Falling Into You (13 page)

She steps off after a few stops, and I follow. She catches another line, and we continue in silence. She hasn’t met my eyes since she ran from the Central Park bench. I’ve stayed behind her, just following. I follow her to an apartment building in Tribeca, follow her up the echoing stairwell, trying not to stare at her ass swaying as she ascends the stairs. It’s hard not to, though. It’s such a fine ass, round and taut and swinging teasingly under the thin cotton of her sundress.
 

She unlocks door number three-fourteen, shoves it open with her toe and goes straight to the kitchen, not watching to see if I follow her in uninvited, which I do. I close the door behind me, set her guitar case on the floor beneath a light switch, just inside the doorway, next to a small square table stacked with sheet music and guitar books and packets of nylon strings. My case goes on the floor next me in the entryway to the open kitchen. I watch her jerk open a cabinet next to the refrigerator, pull out a bottle of Jack, twist the cap off and toss it to the counter. Her fist shakes and she tilts the bottle up to her lips and sucks three times, long hard drags straight from the bottle. Damn. She sets the bottle down violently and stands with her head hanging between her arms braced on the counter, one foot stretched out behind her, the other bent close to the counter in a runner’s stretch. She shudders in a breath, straightens, wipes her lips with the back of her hand. I cross the space between us, and I don’t miss the way she tenses as I draw near. She stops breathing as my arm dives over her shoulder and my hand grabs the bottle, brings it to my lips and I match her three long pulls. It burns, a familiar pain.
 

She turns in place, finally, retreating to the counter edge, staring up at me, eyes wide and searching. She looks like an anime character, suddenly, so wide-eyed and full of depthless emotion. I want to kiss her so badly, but I don’t. I don’t even touch her, even though I’m mere inches from her. I hold the bottle, my other hand propped against the counter beside her elbow.
 

“Why are you here?” she asks. Her voice is a harsh whisper, whiskey-burned.

I let a lopsided smile tilt my lips. “Here in your apartment? Or here in New York?”

“In my apartment. In New York. In my life. Here. Why are you here?”

“I live in New York. I have since I was seventeen. I’m here in your apartment because I followed you from Central Park.”

“But why?”

“Because we weren’t done talking.”

She scrunches up her nose in confusion, a gesture so absurdly adorable my breath stutters in my chest. “Talking? Neither of us said a word.”

“Still a conversation.” I tilt the bottle to my lips and take another pull, feeling it hit my stomach.

“About what?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know.” She takes the bottle from me, drinks from it, caps it and puts it away. “About…that night on the dock.”

I shrug, tip my head side to side. “Sort of, but not really.”

“Then what do you think we were talking about?”

“Us.”

She pushes past me, tilts her head to the side and peels her hair free from the braid, kicking off her flip flops. “There is no us. There never was and never will be.”

I don’t answer that, because she’s right. But so wrong. There will be an us. She just hasn’t seen it yet. She’ll resist it, because it’s wrong on so many levels. I’m her dead boyfriend’s older brother. And she knows nothing about me. I’m bad for her. She’s underage, and I shouldn’t encourage her drinking. She’s obviously using old man Jack to cope, and I understand that all too well. But she’s still only twenty, which is just too young to be drinking like that, straight from the bottle like a jaded alcoholic.

She finishes unbraiding her hair and shakes it out, combs through it with her fingers. “You should go,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom. I hear cloth rustling and hit the ground. “I have class.”

I’m a shameless asshole. I know this, because only a shameless asshole would move around the counter to see into her room. Which is what I do. She’s in a matching bra and panties set, pink with black polka dots. Facing away from me, tight round ass so delectably perfect in the boyshort panties. Oh god, oh god. She feels my presence, twists her neck to glare at me.

“Well you’re an asshole.”

“Should’ve closed your door.”

“I told you to leave.” She reaches into a drawer and unfolds a pair of jeans, steps into them.
 

Watching a girl dress is almost as hot as watching her strip.

“But I didn’t and you knew it.”

“I didn’t think you’d blatantly watch me change. Fucking pervert.”

I grin at her, the smile my buddies call the panty-dropper. “I’m not a pervert. I just appreciate art.”

She smirks. “Smooth, Colton. Very smooth.”

I grin. No one calls me Colton. No one. I’m Colt. “It wasn’t a line, Nell. It was the truth.” I turn up the wattage on the smile, stepping toward her.
 

She tenses, clutching a pale blue T-shirt in white-knuckle fists. “What are you doing?”
 

I don’t answer. I continue toward her, step by deliberate step. I feel like predator, a lion stalking prey. Her eyes grow wide, doe eyes. Her nostrils flare, her hands twist the shirt, her breasts swell as she breathes deeply, swelling until they threaten to spill out. God I wish they would. Like I said, shameless. She’s just inside the room, which is tiny. Barely space for the bed and dresser. I’m inches away from her again, and I could see her nipples if I looked down, probably. At the very least, I’d be treated to a huge expanse of porcelain cleavage. I don’t look though. I meet her eyes, let my raw desire, my weltering boil of emotions show in my gaze as I reach past her. My hand brushes her shoulder just beside her bra strap as I grasp the edge of the door. I’m so close, now. Her breasts are touching my chest, my arm touching both her shoulder and ear. Her eyes slide closed, breaking the contact, and I hear her breath catch. She wilts slightly, the tension bleeding out of her, and she tilts her head to rest against my arm.
 

Her eyes flick open, bright with renewed determination, and she straightens so she’s not touching me. I pull the door closed between us. Just before I step out of her front door, I take one of my business card from my wallet and set in on the table, on top of the packet of guitar strings. I close her apartment door with deliberate noise, so she’ll know I left.

The walk back to the subway and the subsequent ride to my apartment in Queens is long, providing me with too much time to ask myself exactly what the fuck I’m getting myself into. Nell is bad news. She’s got major damage, a baggage train a mile long. And so do I.
 

I toss my guitar on the bed and go downstairs to the shop. I set my phone in the dock and blast Black Label Society’s “Stillborn” loud enough to drown my thoughts as I throw myself in the 396 big block I’m rebuilding. It’s for a classic ’69 Camaro, which didn’t mean shit to me until Nell showed up, and then all I can think of is Kyle’s Camaro, which I restored from a bucket of rust in a junk heap into mint condition, and then left behind when I moved here.
 

I loved that car, and it hurt so bad to leave it behind, but Dad had paid for it, so I couldn’t take it. Never mind that every penny of the parts came from me, or that I’d spent the blood, sweat and tears to restore it. The seed money came from Dad, and if I moved to New York instead of attending Harvard, then I brought nothing but what I bought myself. That was the deal.

At least Kyle took care of it.

I snorted as I thought of Dad’s expectation that I go to Harvard. He’d actually thought that would happen. Fucking ridiculous. Even now, almost ten years later, I can’t fathom what went through his head. I’d fit in at Harvard like a bull in china shop.

My thoughts return to Nell. Sanding piston rings is boring busy work, so of course I can’t help but think of her. Of her sweet crystalline voice and her piercing green-gray eyes and her fine, fine body. Goddamn it, I’m in trouble. Especially when I think of the deep-seated ache in her gaze, in the desperate way she drank that whiskey, as if the numbness was a friend, as if the burn was a welcome respite from reality. I know that pain, and I want to take it from her. I want to know her thoughts, know what haunts her.
 

I mean, of course I know. Kyle died, and she saw it happen. But that’s not really it. Something else drives her. Something else eats at her, some guilt. And I want to know what, so I can absolve her of it. Which, of course, is impossible and stupid and reckless.
 

 
I set the 400-grit sandpaper down and inspect the ring, finding it ground down to my satisfaction. The headers are the next item of business, and those too only take a portion of my attention, so my thoughts are free to roam back to the way she leaned her head on my arm for a split second, as if wishing she could let herself go, let herself lean further. But she didn’t, and I can’t help but respect her for that, even I know her strength is false, propped up by the shaky girders of old man Jack.
 

One day soon, those girders will collapse, and her world will crumble, and I know I have to be there when that happens.
   

Chapter 7: Cuts; Pain for Pain

One week later

I’m perched on a barstool in a midtown hole-in-the-wall bar, strumming my guitar and playing an original song. No one is listening, but I don’t care. It’s enough to play for the love of the music, for the chance to feel the notes fly out and bounce off minds and hearts. I take that back, there is one person listening: the bartender, a girl I knew for a long time and finally hooked up with a couple times a few months ago. We weren’t really compatible, and it turned into an odd sort of friendship, wherein she gets me to play on Thursdays nights in return for a hundred bucks and free drinks and some harmless flirtation that never goes further. Kelly, her name is. Beautiful girl, good in bed, funny, and slings a damn good Jack and Coke. But we just didn’t click in the bedroom. We never really figured out what it was, other than just…not quite right. But we enjoy each other’s company and have some good, much-needed laughs. So she’s listening, and I’m playing for her. It’s a song about her actually, about a girl with long black hair and bright brown eyes and coffee-colored skin and a sweet smile and a rocking body who will never be more than a friend. It’s an odd song, kind of lonely and sad but touched with humor.
 

Then
she
walks in. I strum a wrong note and Kelly frowns at me from across the bar, then her eyes follow my gaze and her eyes widen and she’s smirking knowingly. Nell is surrounded by people, four girls who could all be sisters, quadruplets or something with their identical blonde hair pulled into a ponytail with that stupid bump on top and their yoga pants and Coach purses. Each girl has a boy on her arm, and they’re matching sets as well, muscle-bound juiceheads with idiotic tribal tattoos and dead eyes and cocky swaggers. These guys have their hands on their girls possessively, and the girls seem to enjoy it.
 

Nell has one too, and this pisses me off. He’s huge. I mean, I’m a big guy, but he’s massive. And his eyes aren’t dead. They’re quick and alert and full of latent aggression. He’s got the hottest girl in the bar on his arm and he knows and he wants someone to make a move so he can destroy them.

His hand is on her lower back, on her ass, really, curling around her hip as he guides her to the bar. I see green, and then red. Which is stupid.
 

This is bad.
 

I’m gonna end up in jail. I make it through the song, but barely. Kelly sends over a shot of Jameson with a waitress. I down it, nod at Kelly. She gives me a questioning thumbs up.
Am I good?
I nod, lying.

I’m not good. I’m really, really bad. I’m gonna start a fight tonight. I’m gonna get hurt, and Nell is gonna be pissed and Kelly is gonna be pissed.

I should leave. I owe Nell nothing. I don’t own her. I don’t have a claim on her. Sure, she never said anything about a boyfriend, but then we didn’t really talk much and I didn’t ask. It didn’t cross my mind.

I start a cover of Matt Nathanson’s “Come On Get Higher” because I can do that song without thinking. I’m watching, waiting. She’ll realize who’s singing any second, and that’s when things’ll get interesting.
 

He’s pushing her impatiently towards the bar and she writhes her back away from his touch, twists her torso to snap something at him. I can’t see her lips to read them, but I can imagine. She steps away from him, but he follows and curls his arm around her waist, tugs her against his side and leans down to whisper in her ear. Whatever he says has her stiffening but acquiescing. Staying tucked against his side. I see her face, and she’s unhappy, but in a long-suffering sort of way. This isn’t new.
 

But it only sends my rage burning hotter.
 

I finish that song, then decide to up the ante. I clear my throat into the mic and do an intro. I usually just play through without any theatrics, especially when no one is really paying attention, but this is a unique situation.

“Hey everybody. I hope you’re all having a great time. I know I am. I’m Colt, and I’m gonna be playing a mix of covers and original songs.” She swivels toward my voice as if pulled by a wire. Her eyes go wide and she stops breathing. “That was Matt Nathanson I just sang, by the way. If you don’t know his stuff, you should give him a listen. He’s great. Anyway, I’m gonna do another cover. This is ‘I Won’t Give Up’ by Jason Mraz.”

It’s a little high for my voice, but it works. I don’t take my eyes off her, and it’s then, when I’ve got real reason to sing, that the crowd starts paying attention. Maybe something in my voice shifts, but the chattering quiets and heads turn toward me.
 

I’m not sure she breathes at all. She’s still held tight against Brick-shithouse’s ribs, and she’s growing impatient. She wiggles to get away, and he resists. Eventually she elbows him, hard, and he lets go, frowning. She disappears into the bathroom; when she comes back, she’s wiping her lips with the back of her hand, and I know exactly what she did in there. I never take my eyes from her through several more songs. Eventually I have to take a break, so I thank the crowd and step off the stage. She’s been trying to ignore me, pounding shots of Jack and chasing them with Rolling Rock. Obviously she’s got a fake ID, or she’s older than I thought. Then I hear the group of girls and their guys all converge around her and sing “Happy Birthday dear Nell” hideously off-key. Her ogre boyfriend pulls her against him for a kiss, which she submits to limply, hands at her side, not kissing him back. At length, she pushes him away and turns the bar. I’m to her side, so I see her wipe her mouth as if disgusted, and suppress a shudder. Ogre doesn’t see, since he’s too busy ogling the waitress, who is in turn leaning over for him so he can see down her shirt as she flirts with him.