by Piper Lawson
Rise
Piper Lawson
RISE
I’m Riley McKay. The perfect boyfriend.
Why? I’m rich, good looking, and can climb a mountain with my bare hands. I remember birthdays and anniversaries. And I’m a seriously decent guy.
Your mom will love me. Your dad will respect me (in that grudging way dads do when they know you’re screwing their daughter).
And when it ends, which—let’s be honest—it always does…
I’m nice then too.
There’s nothing missing from my rinse-and-repeat life. Definitely not the girl who walked away ten years ago without a word.
The one who drops back into my life like a fireball when I least expect it.
The only woman I couldn’t do ‘nice’ with.
They say you can’t rise without the fall.
With her, I’ve already fallen. And no matter how sexy she is, how beautiful, or confident or edgy… I won’t fall for Sam again.
Because falling is easy. It’s getting up that’s a b*tch.
1
Friends who move coke
“That is one handsome dude. Sure he’s yours?” I looked from the baby to my best friend, Max. His eyes narrowed.
“There’s a very short visitors list at the nurses’ station, Ry. I can’t remember why we put you on it.”
Some babies are ugly. There’s no way around it. You still say nice things while channeling your inner Daniel-Day-Lewis-gunning-for-an-Oscar.
I didn’t have to fake it.
Sleepy, intelligent blue eyes peered back at me from his tiny face. He was all pale pink skin, with a smattering of dark hair on his head.
Nestled in his parents’ arms in the private hospital room, he looked extraordinarily chill for only having been on the planet about three hours.
As for his parents, Max’s electric blue eyes were soft, the tic in his jaw gone for the first time I could remember. Payton’s dark hair was pushed back from her heart-shaped face, and she looked beat but damned beautiful.
“How was the delivery?”
“About how you’d expect for pushing a volleyball out of your body. Did you bring it?” Payton asked hopefully.
I held out the watermelon slushy.
“You are a god, Riley McKay.”
“I love it when women tell me that.” I set the massive bouquet of flowers I’d bought on the way over—apparently less popular than Payton’s favorite drink—on the particleboard table next to the bed. Judging by the card next to the giant stuffed teddy bear, I was second on the scene after Payton’s mom.
Soon the place would be crawling with well-wishers.
The news had sent ripples through Titan Games once I’d announced the CEO’s girlfriend had gone into labor this afternoon. Our company of quirky developers had been whispering and giggling like teenage girls at a Justin Bieber concert.
I studied the new arrival. He had my friend’s chin but everything else was Payton. “So. This dude got a name? I’ve always liked Riley, if you're looking for—”
“Tristan.” I’d expected the word from Payton, but it was my best friend who met my gaze. “Tristan Taylor Donovan.”
I’d seen Max in a relationship before—married, in fact—but they never had this vibe that Max and Payton had.
Payton was as driven as Max. An account manager at a bank, she worked with entrepreneurs and business owners of every shape and size, which was how they’d met. How she’d tamed my cynical but good-hearted friend was still a mystery of X-Files proportions.
“What are you doing?” Max asked when I pulled out my phone.
“Documenting. Sharing.” Payton smiled, my friend frowned, and Tristan continued to breathe as I clicked the camera button. “This is the Lion King. I am digital Rafiki.”
I posted the photo to our team’s Slack channel, then pocketed the phone.
“You’re a softie, Ry,” Payton commented.
“I am a battle-hardened legal genius. I refuse to be described otherwise.”
The last time I was in a maternity ward was when my older sister Grace gave birth to her daughter four years ago. My parents and my younger sister Annie and I had sat anxiously waiting. Grace’s husband Jeremy was in with her, and I’d felt a physical relief when my brother-in-law had stuck his head out and said everything was all clear.
Now I was here with my best friend and the woman he loved.
I’d forgotten how babies had a way of bringing up all the feels.
“Just wait,” Payton told me. “This’ll be you soon.”
I pretended to look offended, even as I bent to stroke Tristan’s soft cheek. “What makes you think I’m gunning to expand the McKay family? I work sixteen-hour days playing Spock to this guy’s Kirk.” I nodded to Max. “When I’m done I barely have time to get to the gym and pay the mortgage.”
Her mouth twitched. “You say that as if ‘in a relationship’ isn’t your natural state. You love to be in love, but it's been months since you dated. Something’s gotta give.”
“Well, with Max off the market I might be Titan Games’ most eligible bachelor.”
I don't harbor misconceptions about being alone forever. I'm tall, I work out, and I dress like I give a shit. I laugh a lot and love to make other people laugh. I remember birthdays and anniversaries like it’s my job.
Which it’s not, because my real job is second-in-command at the world’s most cutting edge gaming company. That job pays for my suits, my Bentley, and my seven-figure-townhouse.
But I've never had a hard time finding women whose company I enjoy, and who enjoy mine.
When Maria broke up with me months ago, it looked from the outside like any of my other breakups: civilized, amicable, mutual.
In reality, I'd been floored when she’d said it wasn’t working.
“You don’t let people in, Riley.”
“What are you talking about? We've been on a cruise together. We stayed in a hundred-square-foot cabin for five days, how much closer can you get?”
“That's what I mean. You're charming—sometimes too much so—and easy to be around. But for all the time we spend together, you never talk about your past, or your fears, or what makes you sad. And you never talk about our future. I want someone to take the next step with. I know you're not ready to go there but I wonder if you ever will be.”
“That's not fair.”
“Isn't it? There’s part of you that you don’t show the world. And even when I'm with you, I don't get all of you. You hold some piece back. I’m not even sure you acknowledge it yourself. And I can’t be with someone who doesn’t show me all of him.”
“What do you want me to say. That I love you? I've told you.”
“I don't want that love, Riley. The kind that's always easy and smiling. I want love that's messy and honest. The kind that tears you apart and puts you back together again.”
It was bullshit. We’d never so much as had a fight. Wasn’t that what women wanted? Someone to take them out, to make them laugh? Someone to take care of them and enjoy doing it?
The breakup still bothered me. I was over Maria, but some mutinous part of me wondered if she was right. If there was something wrong with me.
Since Max and I started Titan Games years ago as a way to launch his first game, Oasis, business had grown.
Exponentially.
We were two thirty-year-old guys from Boston who’d made millions on three bestselling games. We might not be household names, but Titan was.
But here, in this hospital room with the bad lighting and yellowing linoleum, none of that seemed to matter.
My best friend and the woman he adored more than anything had brought new life into the world.
I might’ve had the car, the house, the stock portfolio.
I di
dn’t have that. Someone who looked at me the way Payton looked at Max.
As quickly as the thought came, I shoved it away. Self-pity is an indulgent emotion, especially for people that have money, success, friends and family.
“Can I borrow him for a second?” I asked Payton.
“Max or Tristan?”
“The former.”
“It took all of three minutes until shop talk,” Payton teased.
“I’ll have him back before that little guy can blink.” She waved a hand and Max followed me out into the hall. I let the door close behind us so we wouldn’t disturb Payton and Tristan.
“I let the team know approvals would be slower than usual on the new version of the game. And…” I trailed off as his eyes glazed over. “Max. How’re you doing?”
“Good. Really fucking good.”
I threw myself at his tired frame, clapping him on the back. “Congrats, man. Listen. Don’t worry about Titan. I’ll take care of everything.”
“We’ve got to keep moving on Omega.”
“We will. I’ll keep you in the loop. But anything that needs doing, send to me. I’ll be your interim CEO.”
A twenty-something nurse strode down the hall, flicking her eyes in our direction—Max, stocky in his jeans and black t-shirt, and me, rangy in my custom suit—before glancing at the chart under her arm.
“I know you’re a control freak. But did we or did we not found this company together?”
“Yeah. We did.”
I nodded. “Good. Now, is there anything else I can do?”
Max hesitated. “There is one thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a check and handed it to me. I glanced at the number of zeros.
“Are we the kind of friends who move coke for each other? I think we need to talk about…” My gaze lingered on the addressee. “A gallery?”
“It’s a present for Payton.”
“Sure thing, Kanye.” His expression went blank. “You know, like a push present, for… never mind.”
“If I don't drop this off tonight, I lose my deposit.”
“Consider it done.” He gave me the address and I put it into my phone.
His brows drew together. “There’s something I should tell you first.”
“What, you think I’m going to embarrass you?” I glanced down at my suit. “I can fit in at an art gallery, Max. Ivy League graduates, alcohol, douchey jokes and hairpieces? It’s my natural habitat. You worry too damned much. Now get back to your girlfriend. And your baby. You need to take some embarrassing pictures for Tristan's high school yearbook.”
As I made my way to the parking garage, I took another look at the photo I'd snapped of the three of them. Despite Max’s awkward expression, they looked in tune. Connected.
In love.
Not the kind of love you fall into because it’s easy.
The kind you fall into because you can't do anything but fall.
I slid into the Bentley, shoving away the feeling in my gut.
I don't want that kind of love. Because what they don't tell you is after the fall…
There's no one to pick you up.
2
It can’t love you back
“Red Bull.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have Red Bull. Can I get you something else?”
I stared at the bartender.
The idea of operating for an evening without the friendly caffeine kick in the ass was incomprehensible.
Like failing to go to work in the morning.
Or hating Star Wars.
I nodded to the bottle of red wine on the pop-up bar between us and turned to take in the space around me.
The contemporary art gallery was two stories high with a loft. Soaring windows made it almost see-through—a glass box lit from the inside set against the dark night. Most of the bright canvases covering the white interior walls were nearly as tall as I was.
The place was humming with activity. It was the kind of elegant that meant no one bumped elbows unless they wanted to.
I was suddenly glad I’d passed my coat and scarf to the attendant near the door. The heat hit me, and as I scanned the room, I noticed the giant slate fireplace taking up one wall.
The bartender poured, then set the glass in front of me.
“I’m looking for the owner.”
He nodded to the other side of the room.
The man talking to buyers was shorter than me but equally well-dressed. The gray in his hair was starting to dominate the dark brown underneath.
“Jonathan,” I said as I approached.
He turned and a smile snapped into place. “Yes.”
I pulled the check from my pocket and held it out. “From Max Donovan.”
“You work for him?”
“With him,” I corrected as he took the check and tucked it away. “He couldn’t make it tonight.”
He gave me a nod, and I wondered if everything he did had the same smooth motion. “I’ll have the painting shipped tomorrow. I wanted it up for our opening this evening.”
“It’s one of these?” I asked.
“Of course.” He crossed to a canvas in the center of one wall. It was a set of rolling hills, speckled with houses at twilight. It could’ve been something from one of our games.
I don’t know why it still surprised me Max had tricks up his sleeves after twenty years. Buying art wasn’t something I’d have pegged him as doing, and as beautiful as the picture was, I couldn’t see my best friend’s tastes in the shifting oranges and mauves of the sun-drenched sky.
“Do you know why he chose this?” I asked.
“Couldn't say. But it's a wonderful example of the artist’s range.”
My gaze fell on the tag.
Sunset. Samantha Martinez.
The hairs on my neck and arms stood up despite the heat.
I stood, frozen on the spot as words like “negative space” and “organic” and “saturation” wafted around me like the scent of upper-class posturing.
“Are you alright, Mr…?”
“McKay. Fine.” I turned, scanning the room. All I saw were groups of adults in twos and threes, well-dressed and clustered around paintings.
In one corner was a boy dressed like he was doing a reading for church was sitting on the hardwood floor playing on a tablet. But it was the woman approaching him that caught my attention.
The dress skimmed her body, following each slow curve in a way that was discrete yet sensual at once. The red fabric came high around her neck, but left her arms bare and ended midway down her thighs. Her hair was a shining curtain that fell straight to her shoulder blades.
I don’t believe in God. I do believe the universe, or quantum physics, or something else entirely derives a supernatural joy from fucking with us.
Dear universe. You sure as hell don’t do things halfway.
The woman waited until the kid looked up, then offered a hand.
The boy followed her to the largest painting, and I strained to hear them as she murmured to him, stretching out a hand to touch the canvas. He reluctantly did the same.
“Aiden!” Anther woman bustled up to the child, grabbing his arm and yanking him away.
“There's the artist now.” Jonathan's voice cut into my study. “Would you like to meet her?”
I sipped my wine, the darker notes dancing over my tongue and down my throat. “Yes. I think I would.”
We crossed to the woman in red, her gaze still in the direction of the kid and his mom as she played absently with the neckline of her dress.
“Whatever was that child doing?” Jonathan scoffed.
“Daring to interact with art instead of playing on a screen.” Her voice was low, tinged with disappointment and mirth in equal measure.
“I'll have him removed.”
“The one person under thirty in this gallery is grounded,” I commented under my breath. “He's doing his penance.”
The woman turned, and the face that greeted me wh
en she turned didn’t need firelight. She was lit from the inside.
Her face was oval, her nose a bit too small. Her full lips were painted red to match her dress. My favorite part of her had always been her eyes, framed by dark lashes so thick it was a wonder she could lift her eyelids.
As they landed on me, those eyes were huge and hazel and brimming with incredulity.
“Samantha. This is Mr. McKay. He's an admirer,” Jonathan said, half-distracted by something across the room. Probably looking for the would-be felon. “Excuse me a moment.” He darted off through the crowd.
“An admirer?” She raised a brow. “I find that hard to believe.”
The feeling started in my chest. An impossible expanding, like a helium balloon. Her gaze pulled down my body and I ducked my head to catch her eye. “What—my fly’s down?”
“No. I never thought I’d see you without a chain wallet.”
“I never thought I’d see you in a dress.” I stepped closer to her, allowing a group of patrons to pass by on the way to the exit. “I like it.”
“Apparently buy more art when the artist isn't wearing Converse sneakers.” She shot me a look. “It's my first gallery show. Figure I'd learn the rules before breaking them.”
I glanced back up at the canvas. The landscape was a field of flowers watched over by moody clouds. The painting was done with a skilled hand. One that knew how to evoke emotions from the audience. Grab them, play with them, twist them.
“Well, the people suck,” I commented, thinking of the woman who'd dragged her son away. “But the art’s pretty fucking great.”
Sam expelled a breath, glancing past me. “I told myself if I sold five paintings by the end of opening night, I'd celebrate.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“Buying myself a pie. The biggest one I can find. And I'm eating the whole thing myself.” I barked out a laugh that had a few heads turning. I could've cared less.
Sam’s mouth curved at the corner, and when that tiny movement blossomed into a full-blown smile, nostalgia hit me like a damned anvil.
Some people are meant to be in your life forever. Others make graceful exits into the night.