Don't Fall

by K. S. Thomas

  For a moment, I consider walking back and asking, but I’m tired and ready to be done, so I decide she’s probably on the phone with Beck and not even talking to me.

  Releasing one can, I use that hand to push down on the door handle. Then, remembering how damn heavy the door is, I let go of the other trash can as well to push it open. Only tonight it’s not so heavy. In fact, it’s practically flying backwards, dragging me with it at full force. It takes me a second to register the dirty nails on the hand wrapped around the edge of the door, coming from outside. I scream, pulling back with all my might to no avail.

  Whoever is outside, has his boot jammed in between the door and the frame, I’m never getting it closed again.

  “Cara!” I yell at the top of my lungs, desperate to overpower the stupid ice maker beside me. “Cara. Goddammit! Get back here!”

  My heart is pounding so hard in my chest, even it is drowning out my screams.

  I feel my feet begin to skid over the floor, my body being pulled forward and fear barrels through me at the realization that whoever is on the other side of this door is about to be inside. With me. With Cara. And God only knows what he’s after.

  I make one last desperate attempt to ram my knuckles into the fingers wrapped around the door when another set of hands appears from behind. Big hands. Strong hands. Definitely not Cara’s hands. Every instinct to turn my head and see who it is, is thwarted by a far more intense need to face forward because these new hands aren’t jamming the door shut, they’re here to shove it open. As soon as they do, they reveal the man on the other side of it. I recognize him instantly. He was here all night. Drinking Jim Beam on the rocks and keeping to himself from his corner seat at the bar. He’s not the only one I recognize now.

  I’m barely piecing the current events together, when the whirlwind picks up. Swiftly moving me aside and out of harm’s way, is Lane.

  Frozen in panic and absolute confusion, I stand along the wall, watching as Lane takes on a guy who has at least fifty pounds of muscle on him. Lane’s not exactly lacking in that department, but this dude is all bulk. Surprised and pissed off bulk!

  The two go at it, fists flying. I see Lane take a hit, but dodge the next. From there he lands two solid punches to the guy’s gut before landing him the final blow to the jaw, causing him to drop back and collapse on the ground.

  I watch as the guy scrambles to his feet and for a second I think he’s coming back for round two, but Lane lunges forward, getting in his face. “It’s done! Get the fuck out of here!”

  A moment’s hesitation is all any of us needs before we hear it. Sirens. The guy bolts and Lane slams the door shut the second he’s out.

  Then, he’s hovering over me.

  I’m on the floor. How did I end up on the floor? My knees must have buckled at some point. That explains why everything seemed larger than life while it was happening.

  “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” His hands are moving gently over my skin, tracing my arms, my shoulders and down my back, checking for marks along the way until he reaches my waist and begins to lift me up again.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble, taking mental inventory of my body. I am fine. The back of my head is a little sore, must have bumped it on my way down to the floor. “Where did you come from?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair and hoping he won’t notice me trying to investigate the small egg forming behind my left ear.

  “Restroom.” His hand follows mine into the tumbleweeds that make up my thick mane. God, he’s observant. “Was this my fault?”

  He’s worried. Upset even.

  “No, I barely touched the wall when you moved me out of the way. Must have happened after.” For the first time since all hell broke loose, we meet each other eye to eye. Something inside me crumbles. Aches. A longing that stems from something far deeper and far more dangerous than the physical escapades we shared last night. It scares me. Only slightly less than the intruder did.

  “You got hurt,” I rasp, my hand reaching for his face and the bruise already forming on the side of his jaw.

  “I’m fine. Believe me. This is nothing,” he says softly, eyes still locked on mine, conveying things I’m not sure I’m ready to know.

  “Cops got him,” Cara announces, breaking our intense moment of silence. “Saw it from the front window. He’s cuffed and standing alongside the car.” The words are barely out of her mouth when a loud banging at the front door draws us all out of the back room and toward the front to meet the police.

  Lane leads the way outside, while Cara tucks in beside me, holding my hand. “That was some scary shit,” she whispers. “Thank God he was still here.” She nods toward him, standing there, greeting the cops, his button up shirt sleeves rolled up a quarter of the way, revealing just enough of his ink to remind me of the constant contradiction this man represents.

  “Yeah,” I agree quietly. “Did you know?”

  “No. I was running back to help you when he came out of nowhere, passing me and yelling out for me to call the cops.” She shrugs. “I don’t even know how he heard you shouting. It took me a second to even make out that you were in trouble. Sound travels horribly in there. Someone really ought to tell Burt.”

  Burt.

  “Speaking of, he’ll probably want to know the cops are here.” Automatically, my hand slides for my back pocket. It’s empty. I turn my head back over my shoulder, as if glancing at the building will help me remember.

  “You left it by the register,” Cara helps me out. Then she takes it a step farther and begins to dial Burt’s number on her own phone. Turns out I couldn’t have called him anyway. I’m being waved over by two police officers, both standing beside Lane whose serious expression warms slightly when it’s directed at me.

  “Guess it’s my turn to talk,” I mumble, releasing Cara’s hand and making my way over to them. Heart jumps up to my throat before I ever get there and I don’t know if it’s the thought of reliving the last ten minutes with a newfound clarity or the pull of Lane’s blue eyes, dragging me under until I’m dizzy and I can’t catch my breath anymore. It’s probably the latter.

  LANE

  I shake out my hand. I’ve been clenching it up every few seconds since I walked out of the men’s room to the sound of Tessa screaming for help. The other thing I can’t seem to rid myself of is the image of her being dragged out into the alley right along with the door. The fear in her face. The loss of control. The helplessness. Something inside me rages to life every time it flashes in my mind. Doesn’t matter that it’s over. Or that she’s safe, here beside me. It never should have happened. Worse, it could happen again. And next time, I might not be there.

  Just like that, I fucking hate her job. The feel of my nails digging into my palm again tells me I hate it a lot. It also reminds me I care. More than I want to admit. More than I know what to do with.

  Maybe I should let her go on hating me. Maybe it would be best for both us in the long run if she went on not speaking to me, or looking me in the eye. And maybe the thought alone just made me ball my fist so hard, my nails drew blood.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tessa

  By the time Burt shows up, the cops are finished with me and Cara, but now the creepy dude is wailing about being assaulted, so Lane’s caught up in the mix all over again, this time around with Burt, who’s all too happy to march everyone back inside for a nice viewing of the security tapes.

  Well, everyone except Cara and I. The two of us are sitting together, huddled against one another on the bench near the main doors where we have a clear shot at everyone in the office without having to be crammed in there beside everyone else. Feels safer that way somehow. Even more so because I notice Lane glances out to check on me every ten seconds or so.

  “Still think he’s an asshole out to torture you?” Cara mumbles under her breath.

  “I’m willing to give up the asshole argument, but I think we both know, this will end up being torture for me, no matter which way it
goes,” I whisper back, slouching down a little more, depleted of the energy required for sitting upright.

  “You need therapy in such a big way,” she says dryly.

  I laugh.

  “I’m serious. The kind of issues you have, you need a professional to fix.”

  I laugh harder.

  “Why the hell is this so funny?”

  Tears. I’m crying real tears I’m laughing so hysterically. “Because,” I say, gasping for air and trying to get ahold of myself mid-hysterics, “he’s my psyche professor.”

  “Oh.” Cara’s stern frustration starts to melt away. “Wow. Talk about convenient.”

  And now, we’re both laughing. So much so, we’re drawing all sorts of attention from the men in the office. Well, all of them except for Burt, who just waves us off in a dismissive gesture grumbling, “Yeah, they do that.”

  By the time we manage to quiet down, Lane is free to go thanks to a very clear shot on the surveillance tape proving that creeper dude was in fact the aggressor, and Burt is shooing us all out of the building, insisting he’ll worry about getting the place cleaned up in the morning. We’ve had enough for one night, and frankly, so has he.

  “I’ll drive,” Lane says, his hand on my lower back guiding me into the parking lot.

  At least five different arguments spring to the tip of my tongue at once. The fact I’m fully capable of driving and I don’t want to leave my car jumping to the forefront, but I don’t say anything. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other until we reach his vehicle. Whether he’s oblivious enough to believe it should always be this simple with me or rather prefers not to tempt fate by saying anything else, I don’t know, either way, we both remain silent even as he opens the door for me to get in, and then when he joins me in the car and starts it up.

  We’re halfway home when I conclude the silence is worse than any attempts at awkward small talk could possibly be.

  “Finally decided to make contact with your past again?” I ask, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

  “Not exactly,” he says quietly.

  I turn to look at him. “You were with a whole group of people tonight. And I didn’t know any of them, so they were your people. From wherever you’re from.”

  “They were not my people,” he answers quietly, “They were my sister’s people.”

  “You have a sister?” I probably didn’t need to sound quite so surprised. I mean, he could have a sister. He could have ten for all I know.

  “I do.”

  “Older? Younger?”

  His lips hitch up ever so slightly. “Older. By about three minutes.”

  “You’re a twin?” Now I really am surprised. Legitimately. I mean, being a twin, I feel like that’s something you tell people. Up front. Like, hey, my name is Michael McMichael and I’m a twin. At least that’s how I would do it if I were a twin. That’s some cool shit.

  “I’m a twin.”

  “I feel like you should elaborate,” I explain, quite impatiently.

  He sighs in his dramatic but entertained way. “Alexis. That’s her name. Outside of having shared a womb for nearly nine months, we have virtually nothing in common. She’s a pediatric surgeon, married to her college sweetheart. Went to all the finest schools. Graduated with honors. She’s perfect, basically.”

  “I don’t know how that means you have nothing in common. Some might argue you two are very similar. You know, minus the relationship status.”

  He shakes his head. “Trust me. Not similar enough. Just ask my parents.”

  I frown. “Are you about to tell me you’re like the black sheep of your family or something? You? The psychiatrist with his beach front office?”

  “In a family of medical doctors who like wielding a scalpel, being the guy who prefers to dissect his patient’s feelings over their insides, doesn’t earn you high points. Believe me.”

  I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Families are complicated. I know that better than most.

  “If you have nothing in common, how did she make it through your whole no overlapping the past and present rule?” I ask instead.

  “According to her, we’re two halves of the same whole, therefore any attempts to shut her out are futile. If I’m there, she’s there.” He grins. “She’s not wrong.”

  “So, you’re close. Even though you’re different.”

  He nods. “Yeah. That whole womb thing, it stays with ya.” He turns toward me briefly and winks. Then, his attention is back on the road, or our road, to be more specific. I didn’t realize we were home already.

  “I’m glad,” I mumble, unbuckling as the car comes to a stop. “Everyone needs someone like that.”

  “Like you have Drea,” he points out.

  “Yeah.” We may as well have shared a womb, as close as we are.

  Both of us moving especially slow after our long night out, we make our way up the three flights of stairs toward our apartment.

  I reach the door first and unlock it, letting us both in. I hear Lane click the deadbolt into place behind me and feel the tension release from my neck and shoulders almost instantly. It’s been a crazy night, scary and crazy. But we’re home. And for the first time since I walked in and found Lane here, I’m grateful I’m not alone.

  Stopping short before I reach my bedroom door, I turn around to face him. I take a deep breath. And then ~

  “Thanks.” Such a lame word. It’s so puny compared to what I’m feeling. Which reminds me of the other puny lame words I need to say to him. “And...I’m sorry.”

  His head shifts sideways just enough to meet my gaze in a sweet sort of manner. “For what?”

  “You know, just letting my crazy spill out all over you in full-on bitch mode throughout most of our interactions.”

  He grins. It’s adorable and lickable and I close my eyes to keep from acting on my impulses.

  “To be fair, I’ve made it extremely easy for you to lash out at me in full-on bitch mode, given you reasons to even.” His hand begins to move toward me, but he stops before making contact with my arm and retracts the motion, placing his hand safely into his pocket instead. I guess I’m not the only one struggling not to touch. Though keeping my tongue to myself should probably be more obvious and more achievable than him refraining from his comparably tame attempt at touching my arm with his fingertips.

  I nod, not sure what else to say here. Probably best to simply end the conversation. Agree to move forward on a more balanced, friendly plane.

  Keeping my eyes turned away from his, I make another attempt to reach my bedroom door, my fingers stretching, tips nearly gripping the handle. I’m seconds from disappearing inside, safe from any more temptation or confusion, but I’m a glutton for punishment, so I stop myself. I open my mouth. I ask.

  “What really happened with Jules?”

  I can feel him take a step closer from behind me, his body heat permeating my own personal space bubble. When he answers, his mouth is so close to me, I can feel his soft breath rush over my bare neck, giving me goosebumps all down my body.

  “Nothing.”

  I absolutely refuse to turn around to face him now. If I do, all sorts of stupid is bound to follow.

  “Then why did she have your phone?”

  He sighs quietly, and I can feel the motion behind me. His face getting ever nearer to my head, his movements mingling with my hair.

  “She said she forgot hers and insisted she needed to take a crapload of selfies with everyone to document the night out and therefore needed to borrow mine.” I can feel him shrug, his body shifting up and down against my back. “I figured worst case scenario, I wind up with some really cute shots of you on my phone and just crop her out of them.”

  Then he goes still. No more shrugging. No more leaning or swaying, or amused dancing about of any kind. His hands find my waist and slowly bring me back around toward him. All plans to avoid eye contact are aborted when I see his face. He’s serious. Dead serious. In an
emotional, scary sort of way. He’s telling the truth.

  “I didn’t sleep with Jules, Tess. I didn’t even know that was her name until I heard you call her by it when we were out. The only reason I went, is because she said it was a group thing and it gave me an excuse to spend more time with you. It wasn’t supposed to be a date at all.”

  The piercing gleam in his eye is enough to make me start to back away, but his grip on me is firm and he stops me. The left corner of his mouth rises briefly, letting me know he noticed my attempted escape.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt,” he whispers in his deep rasp. It’s unhinging-ly sexy and I feel as though parts of me are bursting to break free from the confines of my body. “I don’t want to be someone who hurts you. And if you think I could, then maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Will you? Will you hurt me?” My whisper is more like a squeak and not remotely seductive.

  “I might,” he relents with a strained sigh. Still sexy. “But it won’t be with someone else. This thing between us, it’s just us. I’m not interested in being with any other women. But I also can’t give you more than what it is. This is all I’m offering.”

  “It’s not a bad offer.”

  A gentle curve returns to his perfect lips. “So, you’re accepting?”

  “I’m entertaining.” I’m stalling. I’m totally accepting. Just wrapping my brain around the things my body is fully committed to. “But, I have conditions.”

  “Name them.”

  “This just us business, I want it to apply on all levels. No one needs to know. It’s better for keeping the job you don’t give two shits about, and frankly, better for my reputation which, I do kind of like to maintain.” Not to mention, my scholarship is also kind of riding on playing by all rules, and this, well, clearly doesn’t.

  He leans in and I back up until I’m one with the door behind me. “Anything else?”

  I nod. “You hurt me again, you forfeit your lease.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Also, I think we should probably sleep on the whole thing. Cool down. Make a level-headed decision in the morning when we’re thinking rationally.”