Falling Under
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
THREE: Burn Scars and Shredding Guitars
FIVE: Acoustic Melodies and Old Pain
SIX: Performances and Gestures and Ghosts
EIGHT: Lost Chances and Hard Choices
Falling Under
By
Jasinda Wilder
Copyright © 2014 by Jasinda Wilder
FALLING UNDER
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright © 2013 Sarah Hansen.
This book is for you, the reader. It’s for all of you who have gone with me on the intense, painful, and ultimately rewarding journey that this series has been. You took Nell and Colt and Jason and Becca into your hearts, and you loved them, as I love them, and you helped make them real.
This book is for all of you who have identified with these characters, with their struggles and with the issues that they have faced.
Thank you, and I love you.
ONE: Bluest Blue
Oz
September
I fucking hate being the new guy. It sucks. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. Mom’s always moving us—every year or so, a new city, a new school. I wish I knew what she was looking for, who she was running from. Hiding from. Herself, I think. It’s like everywhere we go, something spooks her. I’ve attended a new school every year since seventh grade. St. Louis for seventh grade, Denver for eighth, Biloxi for ninth, Atlantic City for tenth, Rochester, New York, in eleventh grade. Atlanta for my senior year.
So, yeah, I know all about being the new guy. But thankfully, college, especially community college, means everybody is new. Few people know each other, so there aren’t roving packs of kids who have all known each other since kindergarten. I can fade into the background here, which is nice. A good change. I approve.
I started taking classes at the community college in Atlanta, and managed to get in a full year and two semesters before Mom decided to uproot us again, bouncing around until we finally settled in Nashville. So I had no choice; I had to transfer. Which means retaking a few classes that didn’t transfer, play catch-up. I’m already behind. I’m twenty-one. I should be almost done with my bachelor’s, but I’m not even halfway through my associate’s. It’s bullshit. I told her no more moves until I at least finish my fucking associate’s. Give me at
least
that long.
You’d think I’d be out on my own, that I would’ve just stayed in Atlanta and finished there, and let Mom go wherever the hell she wanted. I thought about it, I really did. I thought about it long and hard. But in the end, I had to go with her. We’re all each other have. She struggles just to make ends meet, and that’s with me helping out, contributing whatever income I can. She needs me. So…hello, Nashville.
I slump into the back row in my first class, calculus. It’s absurdly remedial for me, but I have to take it as a prerequisite for more advanced classes. I wish this was something more advanced than what amounts to high school math. I taught myself this shit in ninth grade. Math is calming for me. It’s freakish, I know, but sitting down to work through a bunch of equations quiets the chaos in my head, helps me deal with the constant fluctuation of my moods.
All the other people in this class are the type you’d expect—buttoned-up, backs straight, notebooks out, pencils scribbling. Everything but pocket protectors, most of ’em. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Most of them are just like me, here to satisfy a prereq. Then there’s
her
. Holy hell. She’s in the front row, far right side of the room. Sitting facing slightly sideways, so I get a profile view of her strawberry blonde hair and the most electric pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Jesus. My pulse is pounding, and she’s not even looking at me. She seems as bored as I am, too. Slumped back in her chair, twirling a lock of her long-ass hair around a fingernail, chewing gum, elbow on the desk, idly doodling on her notebook, not really paying attention. As if she knows everything Dr. Stuffypants up there is saying. I can’t take my eyes off her. I’m mesmerized.
I slide lower in my chair, embarrassed at my own crazy reaction to some girl I don’t even know. Everybody knows girls like the bad boys, and I’m thoroughly bad. So I’ve never had issues getting a girl to hang with me. But I’ve never had my pulse race and thunder in my ears, never had my palms sweat. Never wanted to stand up, cross the room, and beg for her name, her number, for five fucking minutes alone with her.
I fish my earbuds from my pocket, stick one in my ear, turning away from the room so it’s hidden from easy view. Hit “play” and crank up the volume. “Monolith” by Stone Sour fills my ear, and it tunes out the grumbling, droning voice of the teacher. I flip open a tattered Nashville Public Library copy of a book on string theory.
The class passes slowly, and I glance up at the board to keep pace with what they’re covering. Nothing I can’t do in my sleep, so far. The class ends, eventually, and the students shuffle out, chattering and laughing and glancing at me. The girl with the strawberry blonde hair pauses by my desk.
“It’s not polite to stare.” She tosses her thick mane of reddish-blonde hair over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”
I shrug. “I’m not polite. Name’s Oz.”
She frowns. “Oz? That’s what’s on your birth certificate?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“No, but—”
She’s interrupted by the professor. “Get moving, you two. I’ve got another class coming in.”
Students are filing in, finding seats early, even though the next class doesn’t start for another ten minutes. We both leave the room, and I slip away before she can pester me about my name anymore. She’s just a chick, nothing to get worked up about. I make my way to my next class, a fairly generic world history course. Not bad, but boring. As I’m about to go in, I see the girl chatting with a couple of friends. I swerve and beeline over to her. Just to prove to myself that my over-the-top reaction earlier was just a fluke.
“I never got your name.” I don’t really notice her friends, even though they’re both pretty.
Okay, so I
saw
them, but they’re just…there. Good-looking enough. But not even in the same galaxy of hotness as this girl. They’re eyeing me, but I ignore them completely. I’m fixated on this redhead with the hypnotic blue eyes.
“And I didn’t get yours.” She lifts an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes. “Name’s Oz. I’ve gone by Oz since the third grade. Not even my mom calls me by the name on my birth certificate.”
“Which is what?”
I shake my head in irritation and disbelief. “Why do you care?”
She shrugs. “I’m curious.”
“So what’s
your
name?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll tell you mine when you tell me yours.” The way her eyes light up, the brightness of her smile makes something in my chest thump a little too hard.
I walk into class, grinning at her over my shoulder. “Have it your way, then.”
I have one more class, an early American literature class. Gag me. Give me Hemingway or Faulkner or any of those guys any day, but this stuffy Puritan crap? No thanks.
On the way out of school, I see her again. She’s hugging a big, muscular guy wearing a Vanderbilt Commodores ball cap. He’s got dark-tanned skin and close-cropped black hair, and the kind of build that fairly screams “football player.” Shit. She’s hugging him like she’s known him forever, and I feel a stupid thread of jealousy ripple through me. I just met her, don’t even know her first name. So what business do I have being jealous? He’s obviously here to pick her up, judging by the fact that she’s opening the passenger door of his shiny, black, jacked-up Silverado and tossing her backpack in like it’s her own car.
I really should just forget I ever met her, take off, and go about my business. Except, jock boy has his monster truck parked by my bike. I act like I don’t see them. Zip up my leather jacket, cinch the straps of my backpack, tug my Broncos hat off my head, stuff it into a saddlebag, and pop my helmet onto my head, click the strap beneath my chin. I know she’s seen me now, feel her gaze on me as she leans against the truck, chatting with her friend/boyfriend/whoever the hell he is.
I swing my leg over, kick the stand up, twist the key so the engine rumbles to life. It’s a 2003 Indian Spirit Roadmaster Cruiser. It’s my baby. I bought it with cash my senior year of high school. From the time I was twelve, I mowed lawns, shoveled snow, delivered newspapers, washed dishes, did any kind of odd job I could find, to buy it. Took me almost six years to save up enough for it. It was the only thing I’d ever wanted: my own motorcycle. Mom hated the idea, but after she saw that I was serious about saving every penny, she couldn’t say no. She even pitched in a few hundred bucks along the way. Then I’d seen one on the side of the road with a “for sale” sign on it. I passed it every day on the way to my job at the Mexican restaurant. Teasing me. The owner wanted $8,500 for it, and I only had $8,100. So Mom, being Mom, told me she’d help me out, as long as I agreed to always wear my helmet, no matter what the helmet law of the state we were living in. Easy enough.
The rumble of the engine is sexy as hell. The original owner—a real-deal biker in a biker gang—beefed it up, made it loud, made it fast. Put saddlebags on it, and even sold me his own personal helmet, one of those that look like the German helmets from World War One, with a spike on the top. Pretty badass, if I do say so myself. Plus, I found a leather jacket in a pawn shop in Louisville that had a bunch of patches and shit on it, so I looked the part even more. I’ve put some of my own patches on the jacket, metal band logos and such.
I let the engine rumble, then start rolling the heavy bike backward. I walk it around so my front end is facing the exit to the parking lot, and then gun the engine, creating an ear-splitting roar. I feel her looking at me, feel her wondering if I’m going to say something. I think again about taking off, ending this little flirtation I’ve got with her.
But then, fuck it, I cast a cocky grin at Blue Eyes. “You coming?” I reach behind me and snag the spare helmet I keep hanging off the back of the seat.
She stares at me, and I can see she wants to. She’s curious. I keep my grin easy and arrogant. Inside, my heart is thudding.
“Ky, no,” the guy says. She ignores him and moves toward me. He grabs at her arm. “Kylie, I said
no
.”
I put the kickstand down. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking her. Let go of her.”
He steps toward me, and he seems to swell up as I say, “Or what?”
I don’t really want to tangle with this guy. He’s big, and he looks quick. It’ll hurt, and probably screw my chances with this girl all to hell, but hey, why not.
Except…I don’t want to fight. I want to go on a ride with her.
I ignore the jock’s challenge and glance at her. “Kylie, huh? Suits you.” I wink at her. “So. You coming or what, sweetness?”
She glances back at the guy, and then at me. She nods. “Sure. But don’t call me sweetness.”
“Fair enough.”
“Goddammit, Kylie. You don’t know this guy. Stay here.” Jock reaches for her, but she steps out of his reach, swings her leg over the bike, behind me.
She glares at him. “I’ll be fine, Ben.” She settles the helmet on her head, unconcerned about her hair getting messy. Which is hot.
“So I drove all the way here to pick you up, and you’re just gonna ditch me like this?” He sounds pissed and, honestly, he’s got a reason. Not that I care.
I don’t wait. As soon as she’s on behind me, I kick the bike into gear and gun the engine. We jump forward, and a delighted squeak from behind me has me grinning. Her hands go around my stomach, holding on more tightly. Oh, shit. I can feel her against me. Every inch. Her tits are squished against my chest, and her arms are tight around my waist, and her thighs are wedged by my hips. We rumble out of the parking lot, and then as soon as I hit the asphalt of the main road, I twist the throttle and we rocket away. She’s silent after that, but I can feel her excitement. I share it. Riding never gets old, not ever. The wind in my face, the freedom, the road so close under me, the speed. It’s addictive. And now, this chick is holding onto me, and it feels even more so. I mean, sure, I’ve had other girls on the bike with me, but it never felt like this. I’ve had exactly three conversations with her, each lasting less than a minute, but there’s something about her.
