Fighting the Fall

by J. B. Salsbury

  He’s dressed in his usual casino slum attire: wrinkled shorts, a faded collared shirt, and a pair of scuffed Sperry topsiders. “Yvette, honey, I was hoping you’d be home.”

  Yvette, honey.

  There’s a tingling in my chest that accompanies his term of endearment. I can’t help it. Never have been able to. I hate the man and, at the same time, so desperately want him to love me. No matter how many times he comes looking for a handout, all it takes is the hope of a promise that he’ll change and I’m his puppet.

  “Hey, Daddy.” My voice doesn’t even sound like me, but rather the five-year-old girl still desperate for her father’s attention.

  “Sorry to drop in on you like this, but”—he runs a hand through his too-long salt-and-pepper hair and smooths the front of his shirt—“I’m hurtin’ for cash, honey.”

  I lean into the open doorway. “I only have enough to scrape by until the next payday.”

  His smile falls, but he schools his expression and throws me a sympathetic grin. “So you have some money. You said on the phone you’d part with a few bucks to help out your old man.” He goes for casual and friendly, but it’s coming off as desperation verging on anger.

  A whisper of panic trickles in.

  “I guess I could part with some.”

  I step back to open the door, but before I’m able to invite him in, he storms past me and into the kitchen.

  I press my lips together, holding back all the things I should say, but know I never will. Kitchen drawers and cupboards slam in a symphony of disappointment as my dad searches for his loot. I ignore the crippling pain that twists in my chest at watching him frenzied for money. My money.

  “Help me out here, Yvette. Where do you keep your emergency fund?” He rips through my things, digging through envelopes before scattering them to the floor.

  I’m on autopilot, registering on some level that this is necessary if I want to keep my dad in my life. My throat is thick with shame, and I crumple into a chair.

  He whirls toward me. “Don’t just sit there. Where’s the money?”

  His patience is waning, and I mentally prepare for the onslaught of verbal insults.

  “Dad, I’ll get the money. You don’t have to rip my kitchen up.”

  “You say you’ll get it.” He crouches down to look under the sink, pulling out and tossing aside the cleaning supplies and buckets I have stored there. “But you’re over there sitting on your fat ass.”

  And so it begins . . .

  I push up from my seat and drag my chair to the fridge. He’s so busy ransacking he doesn’t see that I’m reaching up into the cupboard above the large appliance to pull down a small cash box. I step down off the chair, and the movement catches his attention.

  “’Bout time.” He takes the box from my hands, opens it, and his face lights up. “You lyin’ little shit.” He wraps his swollen red fingers around the stack of paper money. “No money, my ass.”

  “It’s thirty-nine dollars. I needed that to last me another week.” I hold out my open palm. “I can try to get by with twenty and you can take the rest.”

  He turns slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Your friend is some kind of a multi-billionaire after she blew her dad’s head off.” He points to my face. “Don’t you get any ideas. I’m broke, remember that.” He shakes the money before shoving it into his pocket. “You hit her up for a loan.”

  I grind my teeth. “Give me half.”

  “Ha, no fuckin’ way.”

  I reach for his pocket.

  He anticipates it and grabs my arm then twists it behind my back. “Tough girl, huh?” He shoves me hard.

  I stumble, lose my footing, and crash to the tile floor on my knees.

  “I’m thinking Dominic Morretti had the right idea. No reason for a woman to be broke in Las Vegas, Yvette. Not when you can make a grip of money on your knees. Figure you’re doin’ it anyway; may as well get paid for it.”

  Pain spears through me, but I don’t cry. His overused insults have lost their sting. The sound of his high-pitched laughter accompanies the shuffle of his feet until the silence announces he’s gone.

  What the fuck am I going to do now? I slump down against the wall and contemplate all the things I should’ve said or done, starting with not answering the door. I lie there for a long time, exhausted and ashamed, until I realize the place isn’t going to clean itself.

  I push up off the floor and take in my kitchen that has been tossed by my own dad. I fork my hands into my hair and concentrate on my breathing. Okay . . . I’ve been through worse and survived. Surely I’ll get through this too.

  Headlights shine in through the front window. I peek out, hoping he didn’t come back to search the rest of the house.

  “Oh no.”

  Not Dad.

  But a sleek, black, Maserati.

  ~*~

  Cameron

  It’s almost midnight when the last of the catering vans pulls out of my driveway. Wrapping this party up took longer than I expected. I can’t believe I never thought to get Eve’s number.

  I fire up the Maserati and hit the freeway to Eve’s house. My foot falls heavy on the gas as visions of seeing her leave with Mason flash behind my eyes. His arm wrapped around her body, the same body that fell apart beneath my mouth just minutes before. Eve. What is it about her that makes me react like some lust-drunk kid?

  Figuring it all out is a waste of time. Hell, I can’t even remember what I’m doing tomorrow much less dissect my thoughts. I pull up to her house and kill the headlights. The place is dark. I hope she didn’t fall asleep. If so, I’m waking her ass up.

  I knock on the door and it drifts open. Unlocked and left cracked? Adrenaline fires my blood. I push in. The only light comes from the kitchen. “Eve?”

  “Oh, um, I’m in here.” Her voice’s rough, but hurried.

  I move into the kitchen to find her slamming closed drawers and cupboards. She whirls around to face me, sending her hair in an arc that cascades over her shoulders. What the hell is going on in here?

  “Hey, I’m . . . are you ready?” Her eyes dart to a drawer she must’ve missed, and she reaches over to quickly slam it shut. “Let me grab my things.” She ducks her head and tries to skate past me.

  “Hold on.” I snag her arm to stop her, but a hiss slides from her lips, and I release her. “What the fuck’s going on, Eve?”

  Wide eyes swing to mine. “Huh? What makes you think something’s going on?” Her voice is higher than it was before, a telltale sign that shit ain’t right.

  I turn my back on her and wander around the small kitchen. It doesn’t look much different than it did the last time I was here, except now there are random items sticking out of mostly closed drawers.

  “Find what you were looking for?” I meet her gaze and watch panic flash behind her eyes.

  “Mm-hm?” Jeez, she’s a terrible liar.

  I make a show of shoving things back inside, buying time and hoping she’ll come clean and that I won’t have to force her to confide in me.

  She keeps her lips zipped, which doesn’t surprise me.

  “Who did this?” I lean back against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. I’m not moving an inch until she explains to me why she was racing around her kitchen shoving shit in drawers and looks spooked out of her mind.

  “Nothing, I’m ready to go if—” She points over her shoulder.

  “Didn’t ask what, I asked who.”

  Her mouth tightens and her eyes get hard. “Leave it alone.”

  “So you admit there was someone here?”

  “Cameron—”

  “Mason do this? Go through your place and leave you scared as shit and lying to me?” My voice gets louder with every word as my temper takes hold.

  “Don’t worry about—”

  “I’ll pay the little shit a visit right now.” I push up off the counter and head for the door.

  “No, wait!”

  I ignore her, my vision cloude
d with red.

  “Please, don’t.”

  I reach the front door the same time her hand clamps around my elbow.

  “It wasn’t him. It . . . Please, just know that Mason didn’t do anything.”

  “Start talking.”

  Her hand releases me, and she takes a few steps back until she’s halted by the wall. She slides down and pulls her long pink dress up to drape it between her cocked legs.

  “Someone break in? If so, we need to file a report.”

  “No.” Her head rolls back to the wall. “Don’t call the cops. I did this to myself.”

  “Did what?” My fists clench tight.

  “Mason dropped me off—”

  “Already know this. Now I’m losing my patience.”

  “He dropped me off, and I was getting ready for you to pick me up when . . .” She slams her head against the wall. “Fuck!”

  My pulse is raging in my ears. “Tell me!”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”

  “Someone was here, fucked up all your shit, and you’re protecting them?”

  “Not protecting them. I’m protecting me.”

  I rub my forehead, praying for patience. “Who was here, Eve.”

  “No—”

  “Yvette!”

  Her head whips around to face me. “My dad, okay? Happy now?” She motions to the kitchen with a firm flip of her wrist. “He showed up and cleaned me out, including my emergency stash.”

  “Say again?”

  She shakes her head. “Please, don’t make me. Like I’m not humiliated enough.”

  “You’re tellin’ me”—my voice vibrates with the force of my anger—“your Dad busted in and robbed you.”

  “Ha.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “When you say it like that . . .”

  I rein in my temper. Blowing up in her face and punching holes in the walls isn’t going to help anyone. With a deep breath, I stand and hold out my hands. She stares at them for a few silent seconds before placing hers in mine. I pull her to her feet, and she rushes straight into my chest, catching me off guard when both her arms circle my waist.

  I hold my arms out and fight off the immediate discomfort of being hugged like this. Slowly, I lower one arm to her back followed by the other, which only tightens her grip.

  Fighting I know. Drive and determination as well. But comforting another person is . . . I take a deep breath and she melts into me further. Huh, not good, but maybe not too bad either.

  “Get your shit. We’ll talk in the car.”

  She tilts her head back to look in my eyes. “Do we have to?”

  “I’m assuming this isn’t the first time this shit’s happened.”

  Her chin dips, which is all the confirmation I need.

  “Definitely talkin’. Now go on. I wanna get the hell out of here before I do something I regret.”

  With slumped shoulders, she drags herself to her bedroom and comes back out with a backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “That it?”

  She nods, and we lock up and head to my place. We’re barely out of the driveway.

  “Start talking.”

  She takes a long breath and slumps deeper into her seat to prop bare feet on my dashboard. The length of her cotton dress pools around her thighs to expose her legs, and I’m dying to slide my palm from ankle to thigh.

  “My dad is a drunk, and he’s addicted to gambling. He’s destroyed every relationship he’s ever had and feels like, since we share DNA, I should fund his habits. End of story.” Her gaze slides to the side window.

  “He show up like this often?”

  She shakes her head and her chin drops.

  My gut burns with frustration. “In one night, you’ve met my son and my ex. I’ve got my shit out flappin’ in the breeze. It’d make me feel like less of an ass if you do the same.”

  Her eyes move to the front windshield. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “The hell it’s not.”

  With a long sigh, she drops her head back to the seat. “I’ve been giving him money since high school. It started when he got so in debt he was homeless, living on the streets and begging for change.” She shakes her head. “Funny thing is I gave him money back then because I was embarrassed. I didn’t really care if he had to dig in garbage for food, but the thought that someone I know might see him or find out I was the daughter of a homeless man . . .”

  “So you kicked him a few bucks here and there?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Eve.”

  “I opened a checking account for him and deposited half of my paychecks.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot more than helping him out, Eve. That’s supporting him.”

  “Not back then. I didn’t make that much.” She pulls her hair over her shoulder and picks at the ends. “But now, yeah.”

  I can’t believe she’s giving him the money she earns so he can blow it. Now all those unpaid bills make sense.

  My hands grip the steering wheel. “So what was tonight about?”

  “He spends what I give him too fast, and when he doesn’t win at the tables, he comes looking for more.”

  “Why did you let him in?”

  She shakes her head, opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t and slams it shut. “Why do you care, Cameron? I mean . . . can’t we just hang out without sharing our life history with each other?”

  What? That’s my line. I concentrate on the reflective paint lines on the freeway in front of me. Why the fuck do I care? She’s a grown woman. Who she gives her money to isn’t my concern. And yet, why do I feel as though it is?

  “You’re a woman. A dude shows up to rough you up in your house, rob you. Any man who’s worth his salt would ask questions. Simple as that.” That’s such bullshit and I know it.

  “You’re a good man. But trust me. I’ve handled my dad on my own for as long as I can remember. I’m okay.”

  The hell she is.

  Eve’s dad has a healthy daughter, who lives and breathes and makes a life for herself. His blood runs through the veins of this strong and vibrant woman, but rather than nurture and appreciate her, he takes advantage of her love and her hard work. If he only knew what it's like to lose a child, to hold her lifeless body in his hands, to mourn the loss of a future, the chance to see her spread her wings, become a woman, start a life of her own . . . My chest cramps. I've lost everything that this man has, and any man who doesn’t appreciate his daughter deserves to rot in hell.

  But it’s none of my business.

  Seventeen

  Eve

  My palms are sweaty. Moving from Cameron’s ginormous master bathroom to his bed, I wipe my hands on my boy shorts, grateful that he has his nose buried in some kind of planner so he doesn’t get wind of my nerves. I’m finally getting something I’ve always wanted, someone whose basic instinct is to protect me. And now that I have it, I want to run like hell in the opposite direction.

  If he knew that I let my dad in, allowed him to search my house for money, sat silent while he hurled insults at me until he found my emergency cash, would Cameron still feel protective of me? Or would he see me as he did the first night we met? The girl who plays dumb in order to get a man’s attention? Fuck, is the truth really that far off?

  I force my mind to quiet, refusing to ruin any time I have with him by overthinking. His attention on something other than me provides the perfect opportunity to gawk. He’s leaning back against the headboard, shirtless, sheet pulled up to his waist, but low enough to show the muscles of his lower abdomen that form a V, like a runway pointing down with a sign that screams “kiss, lick, and sit here.” My eyes devour every inch of his exposed skin. For a guy with a desk job, he sure as hell has the body of an athlete. I round the side of the bed, taking in his ribcage, and my jaw drops as I get a closer look at his tattoos. From his hip up, his ribs are waves of water, but not done in bright blues, but rather variations of black and gray that dec
orate the cuts of his muscles.

  “Eve?”

  My eyes dart to his, which are narrowed on me. “Huh?”

  I drop my chin and study the empty spot at his side: big overstuffed pillows, luxurious chocolate brown sheets that I’m sure cost a fortune, and an equally decadent looking comforter. It’s too good: all of it, him, this room, and these sheets. How can I take what I know I’m not worthy of? Shut up, Eve! I’ll never convince him that I’m good enough if I don’t at least act as if I’m good enough.

  He pulls back the sheet and I smile, crawling in and—ohhh, yeah. These sheets are amazing, like spun silk and other amazing things that I’ve yet to experience. My head hits the pillow, and a deep moan vibrates from my chest.

  “Trying hard to make tonight about you, babe, but you strut in here in those tiny shorts and that damn top, and you’re making it impossible to keep my dick in check.” There’s that tiny lift to his lips, but his eyes are all glare.

  My heart beats faster, and butterflies swirl in my belly and head south. “Tonight’s all about me, but um”—I stretch and a yawn falls from my lips—“it’s after midnight, so tonight is technically tomorrow morning.” I nuzzle into the soft down pillow. Damn, I knew I was tired, but this bed is like an instant sleeping pill.

  He hits the light, and we’re plunged into darkness. “True, but we’re both beat, and I’ve been wanting this body in my arms since I saw you walk into the party.”

  Strong hands grip my waist and tug me across the bed before his arms engulf me and press me to his chest. My eyes roll back in my head at the feeling of comfort and safety the simple act brings.

  “Go to sleep.” His hold on me tightens. “I’ll fuck you for breakfast.”

  My eyes fly open with the force of my laughter. “I love you when you sweet-talk me.”

  His body goes tense at my side.

  No, no! That’s not what I meant. “I love it when you sweet-talk. It.” Oh shit. My muscles go rigid. It’s not like I said “I love you”. Well maybe technically I did, but there’s no way he thinks that, right? Shit, shit, shit!

  My skin flames with embarrassment. It’s probably best if I pretend it never happened and hope he chalks it up to a long night. I take a shaky breath. “Good night.”