Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  Ben does. He’s had it all along. The power. The control. The hold. I’ve always been at his mercy, waiting for him to give me a centimeter of reprieve. I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I thought she disappeared. Died, the moment he fucked me over. But that’s the thing about love; it doesn’t listen to a damn thing you say. It’s a stubborn bitch who sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong and has a penchant for crushing hearts, leaving a mess of broken pieces, shredded hopes, and wilting vows in her wake.

  It’s been a day since Ben came back.

  One. Fucking. Day.

  Already, I feel him under my skin, surrounding every part of me, and I fucking hate it. And hate him for it. I was supposed to be over this. I built up an immunity, conjured a sturdy defense and yet, when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t speak to him because I was terrified of what would come out of my mouth. Hence, the silent treatment. It also didn’t help that he was standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung joggers—broad, bare, and sculpted chest on display for my slutty eyes to shamefully devour. The early morning glow shined through the kitchen window, highlighting each pack (there are six, by the way) and cut, causing a little bit of drool to leak out of my gaping mouth. But what really rendered me speechless was that damn V sitting prominently above his hip bones like a beacon, a guiding light calling my needy virgin vag to his undoubtedly impressive lighthouse.

  Plus, he made coffee. Coffee! And not just any coffee, because Ben is an asshole and couldn’t just settle for a male-tit show and a regular ole cup of joe. No, the vagina-tease had to make Limitless coffee—the perfect blend of coffee and butter he created a few years ago. The only time I got outside my veganism because it’s that damn good. It is the only way to start the day right, and I’m not gonna lie, I almost texted him a few times over the past year just to get the stupid-amazing recipe. But a girl has to have some semblance of restraint and dignity. So, I made Dyl ask. Ben’s response: “If she wants it so badly, she can ask me herself.” Yeah, my hatred from him went up a few notches after that.

  Limitless coffee and a naked chest—the man was armed for battle, and I was completely and utterly unprepared.

  It was a dick move, but a move I had to make in order to preserve the new me. A me who doesn’t just stand up for others anymore but for herself, too. A me who picked her sexy ass up off the floor of the Heartbreak Hotel, gathered all of her broken pieces, and put that shit back together again. A me who’s life doesn’t revolve around a boy who stopped giving a shit years ago. A me that I’m really beginning to like.

  A lot.

  A me that I’m terrified to lose again.

  Because of him.

  Him, that stupid boy who stopped giving a shit seems to actually give a shit. And it’s throwing me for a fucking loop and a half. It’s also really pissing me the hell off. He had years to pull his big head out of his ass and every fucking vagina that spread for him—years! Years to see what I saw, to feel what I felt every damn time we were together, from the very first moment. And now that I’m happy with someone else, he finally decides to lift up those blinders he’s had on for the last ten years and then find the cajones to act as salty as the fucking sea? Nah, no bueno, homie!

  The days where I kept my mouth shut and let him stomp all over my cardigan-draped back are long gone. I’m ready to go toe-to-toe with the asshole who stole my heart and threw it back in my face, withered and defective. Last night was a moment of weakness—nostalgic desperation. But today, today Ben is going meet the new me. The I-don’t-give-a-shit-how-hot-you-look-in-those-dark-washed-jeans-and-plain-white-tee-with-the-sleeves-rolled-up-like-James-Dean me. Yep, I’m about to go full-on loco on this inconsiderate asshole.

  Right after Blaine leaves.

  He doesn’t need to see my crazy.

  Nope, all of this Latina-Scottish-American fireball of insanity is meant for one person and one person only, and the fool is gonna get hit. Hard.

  Hey, don’t give me that, okay? I know, last night and earlier this morning he was acting all sweet and innocent and remorseful or whatever, but he was a straight up dick-face from the moment Blaine came up to me at the IKEA entrance to when I stormed out of the store carrying a small Svalsta nesting table in one hand and a turquoise Klaab table lamp in the other.

  The shopping trip went pretty much exactly how a logical person would predict it would go.

  Fucking horrible and awkward as hell.

  When Ben wasn’t butchering the Swedish language, or dishing out a healthy dose of side-eye and snarly lips that in no way drew my eyes to them, underhanded comments just kept spewing out of his stupid, sexy—nope, I mean stupid, just plain ole stupid—mouth. And of course, he did it with charm and a big-ass smile on his face like he was a fucking Stepford Wife in Lake Oswego. It was disturbing.

  Sneaky bitch.

  Not to mention the little morsel of him muttering “fucking Andrew McCarthy” under his breath every time Blaine opened his mouth. If I didn’t hate him and he wasn’t insulting my boyfriend by way of everyone’s least favorite Brat Packer, I probably would have bowled over in laughter from his unique and creative use of jabs. But instead, I was about a minute away from decking the asshole in the face, and if he was lucky, a little toe-pick (yup, straight up Cutting Edge his ass) to his dangly bits.

  “Well, I think that went as well as it could have gone,” Blaine muses after we pull out of the parking lot, leaving Ben glowering at our retreating vehicle. I suppress the urge to flip him off, but just barely. No, I need to save the rage for when I get home. He needs to feel the full effect of my wrath—high intensity verbal abuse with high knees a-blazing.

  “Cady?” Blaine says my name as if it’s not the first time. I turn back around in my seat and face him with a smile. He smiles back and it feels so…nice. So very nice.

  “Yeah? Sorry, I was spacing there for a second. What’d I miss?”

  “I was just asking if you think the Ikea meet and greet went okay? Ben was a little surlier than I expected, but like I said, I get it. He’s just looking out for his little sister, right?”

  Little sister.

  He may have pushed me away more times than I can count, but I know for a fact that Ben has never thought of me in a sisterly way. Unless we’re talking about the step-sibling romance novel kind of way—those have always been my favorite.

  Big shocker, eh?

  Blaine is still waiting for me to answer his question because I have, yet again, zoned him out. I really need to stop doing that. His sweet smile alone deserves my full attention. I’m beginning to think I’m the worst girlfriend ever.

  “Mm-hmm. Totally.” Yep, that’s all I got.

  Fucking Ben, fucking up my fucking head.

  I throw my head back against the plush head rest, a deep sigh releasing from my mouth as my eyes stare up at the dark interior of Blaine’s car, the blank canvas soothing my senses and slowing down the rapid thoughts coursing through me.

  “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m not here with you. I am. I’m just…overwhelmed, a bit. Ben has a way of getting under my skin. I’m letting him get to me, and it’s only officially day one.”

  Blaine’s soft hazel eyes are sympathetic and understanding which never ceases to make me feel like an asshole ninety-percent of the time.

  “You know I’m here for you, babe. Always. If he’s driving you nuts, I’m just a text or call away.”

  “I know, thank you. And thank you for today. He can be a lot to handle and he wasn’t on his best behavior, but you dealt with it like the gentleman that he could never be.”

  His cheeks brighten a shade and he ducks his head at my praise. I find it absolutely adorable.

  Goddess, he really is a great guy.

  Why can’t I love him?

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  Once we make it back to my apartment, Blaine insists on coming up to help me unpack and set up after the delivery guys drop off the furniture, but I shut down his offer as kindly as possib
le—informing him of my plan to verbally kick Ben’s ass all over our soon-to-be furnished apartment.

  He laughs at this. “My little knight,” he smiles warmly before shaking his head. “He really wasn’t that bad. Nothing I didn’t expect or can’t handle. You don’t need to stick up for me, Bug.”

  I wince slightly at his use of my nickname. He doesn’t use it often but when he does, I feel a sharp pang in my gut. It’s uncomfortable and it feels so…not right. And I hate that, because it’s ridiculous. It’s just a stupid nickname that my entire family uses. I should be okay with him using it. And yet, I’m not. Because deep down, I know.

  My dad always called me Cadybug. But while he was off licking his wounds after the whole messy triangle with my mom and Jake, he didn’t talk to me or my brother for months and I hated it. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, so not actively being in his life broke my little heart. Even though I was insanely happy for my Mom, I hurt for Dad. And for myself and our family that was rapidly changing before my eyes. Ben saw it. Ben sees most things others don’t. Not even my twin knew the depth of how I was feeling, mostly because he was too busy dealing with his own feels—the conflicting emotions coursing through me, confusing me and leaving me a little lost.

  That’s when Ben started calling me Bug. It was like he knew. At eight years old, he knew what I needed. One day I was Cady, and the next day I was lying on the floor of the library, doodling some crazy Avant-garde dress that no one should ever wear, while Ben watched silently. After a good hour of quiet and the creation of a very imaginative but butt-ugly and unwearable five-piece collection, Ben nudged my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “C’mon Bug, let’s go make a blanket fort with Dyl.” I remember my feisty little mouth gasping at the name before breaking into the biggest smile I have ever given him. A radiant calm settled over me. It was like this automatic thing. The familiar name spoken quietly from his lips instantly soothed my fears, eased my worries, if just for a second. It made me feel…joy, and just a little less abandoned. Adorably shy, Ben ducked his head and stared intently at his feet, but not before I saw the left side of his mouth tilt up in the most heartbreakingly beautiful way.

  I didn’t think I could love someone more than in that moment.

  And I haven’t.

  From that moment on, Ben has called me Bug at least ninety-five percent of the time.

  To him, that’s my name. I’ve always been Bug.

  His Bug.

  He has claim on it. Dibs.

  And I hate that, too. Just another thing he took from me.

  It’s what he does best, after all.

  I shake my head free of the past and smile over at Blaine. “You’re my boyfriend and he was being a dick. Of course I’m going to stick up for you.”

  His returning smile cracks my heart. “I love you, you know that?”

  Yep, he just keeps chipping away, doesn’t he?

  “I know,” I mutter, unable to hide the flood of guilt I hold daily because I can’t manage to say three little, fucking words. Ugh, I’m the worst.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  I sigh.

  What isn’t wrong?

  “Cady?”

  I inwardly curse. At myself. At Ben the small-dick wonder. At Blaine for being so fucking sweet and patient. So damn patient it’s hovering dangerously over the line to annoyance. And then I curse out loud. It’s vulgar and unbecoming and so me. It also makes Blaine-the-sexy-boy-scout wince and make a move to cover his ears, but stops himself when he remembers he’s a grown-ass man—well, nearly one, at least. I curse again for corrupting his innocent ears, on top of not being head over Chucks in love with him, which I very well should be. Everyone else is.

  Well, maybe except Ben. But no one cares what he thinks.

  “I think I lost you again, Cady.” My blue eyes blink rapidly as I realize he’s swiping a hand in front of my face. Fuck, I did it again, didn’t I? “What happened? Where’d you go just then?”

  “Fuck.” Another wince from him. I resist the urge to curse again. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just feeling like an asshole. Every time you say ‘I love you,’ I just—I want to say it back, but…”

  “You’re not ready. I know. It’s cool, Bug. I know you care for me. And that’s enough.”

  Geez. I don’t deserve him.

  I tell him as much and he scoffs, telling me the opposite before threading his fingers through my tangled curls and pulling me as close as he can with the center console between us. He cups my cheek with his free hand while his full lips brush mine softly. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready. Don’t beat yourself up over it. As long as you want me, I’m not going anywhere,” Blaine whispers against my mouth before hauling me onto his lap in one impressively swift move, finally closing the small distance between us.

  His lips taste like the zucchini bread he just finished on the drive back to my apartment, with a hint of mint from his toothpaste, no doubt. They glide over mine seamlessly like they’ve done many times before. This is a dance we’ve perfected, owned but never elevated. Stick to what works, right? Our tongues rub against each other, our little moans blend as one while his hand tightens just ever so slightly in my hair and I pretend to not feel the growing bulge against my ass as I gently rock against him. His hand drifts from my face, fisting at his side tightly—something that has become more common in the recent weeks whenever we round first base. I’m assuming it’s to prevent from dipping into the unknown—i.e., my panties.

  It’s the same old tale, told every single time we’re together. And I know it’s me. I know he’s waiting for the green light—for the next chapter. But I’m enduring a serious case of writer’s block. Or pussy block, if you aren’t following this shitty analogy. I like first base. It’s comfortable here. Less risky. No pressure. But he’s getting frustrated. He does a damn good job of hiding it, and he’ll never speak up about it. He’s too nice. Obviously I’m not ready, and he knows that and respects that, but I can feel his restlessness. The urges he tries to contain. It’s hard to ignore. And I try to get in the game but I’m a shit player, easily distracted and grossly hesitant.

  I’m a pussy.

  Wait, no, I’m a penis. A tiny, scared, and depressingly limp penis.

  Blaine deepens the kiss, moaning into my mouth as we grind into each other. His fisted hands unclench and grip my hips tightly, pulling me in even closer. Needing to take a breath, I draw back slightly and his mouth instantly moves down my neck, sucking, nibbling, making me feel…something. It’s stirring low in my belly and I chase it, rolling my hips with a bit more force, intention, need.

  Believe it or not, this is further than we’ve ever gone. Granted, we aren’t doing much but this, right here, it feels different than before. My head is fuzzy and confused. I need to stop before it goes further than I’m ready for, but fuck, it feels good. So maybe it’s okay to enjoy Blaine’s touch a little longer. I want it. For once, I actually, really want it. Besides, he’s my boyfriend and this is normal boyfriend-girlfriend behavior, so any guilt I’m feeling right now is completely and utterly unnecessary. Unfounded and fucking ludicrous.

  That is, until my eyes flutter open and I’m met with a set of all too familiar green ones, glaring at me through the back window. Even from this distance, I can see his chest rise and fall at a rapid pace. He’s white-knuckling the side table he’s holding in his large hands. His strong jaw clenched almost painfully, his stance rigid with the promise of violence. He’s fuming. Pissed the fuck off. And I could care less.

  He made his bed.

  I hold his gaze as Blaine continues his assault on my neck before his warm mouth moves over my skin and back to my lips. Three seconds. I give myself three more seconds to revel in the pain I see flicker across Ben’s face. Three seconds to feel the vindication and then subsequent guilt thereafter.

  Three seconds to wish that it was his lips that were melding into mine. His hands digging into my barely-exposed skin. His hard cock pressing into the seam of
my jean shorts…

  Fuck.

  I wait until he storms off, disappearing from my sight, but not my thoughts, before I pull away from Blaine.

  He holds back a groan and I feel like shit, praying to the gods that blue balls don’t hurt as bad as I’ve heard.

  “B, I’m—”

  “No, don’t say it. You did the right thing ’cause honestly, I don’t think I could’ve stopped even if I tried, and I sure as hell wasn’t trying ’cause that was…whoa. That was something, Bug. But something that shouldn’t be done in a car outside of your apartment. When, and I do mean when, we make love for the first time, it will be in a bed, where I can lay you down and cherish every single inch of you, like you deserve.”

  Well, fuck me. Someone’s been brushing up on his sweet talk. These are not words that I ever thought would come out of Blaine’s mouth but hot damn, I think I like it.

  “You’re fucking perfect, Blaine. Absolutely perfect,” I murmur against his lips, brushing the back of my hand across his clean-shaven cheek. He smiles bashfully, kissing the tip of my button nose. We both sigh deeply. “I better go. I’ll call you later, okay?” He nods with a small smile and with one more fleeting kiss, I reach for the door handle, swing my leg over Blaine’s lap, and hop out of his truck, grabbing the lamp and small side table box while shutting down Blaine’s pleas to help. I’m a big girl. I can carry a damn box.