me a fucktastic view of the back of her dress. Jesus. I hope JC didn’t hear my groan. The back dips dangerously low I can almost see the top part of her ass crack. Her spine is exposed, and my mind instantly wonders to what it would be like to lick this sexy-as-fuck part of her body. I want nothing more than to skim my fingers along her back and use my tongue to lick up any sweat that’s bound to gather there from the hard fucking I give her—all in my mind though.

  A man can imagine, can’t he?

  Ever since pulling up outside the restaurant and seeing her outfit, that’s all I’ve been doing. Imagining. She faces forward, and though her dress is sinful, I can’t say the same about her face. Now that’s nothing but genuine purity. No trace of guile can be found in her brown eyes, which reminds me of the sweet tea MeMaw loved to drink. It’s that combination—the way her body is molded in her dress and the innocence in her features—that I chalk up to the reasons I remember her name. I find myself wondering how she got each of the laugh lines crinkling the corners of her eyes, or how she’d look, fresh-faced in the morning without any makeup on.

  “Dyllan?”

  I hear my name in the distance, but a grunt is all I can manage because I’m too wrapped up in my head; wondering about my unusual reaction to Chelsea. A swift kick to my shin drags me from wherever I am and onto my date, who’s now looking mischievous.

  I want to grin but pain’s shooting all over the front of my foot. “Shit.” I know my scowl is fierce. A normal person’s reaction would’ve been an instant apology or have enough sense to leave me the hell alone. She does none of those things. As annoyed as I am, I don’t even have words to describe what happens to me when she grins. It’s so damn refreshing that I feel the corners of my lips tilting up to match hers.

  And that’s when her next action blows me away. She bellows out a laugh. It’s not the fake, behind-the-hand laugh I’ve seen other women do. Chelsea’s comes from her belly and makes her shoulders shake. I know, because my eyes take in everything about her. Tears are at the corners of her eyes, and even the motherfucking snort coming from her lips swells my cock even more. Damn. Her laughter dies down, and I realize the others are waiting for me to say something, maybe give an answer to a question I definitely didn’t hear. That’s how distracting the woman across from me is.

  “How old is your brother?” I hear Emma ask JC, as if I’m not inches from them. She doesn’t wait for his response before she’s swiveling toward me. “How old did you say you are?”

  I angle my head her way, seeing her frown and folded arms. “I didn’t say.” Chelsea’s sniff brings my attention back to the woman in all white, who rolls her eyes while I cover up my laughter with a cough.

  “He’s twenty-four, Em,” the Benedict Arnold, who used to be my brother, replies.

  “That’s not bad. ‘Cause Sissy’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” she says, adding a low-pitched ‘perfect’ that sounds like it’s more for her than for anyone else.

  “In two weeks, perfect won’t be my age. That’ll be reserved for me going away to college.” Chelsea does a little dance move with her index fingers pointed up in the air. Anyone else would look juvenile or like a cheeseball. But, she’s cute as fuck doing it.

  I can’t look away from her catching smile or stop the inquisitive words spilling from my lips. “Where are you going?”

  “I didn’t say,” she says, parroting my snide answer to her sister a few minutes back. I like the smart-ass in her, but I can’t let her know that. My fake death glare brings out her confession, “I’ll be upstate at the University at Albany.”

  Ma teases me that I’m a well of useless information, and this is one of those times, because hell if I remember when I learned that SUNY Albany is one of the top-ranking state universities. “Well damn.”

  “It’s nothing,” she mumbles, slinking down in her seat.

  To my left, I hear chairs scrape against the tiled floor and murmured good-byes, but I can’t look away from Chelsea. Impulsively, I grab her hand that’s on top of the table, massaging her fingers. I say the second thing on my mind, because the first thing would’ve been fucking embarrassing. “Where’s the ballsy woman who kicked m
e because I was being an asshole to her sister?”

  Her head pops and she slowly pulls her hand out from mine. “She’s still here. I don’t like to talk about myself is all.”

  I hear that, and any other time with another woman—which scares the hell out of me to admit—I’d be the first to agree that less is more. But, in this case, I want to hear Chelsea’s voice and what she has to say... the parts she’s willing to tell. “You should be proud of your accomplishment.”

  She waves off my compliment. “Yeah, yeah. How about we even the score and you tell me something you’ve done that makes you proud.”

  Now, that’s a hard one, because I haven’t done much. “There’s not a whole lot...” I shut up when one of her brows raises up.

  “There’s not one single thing you’ve done, ever, that you’re proud of?”

  She doesn’t back down from my silence that borders on indignant. Chelsea isn’t like any other women who would’ve been satisfied with my non-answer. Still her question agitates me, makes me want to consider being reflective for the first time in the presence of a non-family member. “I work at the company my father started with his two hands.” That’s my achievement, one of my pride and joy.

  “That’s...” I’m not sure how to take her pause until I see her small smile. “That’s definitely something to be proud of. Thanks for sharing that with me.” I can’t look away from her genuine expression, the pride in her voice at what I’ve accomplished even though we’ve only met. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  I fix my face, hating I was caught staring like a fool. “No reason.” I clear my throat, moving on from the lie but still half-expecting her to bail on the first date I’ve ever been on.

  “Em and your brother have left us to our own devices, so why not get to know each other? A question and answer kind of thing.” Then it’s like she has an afterthought when she tells me, “And, honesty is required.” She points a slender finger my way.

  I’m quick to latch on to her olive branch, anything to keep her seated across for me. “Ladies first.”

  She spits out her question like she’s been thinking about it forever. “What’s one thing about you that would surprise me?”

  “I can’t ride a bicycle.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Chelsea leans forward, patting the top of my hand, consoling me. “I’m really sorry to hear about your plight.”

  Her giggles fade when I flip my hand, caressing the center of her palm. Her eyes melt, and those warm lips of hers, draw me closer. Going with my instinct to be nearer, I do just that and rush her. I can tell my presence overwhelms her, because she backs away and tugs her hand from my grasp. I respect her silent wish even though I’m slow to release her palm. The feel of her soft skin still lingers, and the memory makes me wish for another chance to touch her again. I take a page from her book, wanting to see her relax again rather than stiff and closed-off as she is now. “Here’s one for you. What’s up with you and Emma?”

  “What do you mean?”

  This is awkward, but I want to know. “She’s obviously...”

  “African American,” she tells me with a smirk and a nonjudgement laugh. “She’s bi-racial really. Sadly, her mother passed away when she was a baby.”

  Damn.

  “And, obviously I’m not African American,” she tells me cheekily like that completes what has to be an interesting family history. I wait on her for more, for her to complete the blank canvas to her rich story. “Our parents met when I was a year old and Em was four. Our old pediatrician still boasts to her other patients how her office united a family.” She bends a piece of her hair behind her ear, drawing my focus to her slim fingers just momentarily. “Em was shy, didn’t really take to other kids easily. So much so, my father had a devil of a time placing her in day care. But she took to me. We cried so much until our parents took us out to eat together that same day. One thing led to another, and soon, our lonely parents were falling in love and getting married. Em had a mother and I had a dad.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Others see my African America dad and Caucasian mom and think we’re a blended family but to me, we’re just us, we’re a family.”

  Chelsea sounds like Ma when she talks about her family. Even though her story warms my heart, I find myself becoming fearful of the attachment I’m forming to her so quickly, a woman I barely knew until this evening. Snapping out it, I switch to another topic that doesn’t hit so close to home and makes it easier to breathe. “Tell me something that embarrasses you.”

  She puts the fork down and looks around the restaurant, lowering her voice. By this time, I feel like I’m halfway across the table when her scent hits me like a two-ton truck. “I’m blind as a bat. Can’t see a thing without these.” She eases to the side, and when she’s upright again, there’s a pair of cherry-framed glasses dangling from her hand.

  My eyes bug out. She backs up like she’s about to put them away. “Hey, let me see those.” My outstretched hand lets her know that no isn’t an option.

  She chews on a corner of her bow lips, groaning as she drops them into my waiting palm, and then begins eating again.

  “These are cute.”

  “Puppies are cute,” she mumbles.

  “I bet these look hot on you.”

  She’s not shocked or embarrassed by what I’ve said. “They don’t really go with my outfit, you know?”

  Our hands brush against each others’ as I return the glasses. I do my best to hide my reaction to what feels like an electric charge between us. The slight widening of her eyes clues me in that I’m not the only person hiding. This whole vulnerability thing isn’t working for me. My voice is gruff and low when I command, “Put them on so you can you see how drop-dead sexy I am.”

  She swallows, fingers gripping the glasses in her hand like it’s her lifeline. “Even a blind person can see that.”

  I chuckle at her honesty, but she doesn’t put on those sexy glasses like I asked. The rest of our conversation is easy; she shares her nervousness about going away to college, and I tell her about my love for pencil sketching, which surprises me, because only Ma knows my secret hobby.

  Damn, I’m actually having a good time.

  I didn’t realize I said anything until she replies, “You thought you’d have a bad time?” Her look is pointed.

  What can I say without looking like a dick? I decide to be me. “I don’t date.” Her entire face deflates like a popped balloon. “I’ve never actually been on a real one before. But, if this is dating, then maybe...” If Chelsea were the one sitting across from me during another date, I’d do this again in a heartbeat.

  “Oh, my goodness, look at the time,” she screeches out.

  I couldn’t care less about the fucking time. She’s probably using that as an excuse not to acknowledge what I said, if the way her eyes are looking at everything but me is an indication. “You have some place better to go?” She shakes her head. “I’m free, and this is fun.” The last word kind of sputters out from between my lips, but I don’t want to pretend like I didn’t mean to say it. “Let’s finish our game then I’ll drop you home. It’s my turn.”

  “No, you cheater, it’s my turn,” she retorts, laughing.

  “Whoa. No need for the name-calling.” I throw my hands in the air. “I never called you Blind Bartemaeus, now did I?” I smirk as the laughter falls from her lips. I wonder what they taste like.

  “And just how do you know about him?” Her frown drives home her skepticism.

  “And why can’t I know who he was?”

  She squints like she’s trying to figure me out, but I have this. She thinks she knows me, has me all sized up, and has already put me in a box, but I have news for her.

  “You don’t look like you’ve ever been anywhere near a church or a Bible. So, I’d be interested to know just how you know about the biblical character.” She places a lot of emphasis on ‘you’ then folds her arm.


  I haven’t been to a church in years. Actually, since the last Sunday MeMaw took me to Abyssinian Baptist.

  “Aww. Who’s MeMaw?”

  Damn it. What’s up with me saying shit without realizing it? My tone is harsher than I intend it. “No one.”

  “Who is she, Dyllan?” Her tone softens; the teasing is gone.

  Anger wells up inside me, even after all the years, it still shakes me to my core. My words are intentionally harsh this time. “I said no one.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. You don’t have...” Chelsea’s hand curls over my fisted one on top of the table, and strangely, my anger fizzles away.

  Looking down at her hand, I wonder what this dark-haired beauty is doing to me. I come to a decision, a very rare one I plan to pursue. “When exactly do you leave for SUNY Albany?” I clear my throat. It’s unreal how my nervousness has clogged it.

  “August twentieth. Why?”

  “Nothing,” I say, turning her hand over and locking our fingers together.

  That gives me two weeks and a day.

  Chapter Three

  I don’t know what I was thinking.

  It’s hard to believe that I allowed myself to be conned into this job. I’ve slaved over Emma’s shitty car, ordering parts, calling in favors, and basically giving away my labor for free. Her car has a new engine, the oil has been changed, new filters put in, and it’s had a tune-up.

  I’m beat as hell. The weekend can’t come fast enough because I’ve worked nonstop for the last two weeks to return this car in safe, working order. A new car is going to be my final recommendation, because between the high mileage and the expense of the additional work needed, it doesn’t make sense to pump more money into saving it. I’ll be happy as fuck to hand over these keys. There’ll be no bill for services rendered. Emma owes Chelsea a huge thank you, because had it not been for her, Emma’s heap of junk would’ve been towed off Sterling’s lot.