Five Ways to Fall

by K. A. Tucker

  “I thought maybe . . .” she says as she gingerly pulls my sheet down and climbs into my bed, sliding a leg over my body to straddle my thighs, “ . . . I could stay here for the night and,” she leans over, her arms resting on either side of my pillow, her fake double-Ds pressing against my chest, “get my fill of Ben. Is that okay?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. Mercy has a way with words. She never comes right out and says anything dirty, but the implication is thick. My brain conveniently skips over the “stay for the night” part and goes straight to the part where she’s shimmying down my body, until her long hair grazes my stomach and the heat of her mouth wraps around me.

  And then, with a deep groan, my brain just shuts down altogether.

  “Are you okay?” I hear Mason ask from the doorway.

  “I’m going to get my ass kicked and I probably deserve it,” I mutter, staring at my phone.

  Do you want to go to Storm and Dan’s together this weekend?

  I knew I shouldn’t have let that happen. But what do you do when a gorgeous stripper shows up in your bedroom in the middle of the night? No guy would say no to that. I don’t care you who are. And if you tell me you’d say no? You’re fucking lying or you’re gay.

  She had never slept over before, though. I was up and out before she woke this morning, so at least there wasn’t an awkward goodbye. And now she’s texting me about going to a wedding together? Yeah, it’s Storm and Dan, but . . . still. I don’t like the way my gut feels about this. It’s telling me that Mercy is definitely wanting more. Telling her I just want to be friends isn’t going to work. She’ll bob her pretty head and say, “I know, Ben,” and then she’ll grab my cock. Short of me bringing someone else as a date, I’ll end up with my pants around my ankles in a bathroom by cocktails.

  Shit. That means I need to bring a date! But who? Who is there to bring? I can’t bring anyone that I’ve screwed around with in the past—that’ll just get me into the same boat as the one I’m in with Mercy. I mean, it’s a wedding. Chicks get weird at weddings. They trample each other to catch flying flowers. I need someone who’s not looking for anything from me. I need . . . “Where’s your sister today?” I ask Mason suddenly. I’ve been eyeing Reese’s office all morning and there’s been no sign of life. She promised she’d be here to help me. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, not getting my morning dose of Reese is noticeable. It’s like I’m in withdrawal.

  “Stepsister,” he corrects. “And she’s at home, sick.”

  “Seriously?” Shit. She did say she was leaving early yesterday to catch some sleep.

  He nods. “And she took a bunch of files with her, including one of mine accidently. I’m heading over there now to go pick it up.” Adding under his breath, “Into that infested house.”

  That’s right. Mason tends to avoid sick people like they’re all potential carriers of the bubonic plague. “I’ll go. I’m not a sissy,” I quickly throw out.

  “Ben. Trust me, you don’t want—”

  “It’s fine. Besides, she likes me more.”

  Some thought passes through those green eyes of his and then I think I catch a flicker of a smile. It’s too fast to confirm, though. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he tosses them onto my desk. “Here—she probably won’t answer the door.” He scribbles down the address. “I need the files back by noon today. Can you pick her up some cold medication? I promised Jack I would.”

  “What does she want?”

  He shrugs. “Tylenol? Nyquil? Valium?”

  “All right.” I collect the keys and the address. And wait for it.

  And wait for it.

  Finally, I give up. “Dude, aren’t you going to warn me not to try anything on your sister?”

  “Stepsister!” he corrects sharply, but then that little hint of a smile is back. “And no. I’m not too worried about that.” Mason takes off, throwing over his shoulder, “By twelve. I need the file by twelve.”

  Well, that gives me almost two hours to figure out how I’m going to convince Reese to come to a wedding with me.

  Chapter 17

  REESE

  “How are there no drugs in this damn house!”

  “You know all that stuff does is suppress your immune system,” Lina’s voice blasts over speakerphone in my room. “This is why I tell you to take ginseng every day.”

  “You and Jiminy Cricket both,” I mutter, staring at the wall across from me, my head propped by three pillows until I’m almost sitting. Because I can’t breathe otherwise. I’ve already raided Mason’s bathroom vanity. It’s brimming with vitamins and supplements, but there’s nothing of any real value. Jack’s not much help to me either right now, given that he believes a shot of vodka a day keeps all illnesses at bay. The only thing I found of any use was a small tub of Vicks, with which I’ve already coated my chest, my back, even my upper lip.

  “And does Jiminy Cricket get sick? Because I don’t get sick.”

  “I’m convinced that neither of you are quite human. That’s probably why you’ve found each other,” I mutter, my ratty but comforting gray robe wrapped around me in a cocoon not warding off the chill running through my body. I thought it was simply lack of sleep with all the Jared stuff on my mind. I left work, planning to take a nap and catch up in the evening. I may as well have just left all those file folders at work, because I passed out the second my head hit my pillow and didn’t wake up for thirteen hours. Now I can’t stop shivering and my head is about to explode from the sinus pressure. All I want to do is self-medicate but, short of some pills that expired ten years ago—which I’m seriously considering taking—the house is empty of all worthy narcotics.

  “I saw some ginger in Mason’s drawer. Should I take that?” Yes, Mason has his own drawer in the refrigerator. And yes, he’ll have a mild coronary when he discovers I’ve rifled through it.

  Lina’s loud sigh of exasperation answers before her words do. “Ginger must be taken before you get sick. You know, if you’re going to take anything raw, take garlic.”

  “Is that another one of your weird Korean things?”

  “No, it’s a weird naturopathic thing.” With her flat tone, Lina comes off as patronizing at times, especially to those who don’t know her. “I usually cover a piece of bread in it to make it more palatable.”

  “There’s no bread in this house except for Mason’s rice bread, and it makes me gag,” I grumble.

  I swear I can hear the eye roll crackle over the speaker. “I forgot how irritating you get when you’re sick.”

  “Can’t you just bring me something?”

  “Not for a few hours. I have client meetings all day. Have you tried Nicki?”

  “She’s an hour outside of the city today.”

  “Jack? Mason?”

  “Jack’s in court, and Mason? Really? He won’t come in here without a hazmat suit. Don’t be surprised if you have another roommate for the week.” I release a series of guttural moans and groans to amplify my misery. When I’ve finally shut up—I’m starting to annoy even myself—Lina says, “So, there’s this guy at work that I think you’d like.”

  “Oh my God, Lina. Now is not the right time.”

  She goes on, ignoring me completely. She and Nicki are champions at that. “I was thinking we could go on a double date this Saturday. You and him, me and Mason.”

  “No.”

  “Because of Ben, right? You guys are dating?”

  I sigh. “No. There is nothing going on between Ben and me.” Nothing real. Although, the idea of him playing my fake boyfriend does have an appeal.

  “Really. Nothing at all.” Her words are thick with doubt.

  “Nothing, Lina. I’m still a bitter old hag and Ben would bust out some serious Houdini moves if he even heard the word ‘date.’ Plus, he’s not my type! You know that.” Lina has seen the kind of guys I’m attracted to. Broody guys on bikes, with tats; lean, dark, and shaggy-haired. Stick a big, blond grinning ex–football player who knows about orang
es into the lineup and all I hear is Big Bird singing, “One of these things is not like the others.”

  “I know, but, come on. You don’t find him the least bit attractive? Because I think he is. Nicki thinks he is. Even Mason admitted he’d totally be into him, if he were gay.”

  Because picturing Mason with Lina wasn’t bad enough . . . Keeping my eyes open is a struggle and so I don’t bother. Maybe I’ll talk myself into unconsciousness. “Yeah, he’s attractive.” I add begrudgingly, “He’s freaking hot, actually. And he’s an amazing kisser. And he knows it. He’s a bit of a jackass, but nothing a piece of duct tape can’t fix.”

  “And? Has he disturbed those cobwebs that he’s not allowed to disturb?” Obviously Mason has told Lina about the no-dating policy, so I’m not sure what answer she wants to hear.

  “We fooled around a bit, but otherwise, Charlotte’s web is still safe and secure.” I’d be lying if I said things didn’t feel different after this past weekend. Seeing him with that stripper yesterday bugged me. It’s not because I have some deep feminist reaction to seeing a woman who sells her body. I was more interested in how many times he has slept with her, if he’s still sleeping with her, and how I can get him to stop sleeping with her.

  “Well, don’t do anything to get yourself or him fired. Mason’s really worried about that. He likes Ben, but he knows him pretty well.”

  “Jack would never fire me.”

  “Reese . . .”

  “I’m not going to get Ben fired,” I mutter with annoyance, adding, “but thank you for thinking so highly of your best friend.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t want you getting all bitter if something doesn’t work out.”

  “You’re safe. I’m all bittered out. Plus, are you kidding me? I don’t want a relationship with Ben! He’s like a bad rash that won’t go away half the time.”

  “Okay, good. Well, you know, Nicki’s sister is doing those passion parties now. You should order something through her.”

  I sigh. “My best friend is suggesting I resort to a vibrator at twenty-one? You’ve completely given up on me. That’s wonderful.”

  “I’ll second that idea,” a familiar male voice suddenly teases, inches away. My eyes flash open to find big blue irises and an enormous grin hovering over me. So I do what any normal young woman half passed out with the flu would do when she’s surprised by a guy in her bedroom. I let out a yelp as my hand flies out to connect with his nose.

  “Jesus, Reese!” Ben jumps back, one hand going up to protect against further attack while the other cups his face.

  “Shit,” I mutter as I see a small trickle of blood run out one nostril.

  He looks down at his blood-coated finger in shock. “You think?”

  “Reese?” comes Lina’s wary voice.

  “Oh, she’s fine. The freaking-hot lawyer that she wants to duct tape isn’t,” Ben mutters.

  Fantastic. He heard all of that. My cheeks burn. I grab a tissue from the box on my nightstand and shove it into his hand, unable to keep the bite from my tone as I ask, “What are you doing sneaking up on me in my bedroom?”

  Dabbing at his nostril, he mutters, “I came to get a file for Mason.” Checking the tissue for the growing stain of blood, he adds, “Why are you so violent?”

  I roll my eyes. “Did you happen to bring me cold medicine?” Mason knows I was looking for some.

  “Is that your way of apologizing?”

  “You want me to apologize to you for breaking into my house, sneaking into my bedroom, and scaring the shit out of me?”

  He holds up Mason’s keys.

  “Semantics,” I mutter, flopping back into my stack of pillows, the small fright having drained me of every last bit of energy.

  Lina’s throat-clearing reminds me that she’s still on the phone. “Gotta go to my meeting. I’ll call you later. Have fun, Ben. She’s even more pleasant when she’s sick.” The phone clicks over the speakerphone as I watch Ben wriggle his nose.

  A twinge of guilt stirs. “Is it broken?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll be okay.” After a pause, “Mason said you have the flu?”

  I close my eyes. “I don’t know. It could be the Ebola virus. Or the black plague. Too soon to tell. I’m sure it’s highly contagious, though.”

  When I hazard a look at Ben again, I find his gaze drifting over my frame and I know what he sees—uncombed hair, a blotchy face, bloodshot eyes, baggy gray track pants, and my shabby, oversized Depeche Mode T-shirt that reaches mid-thigh. Jared’s shirt that I stole during my red paint incident. Ben dips his head and smiles secretly.

  “What?” I snap, fully aware of how unappealing I am at this moment and highly annoyed with my stepbrother for sending our hot, obnoxious co-worker here to witness this. “Ready for me now?” I ask snidely, pulling my covers up and over my body.

  Chuckling, he tosses the tissue in the trash can. “Let me get that file from you so you can go back to talking about vibrators and cobwebs.”

  My cheeks heat up again, silently cursing Mason. “Pass me those files over there.” I wave a lazy hand at the floor and watch as he reaches down, quietly admiring how well his pants really do fit him.

  I feel Ben’s eyes on me as I search through the stack. Finding the one my stepbrother wants, I slap a Post-it note onto the first page and scrawl, “I spy with my little eye something of yours that I just licked. Guess what?” Payback’s a bitch, Mason. I thought you’d have already learned that.

  Ben chuckles softly. “I’m not sure I like that evil grin.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re not my target.” I close the folder and toss it onto the floor at Ben’s feet. Scowling, I pull the covers over my head. This only makes it harder to breathe but I’m much like a wounded animal when I’m sick, looking for a quiet corner to hole up in and die. Something that Mason was well aware of when he sent Ben over here. I’m going to ring my stepbrother’s scrawny neck when I see him next. “Make sure you lock the front door.”

  I hear Ben’s feet pad across the floor. Hazarding a peek a moment later, I find him wandering through my room, his finger running along the frame of my old blue Yamaha electric guitar. “Huh, you weren’t lying about this,” he murmurs.

  I’ve had it since I was fifteen, when I lifted a hundred bucks from Annabelle’s purse and headed straight for a pawn shop. I was smart about the whole thing. I waited until she stumbled through the door after a night out at the Fair Oakes country club, knowing she’d just assume that she’d bought an outrageously expensive bottle of wine that night. This kid named Len sat with me in the bleachers of a nearby public school every afternoon and taught me how to play. I was a natural, playing by ear and strumming Led Zeppelin within a year.

  The smile comes unbidden as I recall Ben’s comment in Cancún. “Yes, I’m fully aware of how hot that makes me.”

  “Fuck, yeah,” Ben mutters, adding with a smile in his tone, “Maybe not right now, though.”

  “Shut up.”

  His eyes invade the rest of my belongings, skating over the vintage trucks and albums on my wall, the giant beanbag chair I love to sit in while plucking notes absently, the little toy Harley on the bookshelf, a closet filled with clothes dangling haphazardly from hangers. Everything that represents me; everything that helped make the spare room at Jack’s feel like home; everything that I briefly considered torching after Caroline’s hands had been all over it. “You’re an odd one, Miss MacKay. I’m still trying to figure you out. Harleys and rusty old trucks and Depeche Mode.” He pauses. “You like gray, don’t you?”

  “My favorite color.” I watch with wariness as Ben approaches me, turns, and then lies down onto my bed beside me, the mattress sinking and creaking with his weight. A weird half-groan, half-growl escapes my throat as he weasels a hand under my back. “Come here. And don’t hit me.” Despite my grumbles and protests, I’m scooped up and resting against his hard chest within seconds.

  “Don’t complain when you get sick,” I warn with a scow
l, closing my eyes and fighting the urge to sigh as deft fingers begin smoothing through my hair. If this is Ben’s idea of foreplay . . . I’ll take it. Even with my sinuses being clogged, I’m still able to distinguish that clean, sporty-smelling cologne of his. It reminds me of the weekend. It also reminds me that I have a rather unattractive Vicks mustache that he hasn’t teased me about . . . yet.

  “Listen,” he clears his throat loudly. “I have a favor to ask you and, seeing as you went and got yourself sick to avoid working with me all week . . .” Though he can’t see it, I roll my eyes. “Remember how I helped you out with your ex-husband?”

  “By licking my tonsils, yes—I recall something about that.”

  “And then by tricking me into becoming your accomplice. Don’t forget that. Well, I have this thing on Saturday and I could use your help.”

  “This thing?”

  “Yeah, kind of like a party. At a friend of mine’s house. I need to look unavailable.”

  It clicks. “Switzerland wants to go rogue?”

  “Basically.”

  Huh. Is the universe cooperating with me for once? This could actually work out in my favor. If he’s truly desperate . . . “I don’t know,” I begin to say, feigning wariness in my voice.

  “Oh, come on, Reese! I helped you out. Please?” I smother my smile by leaning into his chest. I like it when Ben begs. “I just need you to run some interference.”

  Great. Football lingo. “Why me?”

  “Because you won’t get the wrong idea.”