Fall to You

by Lexi Ryan

  “What do you want from me? Tell me and it’s yours.”

  “All I ever wanted was you, Max.”

  “I’m yours. You are the only thing that matters in my world. Don’t you see that?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t.”

  “Take some time. Think about it. Don’t throw this away.”

  I wish I could believe he wanted me for the right reasons. “It’s too late. Knowing the truth hurts too much.”

  “Only because you don’t see yourself the way I see you.”

  “Please…” I take a step back.

  I can’t risk him changing my mind. And I love him too much to explain why I don’t believe him. I love him too much to see the hurt on his face when I tell him what I understand now: that, whether he knows it consciously or not, he wants my money more than he wants me. Needs it more than he needs me. And I love him too much not to make sure he gets at least some of what he needs.

  “Consider my request. Consider keeping this a secret until after you get the grant.”

  “No. Either you’re mine or you’re not.” His voice is a low rumble. “None of this pretend bullshit.”

  A humorless puff of laughter escapes my lips. “The irony.” Then I walk out the door before the last of my willpower dissolves completely.

  FANS MOURN the death of actor, producer, Dritts Crane.

  The tequila warms my throat and belly as I glare at the screen and the picture of my father with his wife and three youngest children.

  My phone buzzes with a text alert.

  Janelle: Can you believe this bullshit? Like he was the world’s best father or something.

  Looks like my sweet twin sister is watching the national coverage of my father’s funeral too. She doesn’t have a concert to perform in three hours, though. I, on the other hand, am going to be on Asher Logan’s shit list if I don’t stop drinking and start sobering up real fucking soon.

  Nate: Turn off the TV. It’s only going to piss you off. Go out with your friends or something.

  Janelle: I would bet money that you’re no better. Probably drinking in your hotel bar and glued to the TV, just like me.

  Nate: Affirmative on the hotel bar. But why be glued to the screen when I can be glued to a willing groupie?

  Janelle: I hate you.

  Nate: Love you too. Turn off the TV and get out of the house.

  Tucking my phone into my pocket, I scan the bar. Truth is, I have no interest in groupies. I’m here incognito in a hat and sunglasses, and I’ve done a rather fine job of avoiding them thus far. If I didn’t have to perform tonight, my date with a bottle of tequila would start now.

  I’m debating another drink when she walks in. Dark hair. Sunglasses. Strappy heels. Snug-fitting black dress and curves from here to California. Damn.

  She heads straight for the bar and slides onto a stool two down from mine. “Vodka cranberry, please?”

  I move toward her, taking a seat next to her as the bartender hands over the drink. “Meeting someone?”

  She downs half the pink liquid in one long pull before settling it on the counter and studying the contents. “Just killing time while my sister screws her boyfriend in his suite.” She doesn’t sound spiteful or jealous, just matter-of-fact.

  “And where’s your boyfriend?” On the scale of lame to rock star, that line lands me closer to a pasty-faced gamer at his first Comic-Con.

  She pulls off her sunglasses and studies me. Her eyes are a dark chocolate brown and her face sweeter than I expected—down to the faint freckles sprinkling the bridge of her nose. “If you’re trying to pick me up, could we just skip to the hot-but-regrettable make-out session in the coatroom?”

  My lips curve into a smile without my permission. It might be the first time I’ve smiled all week. And another first for the week? There’s finally something that sounds better than another shot of tequila. I’m already imagining my hands on her curves as I taste those sweet lips. There’s something about the fact that she said make-out session and not fucking that makes her even more appealing to me.

  She’s sweet, I realize. Sweet women are such a rare breed in LA. It’s hardly something I have to worry about. But sweet means off-limits to men unwilling to part with promises and tomorrows. I can’t remember the last time I kissed a sweet woman. Not worth it. And yet…

  I stand and offer her my hand, but she just frowns at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Let’s go find that coatroom,” I say.

  She grins—a big smile that stretches across her face and shows her white teeth. As far as smiles go, it’s stunning. She’s stunning without it. She doesn’t need anything beyond all her long, dark hair around her shoulders and those killer curves. But that smile nearly knocks me off my feet.

  “You are just that accommodating, huh?” she asks.

  “I aim to please.”

  When she laughs—not a giggle, but a rich, deep belly laugh that carries across the room—I’m once again thinking, Sweet. And I’m feeling one hell of a sweet tooth coming on.

  She shakes her head and offers me her hand. “I’m Hanna.”

  “Nathaniel,” I reply. I’m not sure what makes me use my full name instead of Nate, but it’s probably because I don’t want this moment with this woman to have anything to do with my identity as a musician.

  “Nathaniel,” she repeats, as if testing the weight of it on her tongue. “You look like a Nathaniel. Honest to God, I don’t know many guys who’d come on to a girl while wearing a Star Wars shirt.”

  “You should see my Incredible Hulk tattoo. It makes all the chicks swoon.”

  She grins again. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I would never kid about the Incredible Hulk.”

  “Hmm… Prove it.”

  I raise a brow. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” More laughter, and I feel like a small piece of me—one that once felt irrevocably hardened by this week from hell—warms and softens.

  “What if I don’t have a Hulk tattoo?” She takes another sip of her drink. She might be flirting, but she’s still firmly planted at the bar, no real interest in finding that coatroom with me. Damn.

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “I bet. But good for you for showing your true colors. So many guys just try to be what they think women want.”

  “How do you know that’s not what I’m doing? Haven’t you seen Big Bang Theory? Nerds are all the rage right now.”

  She studies me for a beat. “Batman or Superman?”

  “What’s the metric? Basic coolness? Batman. Ability to kick the most ass and save humankind? Superman.”

  She snorts. “Best Doctor?”

  Curves like that and she knows Doctor Who? I’m fucking toast. When she raises an eyebrow expectantly, I realize I haven’t answered. “Well, I would say Peter Davison, but a more serious dork might say Sylvester McCoy.”

  “You’re definitely not faking it.” Her smile falls away and she swallows hard. “I needed this. Thanks.”

  “Needed what?”

  She shrugs and her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip. “To smile. To feel…like some random guy—nerd or not—might be attracted to me.”

  “You find that coatroom you suggested and I promise to take the might right out of that thought.”

  She bows her head and studies her drink. Her cheeks blaze pink. So sweet. Damn.

  My phone buzzes, and I know without looking that it’s time to go meet Asher and warm up for our performance tonight. As much as I’d like to stay and flirt with this beauty, I owe too much to Asher to screw this up.

  “I have to go,” I say reluctantly. “Duty calls.”

  “Comic book convention?”

  “Something like that. Have a nice night.” Then I walk away because I don’t have any tomorrows or promises to offer.

  But damn if this sweet tooth isn’t nagging at me.

  WE COLLAPSE onto the couch, breathing hard, sweating like fools.

  “On second thought,” Wi
ll grumbles, “this couch is a piece of shit and we definitely shouldn’t bother moving it.”

  I push off the couch in question and every muscle screams. “I’ll go grab the beer.”

  “I can’t believe you sold your house,” Will says.

  I open up the little fridge, pull out two beers, and twist off the caps. “Grandma would understand.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ll tell me if you need more, right? Because I can help.”

  “I’ll make it work. I have some contingencies lined up.”

  Will downs half his beer in one gulp before leaning his head back into the cushions. “Next time, I’m just giving you the cash to hire movers,” he mutters.

  “And deprive me the view?” Cally calls from the door. “I watched you muscle that monster up those stairs. Sexiest thing I’ve seen all day.”

  “Haven’t looked in a mirror, have you?” Will says. He pushes off the couch and groans. “Damn, Max. I thought I was in good shape, but now I just feel like a senior citizen.”

  “Come on, old man,” Cally says. “I know someone who can give you a massage.”

  Will grins, gives his fiancée a once-over, then hesitates. “I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

  She nods and leaves us alone.

  Will looks around the tiny studio apartment that sits above my health club. I’d been using it for storage since I bought the space a couple of years ago, but now it will be my home. For a while, at least.

  “Is your mom upset about you selling the house?”

  I shake my head. It was a hard choice to sell the house Grandma left me when she died, but it was the right one. Despite everything, I’m sure of that. “Mom understands.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on with Hanna?”

  I take a pull off my beer and attempt a smile, but a smile is a lie and I can’t lie to my best friend. I’ve hardly slept, Hanna isn’t returning my texts, and my life just isn’t my favorite thing right now.

  When I lift my head to look at Will, that big-brother concern is all over his face. “She broke up with me.” I have to tell someone, and if anyone can relate to desperate, pathetic, heartbroken attempts to win back the woman you love, it’s William Bailey. To think that once I didn’t understand that about him.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I thought you were going to propose. What happened?”

  I swallow around the tangled ball of emotion in my throat. “Meredith.” I don’t have to say any more before Will is wincing.

  “What did she do?”

  I shake my head. “She forwarded Hanna some texts from back in December. Pretty damning.”

  “You fucked around on Hanna?”

  I study my beer. Really damn interesting, beer is. Much better than looking at your friend when you’re telling him what a fuck-up you are. “When Hanna and I started dating, I was still hung up on Meredith. You know what a screwed-up past we have. And the first few times I went out with Hanna, I wasn’t really interested. I didn’t see her, you know? She was just that cute girl who’d always had a thing for me. I thought I’d give her a self-esteem boost.”

  William’s breath draws in with a sharp hiss.

  “I know. It’s bad, but it didn’t seem so terrible at the time. I figured we’d go on a few dates and she’d realize I wasn’t what she built me up to be in her mind. Then we’d go our separate ways.”

  “But that’s not what happened,” Will says.

  “No.” I shake my head and lift my gaze to the ceiling. “I fell so hard for her. I mean, it’s like she looked at me and saw this amazing man, and suddenly I wanted to be that guy. I wanted to be better. To earn it. Does that make sense?”

  “Been there,” Will whispers. “I get it.”

  I blow out a long breath. “So I’d gone on a couple of dates with Hanna when Meredith talked me into coming over to see her. At that point, I still thought nothing would come of me and Hanna. I got over there, and as soon as Meredith and I started messing around, all I could think about was Hanna. I kissed Meredith and wondered what it’d be like to kiss Hanna. I got out of there, but…now Hanna knows. She knows I asked her out for all the wrong reasons, and she knows I went to Meredith that night. I hurt her.”

  “Shit. So it’s over?”

  I nod. “Yeah. But she’s so fucking sweet she swore me to secrecy about the breakup. She wants her mom to help me get that grant for the gym, and she’s afraid I won’t get it if her mom knows we broke up.”

  “You’re going to stand for that? Some fake relationship just so you can get some grant money?”

  “We both know this isn’t about the money.” I lock my eyes with his. “If you thought you’d lost Cally, wouldn’t you carry on in a charade of a relationship if it meant you got more time with her? If you thought it might mean a chance to win her back?”

  Will exhales heavily and nods. “Fuck. Yeah. I would.” He drags a hand through his hair. “If Meredith sent Hanna those texts, you can count on her being a problem. Watch out.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll let me know if I can help?”

  I grimace. “Seriously? Your fiancée is outside that door, ready to take you home and get you naked, and you’re still standing here trying to get me to take your money?”

  Will grins. “Good point. See you later. I’m sorry about Hanna, but hang in there. She’ll come around.”

  I pretend hearing her name doesn’t make me want to double over. I follow him to the door, shutting it behind him. When I’m left alone in the silence, I sink to the floor and cradle my head in my hands.

  Because this is my life now. Alone in this shit excuse for an apartment, up to my eyeballs in debt and secrets, and in love with a woman who wants nothing to do with me.

  A YEAR ago, if someone had told me that my life would soon involve hanging out backstage with Asher “Sexy Beast” Logan right before one of his performances, I would have accused them of peeking into my fantasies. Of course, in those fantasies I would have been the one on the gorgeous rocker’s arm, not my sister, Maggie. Also, in those fantasies, I was grinning and joyful, not sipping my vodka cranberry and quietly nursing a broken heart.

  Asher’s been touring to promote his new album, Unbreak Me, and though his fifty-show tour at small colleges across the US is small beans compared to the tours he used to do with Infinite Grey, he’s still on the road more often than he’s at home, and that’s hard on Maggie.

  So I agreed to drive the four hours to the tiny liberal arts school outside of St. Louis so we could see Asher perform. Because that’s what I do. I make decisions that make people happy. Regardless of what I might need myself.

  “Chin up, buttercup,” Maggie says. “I want to introduce you to Nate Crane.”

  I lift my head and suddenly I’m sucking in air because my eyes are connected with the man who flirted with me earlier. He’d had a hat and sunglasses on in the bar, and I hadn’t recognized him, but this time his identity is clear.

  “Hanna, this is Nate Crane. Nate, this is Hanna, my sister.”

  His eyes sweep over me the way a guy’s eyes are supposed to sweep over a girl. The way Asher’s eyes sweep over Maggie every time she enters a room. The way William’s eyes sweep over Cally when he doesn’t think she’s looking. It sends a little buzz through me that’s not quite a chill but not quite electric either. Just a nice, warm shimmy of sensation that starts at my core and radiates out through my limbs.

  Then I check behind me because I’m sure I’m mistaken. He was just playing around at the bar, right? I mean, guys don’t look at me like that. They look at my sisters like that; they look at my best friends like that.

  “Maggie never told me her sister was so gorgeous,” Nate says, putting an end to any debate over his attraction to me.

  My cheeks warm with a flush I can feel all the way from my chest to my hairline.

  “Maggie, I did tell you I have a thing for sweet girls who blush, didn’t I? Is she my birthday present? I’d s
ay you shouldn’t have, but I’d be lying.” He says all this without taking his eyes off me. His gaze drifts over me again, slower this time, lingering at my waist, my hips, my feet in strappy, heeled sandals. “I was a good boy this year. I deserve her.”

  Maggie thumps him in the chest with the back of her hand. “She’s a woman, not some trinket or object that can be given.”

  “Oh,” he says, his voice so low I can barely make it out, “I noticed she’s a woman.”

  “We met earlier,” I say quickly. “In the bar. He’s just teasing.”

  Maggie huffs. “Deserve or not, you can’t have her. Hanna has a boyfriend.”

  Oh, no. No, Hanna doesn’t. But I didn’t tell Maggie about Max. It hurt too much to share what I’d learned. I’m too proud to share it. And if I want to keep our split a secret, I couldn’t really tell her if I wanted to. I can’t risk telling anyone.

  Nate takes my hand, clearly undeterred by the mention of competition. “Tell me she’s lying. Please? It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

  “And you wanted me to jump out of a cake for you?” I retort, but I let him play with my fingers and try to keep my breathing steady. His touch brings back something I didn’t think anyone but Max could make me feel.

  “I wouldn’t complain.”

  I’m fresh out of spunk, and stare stupidly. Nate Crane is six feet some-odd inches of deliciously tatted, freshly showered rocker. In ripped-up jeans and a Star Wars tee, he exudes a geekiness that’s only amplified by the tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves. The rest of him is essentially a catalogue of every woman’s fantasy. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, shaggy, dark hair still wet from his shower and curling slightly at the ends. Those intense eyes that seem to be smiling at me as he follows the lines of my palm with his calloused fingertips. He hadn’t really been on my radar until this year, when he started performing with Asher at a lot of his tour stops. They’re old friends, apparently.