Falter
The Nash Brothers, Book Four
Carrie Aarons
Copyright © 2019 by Carrie Aarons
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from 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.
Editing done by Proofing Style.
Cover designed by Okay Creations.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Fleeting, Book One in the Nash Brothers series
Read the other Nash Brothers!
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About the Author
Also by Carrie Aarons
1
Ryan
Dust settles as the propellers of the small plane die down, forcing me to cover my mouth with my free hand.
The “airport” is anything but the traditional sense of the word. I’m used to international hubs of travel, teeming with people speaking different languages and jostling for a prime spot in the security line. When I think of runways, I think of intricate loops of lighted flight paths, the whole design like a mini-city in itself.
But, just like everything else in this small town, the airport is a teaspoon of what I consider normal.
The last time I stepped foot in Fawn Hill, Pennsylvania was two years ago when I’d been helping Forrest Nash solve a case. It feels strange to be back now, having just exited a puddle jumper on the dirt runway outside the solitary building I assume houses the sparsely manned air traffic control and baggage claim teams.
I’m a little older, not really any wiser, and am sporting a broken heart for the ages. When Presley suggested I come out for a visit after my last relationship flamed out in spectacular fashion, I was wary.
Something about this little town ingrains itself in you. Makes you want to be kinder, more intimate with the humans that surround you day-to-day, to not take life so seriously, or live it as fast as the people whose circles I run in do.
That scares the bejesus out of me. I’ve never had a proper family or let anyone in as thoroughly as the residents of this town do. You could know someone here for mere minutes, and they were inviting you in for a meal. It took me almost a year to trust Presley back when I first met her, and we were living together for some of that time.
For someone like me, with what I’ve been through, trust and loyalty never came easy.
It was mindboggling, then, how I kept ending up in the crappiest of relationships. I’m sure some therapist out there would cite some study that said I had daddy, and mommy, issues. That I craved a partner who could take care of me, that even in the wrong situation, I’d stayed a prolonged period of time before throwing in the towel.
This hypothetical therapist might be right, but it didn’t mean I’d stopped getting myself into these dead-on-arrival romances. Well, until now.
No boyfriends, no lovers, no men of any kind barking up my tree for a year. That was the deal I made with myself, and I was sticking to it.
“Oh my God, you’re here!”
Presley runs at me at full speed, throwing her arms around me and almost lifting me off the ground even though I have four inches on her.
“Jeez, Pres, you’re going to make me even more nauseous than that plane ride did.” I laugh, but hug her back, resting my chin on the top of her head while my feet dangle just above the ground.
I met Presley almost a decade ago when we were both practically infants struggling to live in New York City. Most weeks, we’d have to choose between eating and running the air-conditioning unit shoved into one of our apartment windows. And when I say apartment, I mean shoebox you could walk across in two seconds flat. But that struggle made us closer, and she’s the person I trust most in life.
When her grandmother could no longer look after the bookstore in Fawn Hill that had been in their family for generations, Presley moved here to help. Not long after that, my red-headed gypsy met Keaton Nash and his merry band of brothers. She and the town sweetheart slash hot veterinarian fell in love, got married, and are now Mr. and Mrs. Fawn Hill, basically.
Over the years, I’ve visited on and off. I’ve gotten to befriend Presley’s sisters-in-law, Lily and Penelope, and their husbands, Bowen and Forrest. Eliza their mother, is always kind when I come to town, as is Hattie, Presley’s grandmother.
My best friend sets me down and holds my arms out to the sides to inspect me. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. A whole year, you Grecian, you. Have you lost weight? You were living in Santorini for a year and didn’t put on one pound from all that baklava?”
Her words are teasing, but I can see the concern in her eyes. I duck my head. “Believe me, I ate enough for a small army. But the past month has been … trying …”
What I’m trying to say is that it’s hard to eat when your relationship is disintegrating in front of your eyes.
“Well, no matter. Eliza cooked about a billion trays of casseroles and lasagnas for Lily and Bowen after the baby arrived, so we’ll steal some of those.”
She loops my arm in hers and begins escorting me toward the doorless Jeep waiting on the side of the building.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see Lily and that rugrat! She’s probably the cutest thing in the world. Hey, is this a new car?” I ask, throwing my bags into the open-air trunk and then grabbing the roll bar to lift myself into the passenger seat.
Presley’s red ponytail glints in the summer sun, and I’m surprised to find that I miss the muggy hotness of the East Coast.
“I bought it for myself after I hit my financial goals at the studio.” She grins shyly, announcing her success but not boasting about it.
My hand comes up to punch her shoulder gently. “Pres! How awesome, I’m so proud of you!”
“Thanks.” She smiles, starting the engine.
I’m glad our conversation is ended with the noise of the wind and bounce of the Jeep as we drive over the country dirt roads. It gives me a minute to bask in the sunshine, to breathe in the air of an America in July, to relish the complete, untethered freedom I have right now. The crushing sadness that has sat heavy on my hea
rt for the past couple of weeks begins to ease. It’s incredible how wholly one can lose themselves when trying to love another person with everything they have. It’s even more terrifically awful how much more they’ll give when the effort being returned is less than zero.
I’ve never thought of myself as that girl, but as an adult, all I’ve done is abandon my identity when a new man comes along.
Presley turns the Jeep onto a paved road, the car slowing as I spot houses in the distance. Her typical uniform of yoga pants and a tank top looks much more comfortable than my jeans and short-sleeved sweater, which are now sticking to me in sweaty, hot patches. I don’t know what I was thinking, traveling in such an outfit. Maybe I’d yearned for the cool wardrobe of a Manhattanite, when in all reality, I was going to be in the sticks for the foreseeable future.
“You needed to get off the grid,” Presley says, almost as if she’s reading my thoughts.
I nod, staring out the front windshield. “I’m not sure you even know how much.”
“I’m here when you’re ready.” My best friend knows me too well.
Shrugging, my small smile is directed at her. “Thanks, but you already know the gist. Same old when it comes to my love life. Can’t seem to get it right. Hey, maybe Keaton has a brother.”
My joke sends a grin turning up Presley’s lips. Because he has three … two of which are taken. All the Nash men are equally strapping, smart, and reliable in their own way.
And the only one left just happens to be the one who makes my lungs stop working whenever I see him.
Just then, as if I’ve conjured him by imagination, a figure running in the direction of our car appears over the horizon line on the road.
Pure male adrenaline jogging toward us at a steady pace. A body well over six feet … I know this because tiny chills have run down my spine when we’ve stood next to each other and I’ve been forced to look up. Tanned skin slicked with sweat stretched over taut, wiry muscle, with thick, athletic thighs pumping rhythmically as he pounds the pavement.
Fletcher Nash, in the flesh. Of course, the second person I run into in Fawn Hill is the one man I should be actively staying away from.
One year, I’d promised myself.
So why, in the first two seconds of spotting him in the zone during a workout, do I want to throw every new principle I’ve adopted right out the window?
As he nears, our eyes connect, and a flicker of recognition runs over his face. I feel the world go full-on slow-motion, with Fletcher’s steps slowing and the tires on the car all but coming to a stop. Those blue eyes, the color of the sea outside my window in Santorini, blink twice, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’s all hard lines and lean control, and I often wonder what he was like before he stopped drinking.
It’s more than just physical attraction between us, though. I’ve never been alone in a room with Fletcher, and yet, I can tell that he and I are the same. He knows next to nothing about my past, but when he looks at me, I feel as if he understands the pain inside my chest.
Presley honks violently, snapping me out of my trance, waving her free hand out the window in a furious greeting of her brother-in-law. Fletcher raises a hand, waving back, and smiling with all the pearly whites in his mouth showing.
“You go, bro!” Presley yells as we pass him, her brother-in-law not stopping his run to chat with us.
I can’t help it when my head swivels backward, staring at his retreating form as those perfectly sculpted calves carry him over the hot pavement.
“He runs six miles every morning. Told me once that it helps with the cravings,” my best friend divulges.
The last thing I need is temptation, especially in the form of a recovering addict who would never be able to give me the kind of support I’d need in a relationship.
So, I turn back around and root myself firmly forward in my seat.
No good will come from ogling Fletcher Nash, even if I have a hard time shutting down the thoughts racing through my head.
2
Fletcher
The itch in the back of my throat is so strong, that it takes everything in my body to even sit up in bed.
No, this itch is not physical, it’s not something you can clear with a drink of water or a cough drop. This irritating feeling, a throb that cannot be shooed out of your brain with a silly distraction like song lyrics, is bone deep … it sits in the marrow.
The itch is addiction, and even after almost five years of sobriety, I wake up each day with the overwhelming urge to drink. To drown myself in a bottle of cheap tequila, or my favorite IPA, or the crisp hard cider that Mr. Hinard makes on his orchard just over the county line.
I can name you almost every brand of vodka in the liquor store next to the pizza place on Main Street. Not because I’ve stepped foot in there in five years, but because in the ten years before that, I could have checked in like it was a long-term-stay hotel I frequented.
To push past the cravings takes every ounce of energy in my body. I have to literally latch my hands behind my back to keep them from grabbing my keys and heading out in search of a buzz.
That’s the thing no one can quite explain when you go through rehab and start attending meetings. They say it will be hard, that your sobriety is essential to living a healthy life, that if you stop drinking, everything will turn around. Counselors tell you to focus on the positive and surround yourself with people who live a life you aspire to have. Other recovering alcoholics warn about the dangers of social situations and the reality of wronged friends not accepting you as a sober person, even if you make amends.
But I’m not sure anyone told me how crippling the feeling of addiction would be. That even years later, almost half a decade, I’d still wake up with a lump in my throat and my hands shaking to grip a bottle. When they say you’re an addict for life, even after getting sober, they mean it.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I lock the door before taking my morning piss. Living with your mother at the age of twenty-nine is not only embarrassing but having her walk in on you mid-drawer drop is something I’ll never quite scrub from my brain.
Note to all kids out there; stay in school, don’t do drugs and lay off the bottle. Otherwise, you’ll end up living with your mom, working a dead-end job, and trying to rebuild your life as a grown-ass man.
After I drain the snake, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and head back to the spare bedroom in my mom’s condo that has been mine ever since I got back from rehab. As if being the baby of four brothers didn’t come with enough teasing, I’d now put myself in the position to be called pathetic.
I try not to berate myself, as I do each time I walk into a house that isn’t my own, as I dress for my daily run.
Six miles, every single morning. Endorphins help with the cravings and you don’t have much time to think with heavy metal blasting in your ears and your feet pounding the road.
“Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks as I enter the kitchen, sitting in her usual chair at the table in the breakfast nook.
I shake my head. “No, thanks. Just my usual goo before my run.”
All I eat before my workouts is one of those disgusting gel packets that make me shudder just thinking about it. The goop is gross sliding down your throat but it fills your stomach without making you want to vomit halfway through and gives you enough energy to not have me passing out after six miles in the hot July sun.
“Can you pick up milk on your way home? We’re almost out.” Her attention is back on the local paper splayed out in front of her.
“Sure. See you in a bit,” I tell her, kissing her on the cheek and heading for the front door.
The heat blasts me in the face as soon as I step outside. It’s summer days now, which means that even at seven thirty in the morning, it’s a balmy seventy-five. Not that I mind, the harder I sweat, the more the itch in the back of my throat lessens.
Before slipping my phone into the arm band strapped around my right bicep, I scroll through my mu
sic to the heavy metal playlist I compiled. Hitting shuffle, an Iron Maiden song blasts through my headphones, giving my heart a jolt akin to an electric shock. Blood begins pumping furiously into my loins, the excitement and fear of a long, hard run mixing in a heady combination.
My muscles scream as I run, trying to beat the pace I set yesterday. That’s how my life goes; I’m always trying to do a little better than I did yesterday. So far, I haven’t backslid much, which I’m thankful for.
I’m also so far behind every other person my age, there probably isn’t any deeper to sink.
I spot Presley’s new white open-top Jeep the minute I come up over the hill. My sister-in-law might be a free-spirit, rolling meadows kind of girl, but she’s still got some of that New York City extra-ness in her that our small town just can’t erase. The truck is flashy, with all the bells and whistles, and I honestly love it. Bowen grumbled about how obnoxious it was when she bought it, and of course, my twin brother’s wife, Penelope, sat on top of the roll bar the day Presley and Keaton pulled up to Mom’s in it.
There is someone in the passenger seat, I notice, as my sneakers push rhythmically off the hot blacktop. It’s strange that Presley would be out here at this time of day … nothing leads from this road but the airport.
Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four Page 1