No Falling Allowed (No Kissing Allowed)

by Melissa West

  Pulling out my cell, I checked the time, then hit the number I’d called no less than a dozen times since I’d landed at JFK that morning. The phone rang in long whines, and like always, I tensed, worry replacing ease so quickly that I wondered if I would ever truly relax again. Maybe this was what Mom and Dad had felt like all those years, when reckless became my middle name, and I spent far too many nights sobering up in Fred’s jail cell, a new drug in my system and new ink on my body—and no memory to how either had gotten there.

  “Noah!”

  The voice hit me straight in the heart, and I smiled as I slithered through the forever-busy streets of New York on my way to the subway so I could make it to Route 6 on time. “Hey, buddy. How was school today?”

  “Loooong.”

  I laughed. “It gets easier.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I chuckled again. The kid was only nine and already he wanted to drop out of school. He was so much like me. “Yeah, but you still have to go. How are you going to become an astronaut without going to school? Hate to tell you this, but you’re going to need lots of school. College. Then some advanced college. Then probably a PhD. Then more certification or some shit. Before long, you’re going to have more degrees in your house than walls. They’ll talk about you on the news and everything.”

  “You really think so?”

  “With you? I know so.” My chest buzzed with warmth, and I wished I could get back home that second and tell him how great he was going to be in person so that doubt would disappear from his voice. It was hard to believe in dreams when you lived in Cricket Creek, South Carolina, but he would reach every dream he could conjure up. Even if I had to work myself to the bone for him to do it. A yawn sounded from the other side of the phone, and I slowed. “Get a good night’s rest, and hug Aunt Sandy for me.”

  “I will.”

  “Love you, Noah.”

  I swallowed. “Love you, too, kid.”

  The subway was more crowded than normal, and as I stood there, trying not to take in the people around me and failing because I’d always been a people watcher, I wondered what I was doing there. Why had I agreed to this trip? A visit with family, sure, but in all honesty, I’d needed a break from responsibility. From the constant schedule that had taken over my life.

  I woke at six every morning to work out, then the rigidity began. Teeth brushing, packing lunches, driving to school, opening the bar, football practice, soccer practice, baseball practice, Boy Scout meetings. Then came the homework and homework and more homework, half of which I couldn’t even understand because they dropped normal math for some method that resembled a foreign language. I was tired, dead tired, and I needed a break. What was so wrong with a break?

  Yet, here and now, all I wanted was to go home.

  I was a mess, and besides, I didn’t deserve the right to complain. So, ordering myself to shut the hell up, I dropped my head and focused on my boots, ignoring the faces around me.

  Before long, I exited the subway and hit the sidewalk again. The bright red and blue sign for Route 6 appeared a block away, and instantly, my chest felt lighter. At least for the next few hours I could disappear into my element, and then maybe I’d seek out an early flight home.

  Pushing inside, my gaze caught on Charlie—the grungy bartender fixed behind the cherry wood bar, dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans, like always. More ink than skin on his arms, and a man bun that somehow worked wonders with the ladies despite the fact that from behind the dude looked like a chick.

  I smiled the moment he spotted me, less out of genuine excitement at seeing my cousin and more because he hated smiles—said he couldn’t trust people who smiled too much. Still, before this morning, it’d been a year since I’d seen him or his brother Marc—the sick cousin who was supposed to work the Met gig—and I missed them. So smile I did.

  “Finally! Get your sorry ass in here. We’re slammed already.”

  I peered around the bar. “There’s maybe twenty people in here.”

  Charlie followed my gaze, then eyed the windows. “Seriously? Where the fuck is everybody?”

  My lips twitched.

  He pointed at me, and I lifted a fist to knock knuckles with him, a truce that I’d choose a less joyful expression for the night and he’d try to be less of a dick. Try the operative word there.

  “They’ll come. They always do. Okay if I head to the back to change?”

  Charlie eyed my waiter outfit, and his mouth curved like he wanted to smile, but wasn’t quite sure how. “Well, you sure as hell ain’t wearing that in here.” I disappeared into the back and pulled my phone and wallet out of my pants, set them on a shelf full of liquor bottles, then unzipped the small black duffle I’d brought with me—the only thing I’d brought with me for the weekend.

  Immediately, I spotted a folded piece of construction paper on top, the corners folded to keep the letter together, a makeshift envelope. Swallowing, I reached for the paper and folded back the corners, careful not to rip them, and then peered down at the drawing and the note below it—a stick figure with dark brown hair and blue eyes scribbled into the right place, blue colored over the pants like jeans, and a boxy green shirt on the top of the figure, the words Hunter’s Place across it at an angle because the kid had never been able to write straight.

  It’d been something they’d worked on in school for weeks now, each progress report noting his handwriting, until finally I’d showed up, demanding to see Mrs. Blake’s damn handwriting if she was such an expert at it. She stopped mentioning it in his reports.

  Focusing back on the drawing, I took in the words MY HERO and a list. My throat closed up as I read each word.

  My brother is a hero because:

  1. He makes me Mac & Cheese when I’m sick.

  2. He plays video games with me long past bedtime when I can’t sleep.

  3. He lets me sit on the bar and never tells me to be careful.

  4. He taught me to throw a fastball.

  5. He let’s me sleep with him when I’m scared.

  6. He reads Harry Potter to me.

  7. He never asks me to make my bed.

  8. He protects me from bad guys.

  9. He takes me to see all the best movies.

  10. He didn’t go to Heaven.

  The knot in my stomach tightened, and even as I tried to push it down, I knew it wouldn’t fully go away until I made it back home. What the hell was I thinking? Of myself, that was what. I’d needed a weekend away, to breathe, to think, to feel like a man again. It’d been so long since I’d been able to think of anything other than my responsibilities that I felt drowned by them. But at the end of the day, this life of mine wasn’t about me. Not now.

  Grabbing my phone, I called LaGuardia, pushed all the numbers necessary to get me to a person, then as soon as her voice filled the phone said, “I need a flight out to Atlanta. Tomorrow.”

  After going over every available option, all they had was an expensive-as-hell first class spot on a flight early in the morning, but it’d have to do. I couldn’t wait until Sunday to head back.

  “What the hell you doing?” Charlie called from the door. “Crowd has arrived. Need ya out here.”

  “Be right there,” I told him. Then, to the airport attendant, “Yeah, book it.” I recited the credit card info from memory, because for some reason my brain liked numbers and they settled into my mind like some people remembered faces or names. Only, I never remembered faces or names, likely because I didn’t give two shits about anyone but my family and the few people I counted as friends. Even those could slip out of my mind if they weren’t careful. I learned the hard way what mattered, and it sure as hell wasn’t useless people who took more time than they gave, only to disappoint you.

  “Hunter. Get your ass out here.”

  “Yeah, coming.” I quickly tore off my white button down from the Met event, my thoughts drifting to that sassy Yankee there, with her long black hair and even longer legs. I wonder
ed if she’d take the bait and show tonight, though even if she did, what would I do? What could I do?

  Nothing. That girl wasn’t my type, and I sure as hell wasn’t hers.

  I slid on my long-sleeved, gray waffle-knit shirt, the words Hunter’s Place etched in green on the front making me feel a little bit more at home, then threw on my jeans and shoved my feet back into my boots. I tossed everything into my bag, pocketed my cell and wallet, and set out to the bar, and damn, Charlie was right.

  The crowd of twenty had exploded to probably a hundred, with a line outside waiting to get in. That’s what happened when Charlie offered a new drink and gave out the first one free. Plus, this wasn’t just any drink—it was one of my creations, and one of the most popular drinks I served back at Hunter’s Place. Everyone who tried it begged me to offer up the recipe, but so far no one had weaseled it out of me. Charlie always said I should bottle the shit and make a fortune, but I didn’t need or care for money. The important things couldn’t be bought, anyway.

  I’d just decided that my mood was shot for the night, when I locked onto the farthest right spot from where I stood. And just like that, my dark mood lightened.

  Three women appeared to be arguing, even though two were smiling, and one was most certainly the sassy chick from the Met. I tried to remember her name and drew a blank, but I’d recognize her face anywhere. It was perfect in a way that made me question whether it’d been a gift from God or created by an expert surgeon.

  Back home, women owned their imperfections or covered them with makeup. Here in New York, an imperfection was easily corrected by a quick trip to the doc.

  “You good to cover the right?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m there.”

  Normally, I’d try to get a feel for the crowd around a bar, start in on my thing, which worked well the previous times I’d helped Charlie out, but here and now, all I could do was focus on the woman who’d assured me she wouldn’t show, wouldn’t change her mind, couldn’t care less about me or Route 6. Yet here she was.

  The small victory reminded me of my high school days, back when Jonah wasn’t mine, and all I thought about was whatever ball was in my hand and whatever skirt sat beside me. It may have been a shitty way to live, but damn if it wasn’t fun.

  “Hey there, City. Thought you didn’t change your mind.”

  Her eyes hit mine and holy hell. Emerald green cradled in full, black lashes and a commanding look that suggested she led, never followed. Which all meant I was in trouble even before she spoke. Few women could level you with a simple look, and fewer showed something deeper within that gaze—a hint at thoughts other than hair or nails or makeup or the next purchase. Then again, I didn’t know this chick, and she could just as soon be my worst nightmare. “What can I say? I was dragged here by force. The restraining order has been filed, and my new friends should be delivered any moment.” She checked her watch for effect, her front teeth clamping down over her full bottom lip.

  Did I mention holy hell?

  “There are worse places to be dragged by force.”

  I grabbed a shaker, threw together the ingredients Charlie had already set out for the drink, and shook it up, my eyes back on hers. I could stare at this girl all day, listen to that silky voice, and never grow bored.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Maybe.” Her gaze traveled around the bar, landing on a couple who’d already had too much to drink and clearly forgotten they were in public. “Or maybe not.”

  I released a slow laugh. “Damn, girl. Where’d you come from?”

  “My mother claims me, though I have my doubts.”

  Another chuckle broke free, and she rewarded me with a smile that had me transfixed. For once, I wasn’t thinking about all the things I should be doing, my responsibilities, my real life. I wasn’t thinking about anything other than this woman in front of me, and how for a few brief seconds I could forget all the rest.

  “You said you’re only here for the weekend, right? So where are you from?” she asked, leaning forward a bit now, likely so she could hear over the noise, but a small part of me took it as another victory. I wanted to ask her name so I could start calling her by it, in my head and aloud, but we’d barely tiptoed into the comfort zone. Something told me forgetting her name would pull her back to whatever cold place she’d slipped into at the Met.

  “Cricket Creek.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Seriously? That’s a place?”

  “Now, now. Do I detect northern condescension?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I grinned or maybe I’d never stopped grinning. Clearly any game I had disappeared the moment I met this woman. “At least you’re honest. I like that.” And I did. Most women said one thing, thought another. It was refreshing to meet someone who laid it all out there, take it or leave it, and hell if I didn’t want to take in every last drop.

  Focusing back on making drinks, I tried to rein in my thoughts because they were heading south and fast. I was flying out first thing in the morning. The last thing I needed was to get messed up with some chick I’d never see again. Priorities first. Always. I never deviated. Which was why, though I owned a bar, I rarely drank back home. Worry over an emergency popping up with Jonah, and me being too drunk to get there, always kept me on the careful side.

  “It’s a small town in South Carolina, just over the Georgia-South Carolina line. Though both states are still fighting over who gets to claim it.”

  “Why?”

  I rested my elbows on the bar and bent toward her, eager to reveal what made Cricket Creek worth a damn. At least to the rest of the country. “Mary Beth Orchards is in Cricket Creek.”

  Her blank stare told me she had no clue what the hell I was talking about, which disappointed me more than it should. I took for granted that everyone knew where MB Preserves and Wines came from, when really most people probably didn’t give a damn, preferring to just eat their jam and drink their wine.

  “MB Preserves and MB Wines?”

  Finally realization crossed her face. “Seriously? So MB is Mary Beth?”

  I nodded. “Mary Beth Brockton, wealthiest woman in the Creek, likely one of the wealthiest in the South. Tourists come through all the time, hence the battle of the states. Georgia would love a piece of that business, but Mary Beth is fiercely loyal to South Carolina, especially after that issue with her sister.”

  “What issue?”

  I flashed her a grin. “Now, now, City. You didn’t think I’d give away all the town’s secrets on our first date, did you?”

  She blanched, the look so freaking hilarious I almost asked her to do it again. “Are you insane? This isn’t a date. We’re in a bar. You’re the bartender. That’s not a date.”

  “Yeah…you say tomato, I say tomahto.” God, she was fun to mess with, and I was tempted to keep it going, but at her pointed look, I relented. “All right, fine. If this isn’t the real deal, then what’s your idea of a date?” I leaned in, my elbows resting on the bar again. A spicy, floral scent hit me, a hint of vanilla on its wake like an afterthought, and despite myself—and the risk of her decking me—I edged closer until we were inches apart. She swallowed hard as her eyes found mine. “Go ahead, city girl. I’m all ears.”

  Her throat worked again, slower this time, drawing my attention down. I wondered if her skin tasted like it smelled, if the mix of sweet and spicy would intoxicate my mouth the way it had my brain.

  I needed to get away from this girl before I did something stupid.

  “Well, he shows up at my door and—”

  “Let me guess, with flowers?”

  She cocked her head at me. “Am I describing this date or are you?”

  I lifted my hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Go, I’m listening. Intently.”

  “You sound smarter than a bartender.”

  “You sound dumber than a socialite, so we’ll assume the ‘ass’ in assumption is right about now. Keep going.”

  For a mom
ent she said nothing, and I thought I went too far, but I wasn’t the kind of guy to allow someone to insult me without a comeback. I was Southern, not stupid, and if not for my curiosity I would have ditched her right then. But behind the idiocy of the comment, her tone held a true interest that was almost innocent, and I wondered if she’d ever been down South in her life. If she’d ever been around people who worked with their hands and their hearts, who lived paycheck to paycheck and bought generic because they couldn’t afford the name-brand stuff.

  “I’m not dumb.” Her tone held more offense than I’d have expected from someone with the amount of arrogance she threw around. Once again, she surprised me.

  “No, you’re not.” My eyes met hers, refusing to let up, and she reached for her drink at the same time that I pushed it toward her, our fingers brushing over the cold glass. Instantly, my heartbeat kicked up, and my focus drifted to our hands, mine rough, hers perfectly manicured. Nothing about this seemed right. This chick should be talking to the pack of suits to my left, all of them checking her out like they were waiting for me to leave so the luckiest dick in the pack could weasel his way into her world. But right or not, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I…”

  “Go on.” This time when she glanced up, her carefully constructed demeanor cracked, and something stirred deep inside me. I wanted to pull her into my arms that second, my lips on hers, every bit of hesitation and appropriateness be damned. But then she straightened, her control snapping into place, and I wished I could ask her to go back to the girl she’d shown me mere seconds before.

  “Flowers die, so no. No flowers. He would be impeccably dressed for dinner, and would take me somewhere nice but not overly formal. He’d choose our wine, but would never try to order for me. We’d talk about our work, our education, a hint of something more. Then he’d walk me to my door, kiss my cheek, and say thank you and good night. He’d call the next morning and ask for a second date.”

  “That sounds boring as all hell.”

  “It does not.”

  “It does. And you know it.”

  “Let me guess, it wouldn’t be boring with you, right?” she asked, her face matching her patronizing tone.