The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2)

by Mariah Dietz

  Again, I move forward.

  Tommy is next in line. Even with his jacket on, it’s obvious his frame is far narrower than Kash’s. I feel guilty for comparing the two. Tommy is attractive, and he pulls off the thin look well. He doesn’t look scrawny or like a cokehead. He looks lean and tough and the image of what many women love and adore. His face is longer than Kash’s. Even his focus is completely different. He doesn’t look blissful but possessed.

  I can’t decide if it’s enchanting or alarming because Kash clears his throat from beside me, making my attention move to his tightened jaw. He releases a deep breath and then reaches forward and shoves me. I glare at him accusingly, shocked that he is acting like a ten-year-old once again, rather than being an adult, like I so desperately need him to be.

  “Summer,” he growls my name, exposing he’s equally as annoyed and confused. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I stare at him, noticing every blink of my eyelids because I’m so focused on his face. I have no intention of saying anything. I can’t. My throat is tight, and my eyes once again are itching with the need to cry. The reaction is so unbearably ridiculous and annoying that it makes me even angrier with Kash.

  “Do you remember that time we went to San Francisco, and we walked across the entire bridge? Then, you took off your sweatshirt, and the security guys came running?”

  My brows scrunch as I work to recall the wind that kept pulling my hair in my eyes, the noise of the cars each time they hit a new plank on the bridge, and finally, the faces of the men dressed in all black as they nearly attacked me. “Yeah…”

  “I feel like that right now.”

  “Like what? Like I’m about to knock you on your ass?”

  Kash nods with a teasing smirk stretching his lips. It’s a beautiful smirk, his lips lopsided and his slightly squared chin becoming more prominent. “Let’s go back.”

  “It’s too late to reverse time.”

  “I mean, San Francisco.”

  I shake my head in short jerks, attempting to figure out where in the hell this conversation has gone and where he’s going. “What are you talking about?”

  “We can go tonight.”

  “To San Francisco?”

  “You can get more of those ridiculous socks you loved.”

  “Those are awesome socks,” I argue.

  His smirk grows into a full smile, one that shifts everything within my chest. “We can do the full tourist thing. No bikes. We’ll find the best donuts in town and go to Alcatraz since we never got the chance. We can see everything.”

  “How does this have anything to do with you feeling like you’re about to be knocked over?”

  “I just need to find some balance. Let’s go. Let’s do this.” He faces me, his eyes pleading louder than his words.

  “What about work?”

  “Who cares about work? There’s nothing big happening right now.”

  “There’s a ton going on right now!” My objection is met with a swift shake of his head. “There is!” I persist. “You need to work on your choreography and get these all sorted out.” I gesture toward the computer.

  “I need—”

  My phone rings, the volume set loud. I dig it out of my pocket and see Tommy’s name across my screen and feel the cereal I ate for breakfast turn into cement. Guilt is bubbling in my stomach, making me sad and angry and irrationally uneasy. I answer, trying to lean farther away from Kash so he can’t hear.

  “Hey! Are you about ready?”

  I press my lips together in an attempt to catch up with my emotions that are spiraling toward resentment, again. I don’t understand why I am feeling guilty when Kash has had eleven years to act on things and is just now attempting to do so, and failing so miserably.

  “Yeah.” I swallow the next words that wish to object. “Want to meet at Toby’s in, like, thirty?”

  “Why don’t I pick you up?”

  “That’s okay.” I don’t want him at my house. That seems too serious.

  “Okay…”

  I ignore his silent request for clarification. “All right, I’ll see you then.” I hang up, feeling Kash’s stare.

  “Who are you meeting?”

  I look up and notice the anger dilating Kash’s pupils. Over his shoulder, I catch sight of Parker approaching the office door.

  “Where are you going?” Kash asks, his voice losing the patience it weakly held with the last question.

  “Out.”

  “Out?” he asks, his eyes growing.

  “Like on a date?” Parker asks, swallowing the final bite of a granola bar.

  I glare at him and then at Kash, whose murderous expression doesn’t seem fair.

  “With who?” Kash demands.

  “I bet I know,” Parker says in an obnoxious singsong tone. “Tommy.”

  “Tommy who?” Kash’s attention is zeroed in on me.

  I don’t know if he even realizes I wasn’t the one who answered.

  “How many Tommys do you know?” Parker asks.

  “Tommy Chapman?” Kash asks, his chin jutting forward with shock. “You’re not dating Tommy Chapman.”

  My eyes narrow with indignant surprise, and I laugh. It’s so dark, humorless, and unfamiliar that I can’t believe it came from me.

  “Here we go,” Parker says.

  I don’t know the context he is directing this to be interpreted. I don’t care. I’m preoccupied with staring back at Kash with an equal intensity that he’s glaring at me with.

  “I need your help tonight. We have to get this work done.”

  I shake my head at Kash. “You were just talking about flying to San Francisco!”

  “Yeah, but we’d get this done on the flight down.”

  “This will be good for both of us.” I think. I hope.

  “I can’t…”

  “It needs to happen,” I state firmly. Pushing the chair back, I stand and don’t look back as I brush by Parker, grab my things, and let the rain pelt me while I travel the short distance to my truck.

  GUILT IS NEARLY suffocating me when I pull up to Uncle Toby’s shop. This date doesn’t seem fair to anyone involved, and I’m well aware of that, yet I still get out of my truck and head to where Tommy stands just inside the glass front doors.

  Tommy smiles as I open the heavy door, and his eyes brighten as he looks me over. I realize he has no idea that my smile is fake and forced, just like my hair.

  “Hey!” Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me tightly against his chest. His cologne is sweet as it lingers in my nose. I both like and hate it at the same time. “So, I was thinking about what you said, and since it’s a little later than I was expecting to get things started, I think you’re right. We can stay in Portland. Maybe check out some breweries?”

  “Sure.” I smile brightly or at least try. While my preference is for wine, I don’t mind an occasional beer, and staying within the city will make it even better.

  “Great.”

  His expression is difficult to decipher. He’s smiling, but it isn’t as broad as I’ve seen it on other occasions. It makes the guilt swimming in my stomach feel heavier. I know nearly all of Kash’s expressions and reactions. I can read his intentions, his fears, his annoyances. Every bit of him has always been so clear that the recent challenges to do so is has knocked me completely off balance.

  “Ready?” Tommy asks. His voice does not match the face currently filling my thoughts.

  He smiles again when I nod. His chin looks rough, but the hair dusting it is so blond, I only catch sight of it when the light hits it just right.

  “So, since you blocked the first rule of dating—pick up date—should I expect you to want to drive yourself?”

  I smile brazenly. “Do you drive as aggressively as you ride?”

  “I bet you’re hoping I do.”

  He is no surer of this than I am, but a side of my lips quirk up, and I make a show of shoving my keys into my purse.

  He leads me across the par
king lot to an ostentatious Hummer that is painted a bright shade of yellow.

  “Do they make these in another color besides black and yellow?” I ask.

  His chin drops, a small smirk crossing his lips. I feel like I should care more about trying to figure out whether it’s out of annoyance that I’m not impressed or humored by the fact.

  “I figure you don’t need an invitation to change the radio, but just in case, here’s your green light.”

  I attempt to make the same expression he gave me, allowing my lips to curl only a fraction and my eyes to only settle on him for a few seconds, before I reach forward and change the channel. The song that was playing was even a good one, but I’m not about to admit that.

  His eyebrows rise when I stop on a loud rap song that Parker loves and plays incessantly.

  Mine also rise. “You don’t like it?”

  “It shocks me a little that you do. Hell, you shock me most of the time. I should wait to be shocked for when you don’t surprise me.”

  My confession that I actually hate this song is on the tip of my tongue. I bite it down to avoid confessing that I’m not sure how many of the things I think I like are things that my friends—specifically Kash—like. Instead, I reach forward and press the scan button, landing on multiple stations before finally stopping on a jazz station that brings memories of my childhood back.

  While kids my age grew up listening to New Kids on the Block and other pop bands, my parents insisted on teaching me what they considered ‘good music,’ which translated to jazz. I used to hate having to listen to it. Sitting here now, I think it might be one of the best things they taught me.

  “Now, you’re just fucking with me,” he says.

  Without looking for an explanation, Tommy changes the radio. Maybe it’s for the better. Nostalgia and I seem to be sharing a very fickle relationship lately.

  When we arrive at the brewery, he takes up three parking spots. An older woman shakes her head. A guy heading toward an SUV cracks a joke to his friend. I know both are directed at us.

  We take seats at a long, polished bar and are instantly greeted by a man with an equally shiny shaved head. His goatee doesn’t have any traces of gray, but his voice is deep, and his face lined. He looks the way I feel internally—a bunch of contradictions.

  “You guys staying dry out there?”

  Oregonians love to talk about the rain. I’m not sure why when it’s nearly a daily occurrence for three hundred days out of the year.

  “It’s starting to lighten up a little,” I tell him.

  He wipes at an already clean spot on the bar with a white rag. “Are you guys familiar with our beers?”

  “I think we need a few samplers to become better acquainted with them.” Tommy doesn’t make eye contact with the bartender, nor does he answer when asked if there’s anything else we need.

  I’m used to being the asshole when out with friends. I have little tolerance and less patience, yet I feel like I’m scrambling for something nice to say while making the most appeasing face I can muster up to compensate for Tommy’s brashness.

  “Is it good to be back home?” I turn to face Tommy while our drinks are prepared.

  Tommy looks at me, his shoulders shifting so that he’s fully turned toward me. “I’ve become pretty accustomed to the sun. I enjoy being able to go outside in shorts every day of the year.”

  “Sell out.”

  He laughs. “So, what has been going on with you? Before Canada it had been how long … five years since I’ve seen you?”

  “Eight,” I reply, easily knowing the answer because it was weeks before my accident that ended professional riding for me.

  “Eight? Wow! Where in the hell does time go?”

  I shake my head. “I’m still struggling with the fact that I’m over thirty. It doesn’t seem possible. I feel like I just graduated high school and disappointed my parents by refusing to go to college.”

  “College,” he scoffs. “Could you imagine having been in a classroom rather than the X Games? Shit, I’m glad you didn’t listen to them.”

  School was never for me. I will never tell Mercedes this, but it was a daily struggle for me to sit in a classroom and solve problems I never understood or knew how to apply to life.

  “So, what’s been new in the last eight years?” His lips curve into a genuine smile, one that I shamefully enjoy and return.

  “Well…” I sit back, drawing out the word. “I’ve pretty much aced sarcasm, perfection, and lying.”

  Tommy laughs and pushes a black sleeve up to reveal a messy tattoo along his forearm.

  “What’s the story behind this?” I slide a finger along the sloppy, uneven lines of what is supposed to be some variety of large bird.

  A smile is still stretched across his face when he rubs a palm over it. “I had a good friend who was a strong supporter of me getting back into riding and competing after I’d gotten hurt. He told me his dream was to be a tattoo artist, and when he asked me to be one of his practice clients to build a portfolio, I felt like it would be really bad Karma if I said no.”

  “Are you saying you willingly offered up your forearm to an amateur tattoo artist? It never crossed your mind to have him do it on your shoulder or the bottom of your foot?”

  “Then he would’ve known I was worried.”

  He’s still smiling, and I like it.

  “Yeah, but now, he has to see how bad he really is. That can’t be inspiring.”

  His smile breaks into another laugh. “I wear a tee every single time I’m around that son of a bitch.”

  We’re both laughing as two long wooden trays are set in front of us with a line of glasses filled with beers. Each of their colors and flavors are explained along with their content of barley, malt, and foam.

  Tommy reaches for a glass first. His slender fingers are red, and I learn it’s from being cold when he hands me half of the remaining beer. He swallows and then nods, silently telling me I’m going to appreciate its contents.

  Drinking from the same glass shouldn’t feel intimate. Brushing fingers so casually shouldn’t feel significant. Him watching me drink shouldn’t make me feel so nervous.

  But it all does.

  Our conversation is light and easy. I find myself continuing to enjoy every smirk, smile, and laugh delivered in my direction and only my direction. He doesn’t pay attention to anyone who passes us.

  My limbs feel light and loose when we stand to leave. I should have ordered something to eat, but right now, I’m appreciating the fact that I’m not comparing a single thought or experience to Kash when it seems that’s all I have been able to do for the past ten years.

  The rain is a refreshing fine mist against my face as we make the short trek to the Hummer that, over our second tray of beer samples, I learned he’d rented. He laughed when I’d told him it was pretentious, and then he informed me that was the point.

  I play with several settings on the seat before he starts the car and cranks the radio so loud I can hardly make out his words.

  Tommy reverses in a quick and precise movement that makes me feel like I really am riding along with him. The seat belt catches me when he comes to a sudden stop and tightens when he accelerates, knocking me back into the soft luxury leather.

  He cheers.

  I gasp.

  He goes faster.

  I reach for my purse.

  He swerves.

  I scream.

  He turns the steering wheel in jerky movements, his control lost.

  I brace my feet on the floorboard and watch with wide eyes as a large truck crashes into the driver’s side of the Hummer.

  I DON’T KNOW how the driver of the truck managed to swerve as quickly as he did, but he saved Tommy’s life and likely mine as well. I’m certain of it.

  My heart is beating so quickly I can feel it aging me.

  Tick. A strand of my new ombre hair turns gray at the root.

  Tick. My crow’s-feet etch deeper.
<
br />   Tick. An extra five pounds are added to my thighs for the near panic attack I’m experiencing.

  My eyes are stretched so wide I can feel the cool November air brush over them as it blows in through the new gash in the back of the Hummer. I look over everything, seeing it all but remembering nothing, causing me to look over them two and then three times before realizing Tommy really is laughing. His chin is to his chest, and he is gasping for breaths because his laughter is racking his entire body.

  My fingers curl so tightly, my short nails bite into the hardened skin of my palm, and then I punch him.

  Adrenaline is supposed to make you stronger, give you the ability to lift a car trapping a child, fight off an attacker, or escape a burning building—not make my muscles somehow feel both rubbery and stiff so that delivering a punch makes me feel like a twelve-year-old girl, like it does.

  Tommy turns his head to acknowledge me. I don’t think he realizes I intended to harm him until he eyes my fist. He releases an uproarious laugh that hurts my ringing ears. I slap him once, twice, three times, four times, faster and harder, using both hands, like a girl out of some awful teen movie, until I can’t see anymore, and my eyes begin to blur with tears.

  “You came this close to killing us!” I screech as I lift a hand with my finger and thumb barely separated.

  “Close only counts in horseshoes and grenades.”

  His response has my head rearing back with anger. I grab my purse that’s now sitting in my lap with my cell phone on top. If another second had passed, Kash would have been on the line because I was trying to call him as the cars came to a halt.

  Tommy’s saying something, but I don’t hear him. I’m pretty sure I’m experiencing a mild level of shock because my tightened muscles are trembling, and I am still having difficulty with focusing on anything as I approach the truck that hit Tommy’s Hummer.

  “Are you all right?” The man has a full beard that matches the unruly dark hair dipping into his eyes, which are bright and rounded like mine. He reaches a large hand forward and grasps my shoulder, lending me heat that makes me shiver more violently. “Are you okay?” he repeats.