Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  “I can handle my own relationship. Goodbye, Desi.” I laugh as I end the connection and shake my head. I love the woman to death, but she is a royal pain in the ass.

  True to my opinion of her, she calls me right back. I debate whether to answer it, but then realize we never got to the part where she tells me if she’s heard from Emerson.

  “I know you can handle your own relationship, you jackass, but the reason I called was to tell you that I talked to Emerson and something is going on with her.”

  “What do you mean?” I lean forward, worried and relieved all at the same time.

  “She called me last night and she was a mess when normally—”

  “She isn’t a mess.” My mind goes to the angry red scars on her arms, and I hate that I wonder when I see her next if there will be more. If the time away will have helped her cope or made it harder. A selfish part of me wants her to realize it’s easier when she’s with me. That she doesn’t have to run because I’m here for her. To help her. To hold her.

  “Exactly.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She wasn’t making sense, Grant. She was rambling on about doubt and trust and I don’t know what else . . . everything about the conversation worried me. What was troubling her the other night when she came to your house?”

  “Shit.” I sigh. This is all my fault. The damn ball started rolling because of me. “I took her to a call the other night. She didn’t really see anything, but I think the whole scenario affected her and . . . fuck.”

  “She’s home now,” she whispers, telling me what I need to know.

  “I’m on my way there,” I say, standing and grabbing my keys.

  “If you break her heart, Grant, you’ll break her spirit.”

  “No one said anything about hearts here.”

  “Em?”

  Emerson turns to me, her face a startle of shock, hair pulled back in a bun, and there are circles under her eyes. The minute she sees me, she begins to walk the other way.

  “Emerson,” I call after her and then jog to catch up.

  “I don’t have time for you,” she says as she shakes her head and picks up her pace. “I’ve been gone for a few days, and I need to get caught up for the owners so that it’s in good shape for any potential buyers.”

  “What?” My gut twists. “You didn’t get the loan?” Here I am being an asshole, thinking all of this was brought on by me, and it had to do with her not getting the loan. It has to do with her losing her dream.

  “I don’t know if I did. It doesn’t matter. I’m pulling my application.”

  What the flying fuck?

  “What are you talking about?”

  It’s the first time she stops walking and turns to face me. “I’m a gypsy, Grant. I don’t stick around. I get antsy and need to move on. It’s obvious I can’t trust my judgment anymore . . . I mean look at me . . .” She laughs. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman trying to buy a skydiving school with money I don’t have. I make rules that I never keep. I sleep with you then run away. I cut myself when I promised myself I was never going to again. I mean . . . who is going to put their trust in me to teach them to skydive, repay a loan, or live a normal life when I can’t even trust myself anymore?” There’s hysteria ringing in her voice, and the resignation from it is reflected in her expressionless eyes. “I have to get back to work.”

  And without another word, she turns on her heel and jogs toward the office and the comfort of company to prevent me from making a scene.

  Panic hits me like a battering ram.

  She can’t leave me.

  She’s fucking crazy if she thinks I’m going to let her walk away and out of my life without a fight.

  I guess it’s time to make a scene.

  “Hey, Reeves,” I say as she pushes the door open. I follow her in, and Leo looks up from his desk, his eyes darting between Em and me as he leans back in his chair, watching the show. “Take me up.”

  It takes everything I have not to sound like I’m choking the words out, but I know the fear currently coursing through my body has nothing on how I’d feel if I lost her again.

  “What?” she says as she makes a show of slowly turning around, brow narrowed, confusion morphing into surprise. “What did you just say?”

  “I said I’m cashing in my gift certificate. Take me skydiving.”

  “But you’re terrified of heights.” She takes a step closer, as if she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, and honestly, I don’t, either.

  “Everyone has to face their fears sometime, right?” I shrug as she just stands there and stares at me. “Someone once told me that living safely is dangerous . . . I don’t want to be dangerous, Emerson. I just want to be with you.”

  Her breath hitches, and she shakes her head back and forth. Her eyes say she wants to believe me, but her body tells me she’s not certain.

  I take another step forward, my own pulse racing and mind struggling to believe what I’m asking her to do.

  “You’re the only one I’d trust to get me down safely, Em,” I finally say, my coup de grâce, that she needs to wrap her head around.

  “No.” It’s a half-hearted sound, chock-full of disbelief but laced with hope.

  “You don’t get to say no.” I smile as I catch Leo in my periphery laugh. “I have a gift certificate paid in full, and I’m cashing it in on you. Right now.”

  “No.”

  “The customer is always right, Em.”

  “Once you commit, you can’t back out,” she says, lifting her eyebrow and straightening her posture.

  Exactly. Once you commit, you can’t back out. I hope she realizes the same goes when it comes to me.

  “I won’t back out,” I say, ignoring the way my feet desperately want to walk the other way . . . but everything about her changing demeanor stops me. The way her shoulders square. How her lips quirk. The placing of her hands on her hips.

  She’s back in her element, and hell if I’m not going to help her to stay there . . . whether it kills me or not.

  Literally.

  The growl of the plane’s engine roars in my ears and vibrates beneath my ass, but it has nothing on the absolute terror owning my every nerve. Fuck yes, I’m a pussy.

  But this is a plane.

  And a nylon parachute is about to be responsible for preventing me from falling to my death.

  And Jesus . . . I’m about to willingly jump out of an airplane door.

  All for a woman.

  For Emerson.

  To prove to her she’s just as fucking strong as she thinks she is. As I think she is. As everyone around her thinks she is.

  Trust is an important thing . . . and I’m about to put one hundred percent of mine squarely in her hands.

  How fucking stupid am I?

  I go to run a hand through my hair but stop when I remember my helmet. I bounce my knee, close my eyes, and berate myself for not calling my mom to tell her goodbye and that I love her.

  All of the things Emerson showed me in the classroom downstairs run on repeat through my mind. The initial jump at thirteen thousand feet. The belly-to-earth fall rate of one hundred fifteen miles per hour. Sixty full seconds of free fall. The arch of my back. The yank of the ripcord at twenty-five hundred feet above ground level. And then, of course, there is Emerson’s reassuring refrain—if in doubt, whip it out—about the reserve chute in case the main doesn’t deploy.

  I’ve seriously lost it.

  My ears pop, and I shift my jaw how she told me to equalize the pressure, but holy fucking shit am I nervous.

  I can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s joking and laughing with the pilot as if she is headed to the park to walk the dog. As if she’s not even giving this a second thought.

  I try to be as calm as she is—which is pretty fucking impossible—and remind myself why exactly I’m doing this. For her. I took the one thing she knew I was absolutely terrified of losing—my life—and put it in her hands, telling her t
hat I trusted her implicitly with its safety.

  But doubt still reigns in my mind. Skill is one thing. Equipment failure is a whole other.

  There’s a nudge against my arm, and I turn to look right into her eyes. They are alive, and I realize in that moment that she needs this like I need my work. She needs the high from jumping just like I need to be the hero.

  I guess we both thrive off endorphins and adrenaline but obtain them in extremely different ways.

  “You ready?” she mouths, grin wide, eyes animated as she stands so that Leo, who is sitting on the other side of her, can hook the two of us together.

  Ready?

  No.

  I’m not.

  I swallow over the lump of fear lodged in my throat and force a smile. My legs are wobbly as I stand, the plane ride rougher than I had expected, but then again, that could be because the door is currently open and wind is rushing into it like a chamber.

  The next few seconds are all a blur. My fingers gripping tightly on to the ropes fastened to the ceiling so I can steady myself. Emerson’s body pressing against mine as Leo slowly begins attaching our harnesses so that we can tandem jump. The trembling of my hands as I look at the altimeter on my wrist to tell me we’re almost at the point of no return. The churn of my stomach as I want to hurl but know there’s no way I will be able to save face or my masculinity if I do.

  Somehow, as I’m standing unsteadily, her hand finds mine. She links our fingers together and squeezes in silent assurance. It’s a simple gesture, but fuck, if it isn’t the lifeline I need to take those few steps forward to the open door.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit, I’m doing this.

  Holy shit, I’m going to step out of the plane.

  We make it to the doorway, and Emerson moves my earplug and says, “Get ready to chase the moment, Malone.” It’s her laugh that rings the loudest. The carefree in it. The freedom. The ease and confidence. “Head up. Wings Out.”

  And then she pats my side in a signal we’d practiced when our feet were firmly on the earth to let me know it’s time.

  It. Is. Time.

  She turns us around so that her feet are on the edge, her hands are beside mine on the opening of the door, and then before I can even blink, she lets go.

  Head up. Wings Out.

  Oh. Holymotherfuckingshitthisiscrazy!

  Despite feeling like we are falling in slow motion, my brain processes everything—the fear, the euphoria, my mortality, the adrenaline—in snapshots of time.

  The pressure of the air against my body. The rush of it in my ears. My initial gasp as we begin to fall. The lack of that stomach-in-your-throat sensation I hate, which she promised wouldn’t be there. The feeling of being out of control until we hit our arch. The calming presence of Emerson at my back and her arms helping to guide the positioning of mine. Her confidence overpowers my uncertainty.

  It’s then that I find a few moments of utter peace.

  Sure, the sound of the wind is roaring in my ears, but all I see is the whole valley laid out in its greens and browns with the ocean’s blue not far beyond. It’s breathtaking and eerie and so serene that I forget that I’m falling over one hundred miles per hour.

  Then, before I expect it, we are yanked violently upward as the canopy is deployed. It robs me of my breath momentarily, and I have just enough time to wonder what the hell happened before I’m hit with the sensation of floating.

  The sound of Emerson’s laughter is in my ears, and I follow her hand as she points to a few places for me to look at. And I do look, but my body has such a rush of adrenaline and nerves and disbelief that I just jumped out of a fucking airplane it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than this. The moment. The knowledge that I just cheated death.

  All I keep thinking as we glide the rest of the way down to the big orange X-marks-the-spot landing zone is: I get it now. Emerson’s addiction to this high. Her need for it. Her use of it to escape her past that haunts her.

  Before I know it, she’s shouting instructions in my ear. Pull the guide left to steer us. Right a little more. Feet up so she can take control. Prepare for landing.

  The excitement in her whoop is followed by the jolt of her feet as they run beneath us and take the impact of the landing. We are both sitting on our asses, my butt between the V of her thighs as we slide a bit on the ground and the parachute collapses.

  Then there is silence around us. My head screams so many goddamn things, but I’m on the ground. Alive. Whole. And Emerson got me here.

  She laughs when I try to turn to face her because we’re still harnessed together and then makes quick work of unhooking us. Before I have a chance to process what the hell just happened, I turn around on my knees and kiss the life out of those lips of hers.

  I’m riding a high like I’ve never known before. Cheating death. Proving to her I trust her. Facing a fear. Everything. And all I can think about is claiming the goddamn prize of Emerson Reeves because adrenaline definitely has my blood pumping and is intensifying my need to have her.

  I kiss Grant back with a need more desperate than I’ve ever felt before. Right here in the drop zone, I deepen the kiss with my hands gripping the lapel of his flight suit and take every damn thing I need from him.

  Leo chuckles somewhere near as he gathers his own chute, but I don’t care. He gets it. He gets this. Post-jump sex is indescribable. Using the high of the adrenaline coupled with the bliss of an orgasm is a major inside joke amongst jumpers.

  And more than anything, right now, I need Grant.

  He showed up today seeing a broken woman ready to give it all up. Then with his simple request, he started putting my bricks and mortar back into place to prove that I am as strong as I thought I was. Sure there is doubt, and there always will be. But he knew that was what I needed—to be pushed back into my comfort zone so I’d find my confidence again. So, I’d wipe out my skepticism.

  Grant leans back, the gold in his eyes dancing with excitement and lust, and I know he feels the same way I do. We shared something up there. I’ve jumped hundreds of times and have had the trust of the people I jumped with, but this was different. We both took what the other offered and used it to conquer something we feared.

  I shove the rig off my back, leaving the parachute billowing in the breeze to pick up later, and without care of who else might be looking, I jump into Grant’s arms and wrap my legs around his waist.

  Between spurts of laughter, our lips find each other’s, and God, how good it feels to laugh with him and kiss him. How good it feels to know my mom is looking down on me, approving of my taking a chance. How funny it seems that I want him to save me after all.

  “I need you,” I murmur against his lips as my hands thread in his hair and the heat of the sun does nothing to rival the fire in my body already burning bright.

  “My dick’s already five steps ahead of you.” He chuckles as he begins to walk across the field with me wrapped around him like a monkey.

  I wave over Grant’s shoulder to Leo, who just shakes his head at us and rolls his eyes. I think he says something sarcastic like, “Sure, I’ll take care of your parachute while you fuck,” but I don’t care, and I don’t have any shame because it isn’t like he’s never experienced this feeling before.

  “Hurry,” I murmur as I nip the tip of his earlobe.

  “Where? Keys?” His cock presses against me with each step he takes and makes the walk across the strip tortuous.

  “Shit. My keys are in the office.” I laugh as my mind scrambles. “Go to the left. Red hangar. Far side.”

  “Christ,” he mutters, but only because with each rub over his dick he lets out a little groan. “Here?”

  “Mm-hmm. The door slides,” I say even though he’s already pulling open the large barn-type door. Then we’re into the shadows of the red hangar and he’s shoving the door shut and slamming me back against it. His lips are on mine in a savage union of lust and greed and want and need and every one of the
seven sins mixed in there.

  There is no finesse. There are no niceties. We are all about how fast we can unharness ourselves from our rigs and step out of them so we can feel and enjoy each other’s skin.

  “Christ, Em.”

  “I know. Hurry.” A laugh falls from my lips. “Post-jump sex is the best kind of sex there is.”

  “Oh really?” he says, leaning back to meet my eyes. His have darkened with lust and suggestion.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You were holding out on me.” A brush of his lips against mine. A cup of his hand against my ass pulling me against his hardened dick.

  “Can’t hold out on someone when they are the one refusing you.” I quirk my lips, but then they fall lax as he tugs down the zipper of my suit and yanks down my tank so he can suck then graze his teeth over my nipple.

  “I’m not refusing you now, am I?”

  “I wouldn’t let you,” I challenge.

  There is a quiet moment where our eyes lock and our bodies vibrate from our connection – mental, physical, emotional—and then within a beat, we are back into frenzy mode. Zippers on flight suits sound off. The shimmy of clothes being pushed down. The squeak of shoes on concrete. The begged pleas to hurry. Quicker. I’m desperate.

  And then, as we stand in this massive hangar buck naked, his body a mouth-watering sight only serving to encourage my urgency for him, I realize there isn’t really anywhere to have sex in here except for the concrete floor. The walls are lined with industrial shelving units. The tables are covered with plane parts.

  “Where are we going to . . . crap.”

  He takes in the sparse space save for the Cessna in one corner and a Piper in another before turning back to look at me with a gleam in his eye.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Guess there’s no time like the present to join the mile-high club, huh?”

  Before I can process what he means, he lets out a whoop, swoops down, wraps his arms around my thighs and hoists me buck ass naked over his shoulder.

  “Red or blue?” he asks, and I can only guess he’s making me choose a plane. I don’t have the heart to ask how he plans on joining any kind of club when there is definitely no room in either of them to have sex. “Decide.”