The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (23 page)

I’m used to being the asshole when out with friends. I have little tolerance and less patience, yet I feel like I’m scrambling for something nice to say while making the most appeasing face I can muster up to compensate for Tommy’s brashness.

“Is it good to be back home?” I turn to face Tommy while our drinks are prepared.

Tommy looks at me, his shoulders shifting so that he’s fully turned toward me. “I’ve become pretty accustomed to the sun. I enjoy being able to go outside in shorts every day of the year.”

“Sell out.”

He laughs. “So, what has been going on with you? Before Canada it had been how long
…
five years since I’ve seen you?”

“Eight,” I reply, easily knowing the answer because it was weeks before my accident that ended professional riding for me.

“Eight? Wow! Where in the hell does time go?”

I shake my head. “I’m still struggling with the fact that I’m over thirty. It doesn’t seem possible. I feel like I just graduated high school and disappointed my parents by refusing to go to college.”

“College,” he scoffs. “Could you imagine having been in a classroom rather than the X Games? Shit, I’m glad you didn’t listen to them.”

School was never for me. I will never tell Mercedes this, but it was a daily struggle for me to sit in a classroom and solve problems I never understood or knew how to apply to life.

“So, what’s been new in the last eight years?” His lips curve into a genuine smile, one that I shamefully enjoy and return.

“Well
…
” I sit back, drawing out the word. “I’ve pretty much aced sarcasm, perfection, and lying.”

Tommy laughs and pushes a black sleeve up to reveal a messy tattoo along his forearm.

“What’s the story behind this?” I slide a finger along the sloppy, uneven lines of what is supposed to be some variety of large bird.

A smile is still stretched across his face when he rubs a palm over it. “I had a good friend who was a strong supporter of me getting back into riding and competing after I’d gotten hurt. He told me his dream was to be a tattoo artist, and when he asked me to be one of his practice clients to build a portfolio, I felt like it would be really bad Karma if I said no.”

“Are you saying you willingly offered up your forearm to an amateur tattoo artist? It never crossed your mind to have him do it on your shoulder or the bottom of your foot?”

“Then he would’ve known I was worried.”

He’s still smiling, and I like it.

“Yeah, but now, he has to see how bad he really is. That can’t be inspiring.”

His smile breaks into another laugh. “I wear a tee every single time I’m around that son of a bitch.”

We’re both laughing as two long wooden trays are set in front of us with a line of glasses filled with beers. Each of their colors and flavors are explained along with their content of barley, malt, and foam.

Tommy reaches for a glass first. His slender fingers are red, and I learn it’s from being cold when he hands me half of the remaining beer. He swallows and then nods, silently telling me I’m going to appreciate its contents.

Drinking from the same glass shouldn’t feel intimate. Brushing fingers so casually shouldn’t feel significant. Him watching me drink shouldn’t make me feel so nervous.

But it all does.

Our conversation is light and easy. I find myself continuing to enjoy every smirk, smile, and laugh delivered in my direction and only my direction. He doesn’t pay attention to anyone who passes us.

My limbs feel light and loose when we stand to leave. I should have ordered something to eat, but right now, I’m appreciating the fact that I’m not comparing a single thought or experience to Kash when it seems that’s all I have been able to do for the past ten years.

The rain is a refreshing fine mist against my face as we make the short trek to the Hummer that, over our second tray of beer samples, I learned he’d rented. He laughed when I’d told him it was pretentious, and then he informed me that was the point.

I play with several settings on the seat before he starts the car and cranks the radio so loud I can hardly make out his words.

Tommy reverses in a quick and precise movement that makes me feel like I really am riding along with him. The seat belt catches me when he comes to a sudden stop and tightens when he accelerates, knocking me back into the soft luxury leather.

He cheers.

I gasp.

He goes faster.

I reach for my purse.

He swerves.

I scream.

He turns the steering wheel in jerky movements, his control lost.

I brace my feet on the floorboard and watch with wide eyes as a large truck crashes into the driver’s side of the Hummer.

I
DON’T KNOW
how the driver of the truck managed to swerve as quickly as he did, but he saved Tommy’s life and likely mine as well. I’m certain of it.

My heart is beating so quickly I can feel it aging me.

Tick
. A strand of my new ombre hair turns gray at the root.

Tick
. My crow’s-feet etch deeper.

Tick
. An extra five pounds are added to my thighs for the near panic attack I’m experiencing.

My eyes are stretched so wide I can feel the cool November air brush over them as it blows in through the new gash in the back of the Hummer. I look over everything, seeing it all but remembering nothing, causing me to look over them two and then three times before realizing Tommy really is laughing. His chin is to his chest, and he is gasping for breaths because his laughter is racking his entire body.

My fingers curl so tightly, my short nails bite into the hardened skin of my palm, and then I punch him.

Adrenaline is supposed to make you stronger, give you the ability to lift a car trapping a child, fight off an attacker, or escape a burning building—not make my muscles somehow feel both rubbery and stiff so that delivering a punch makes me feel like a twelve-year-old girl, like it does.

Tommy turns his head to acknowledge me. I don’t think he realizes I intended to harm him until he eyes my fist. He releases an uproarious laugh that hurts my ringing ears. I slap him once, twice, three times, four times, faster and harder, using both hands, like a girl out of some awful teen movie, until I can’t see anymore, and my eyes begin to blur with tears.

“You came this
close
to killing us!” I screech as I lift a hand with my finger and thumb barely separated.

“Close only counts in horseshoes and grenades.”

His response has my head rearing back with anger. I grab my purse that’s now sitting in my lap with my cell phone on top. If another second had passed, Kash would have been on the line because I was trying to call him as the cars came to a halt.

Tommy’s saying something, but I don’t hear him. I’m pretty sure I’m experiencing a mild level of shock because my tightened muscles are trembling, and I am still having difficulty with focusing on anything as I approach the truck that hit Tommy’s Hummer.

“Are you all right?” The man has a full beard that matches the unruly dark hair dipping into his eyes, which are bright and rounded like mine. He reaches a large hand forward and grasps my shoulder, lending me heat that makes me shiver more violently. “Are you okay?” he repeats.

I nod tight little jerks that progressively grow as my neck muscles loosen.

He nods in response. Then, using his widened eyes that seem to be working much better than my own, he quickly looks me over from head to toe, nodding again as he concludes his assessment. “You’re okay. That’s good.”

He releases a deep sigh that is broken by the sound of Tommy’s voice as he emerges from the passenger door. His own door was so badly hit that the front bumper of the truck looks as though it has merged with the Hummer.

“Now, I can leave a good review for Hummer. Apparently, they aren’t all talk.”

It becomes clear that I’m not the only one who wants him to shut up as the man standing beside me shifts, and suddenly, Tommy is on the ground, holding his nose.

I
STUMBLE INTO
my house, each of my muscles aching a hundred times worse than they normally do. An odd sense of sadness and frustration is swirling around and through me.

I nearly lost my life.

I was in an accident that could have finished with a million terrible endings. Right now, I should be elated, celebrating, feeling euphoric and untouchable. I ought to be professing my feelings to Kash—all of them—including my frustrations and disappointments as well as the love I have felt for eleven years. I should be hugging each of my parents and telling them I love them, regardless of our pasts. I am supposed to be booking a trip to Hawaii where I can reflect on my life and make a bucket list of things to do and see so that I never have another regret.

Why don’t I feel like doing a single damn one? Why do I feel angry that not no one—apart from Tommy, the man driving the truck, five policemen, and numerous bystanders—knows that I walked away from what I’d feared was the end?

A knock at my door leaves me considering ways to pretend I’m not here or asleep, because I really don’t want to see anyone. The universe is telling me to get my ass back into bed and not tempt fate further. But my truck doesn’t fit into my garage because I keep all of my bikes in there, revealing my presence to anyone who makes the trip down my driveway, and my outline is likely visible through the curtains.

With a huff, I move back to the door and open it to face Lo.

“Why do you knock like that?” I demand.

She leans back on the foot farthest from me. I’ve caught her off guard, surprised her, and likely offended her.

“Like what?” Her narrowed eyes reveal I’ve also caught her curiosity.

“Four times in quick succession like that. It’s annoying. Two, three times most, that’s all that’s acceptable. Four makes you a door-to-door salesman or stalker.”

“Stalkers knock these days? There are so many things my small-town brain doesn’t know. Please, along with teaching me the proper etiquette for knocking, will you please tell me why you went on a date with Tommy?”

“Why do you care?” I deliver the words with a glare.

“Just wondering why you’re dating someone a week after you finally slept with Kash because it’s not making a lot of sense to me. If it had been a month ago, six months ago, a year ago, I’d have gotten it. I would have
totally
gotten it. But
now
?
Now
, you’re going to choose to be done with waiting and move on?”

“Ooh, so they’ve finally sent you.” I stalk to my kitchen and grab a bottle of wine. Fuck beer. Fuck men. And fuck Lo. “Let me guess, King asked you to come.”

“Neither of them asked me to do anything. I didn’t volunteer to do anything. I am here as your friend, trying to keep you from sabotaging yourself.”

“My friend?” My question sounds like an accusation, but I’m not giggling at that. I’m giggling because I’ve just figured out how to properly use my wine cutter, and it’s only taken me twelve years. I pour a glass to nearly the rim—an impressive amount, considering the size of my glasses. Feeling Lo’s eyes on me, I tip my head back and drink deeply, enjoying the initial bitterness that turns smooth and the warmth and spice that fill me.

Maybe I should find a wine group to join. They still have those, right? What are they even called?

“Why are you acting like such a bitch?” Lo’s words interrupt my random thoughts and make the vinegar in my wine taste more prominent.

I pull the glass away and stare at her through slit eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re acting like this is Kash’s fault when you’re the one who’s acting ridiculous!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, so before you continue with your pep talk, why don’t you get out of my goddamn house and go back to your pretty little world?”

She purses her lips.

“Say it,” I demand.

Her eyebrows scrunch with confusion.

“Say whatever in the hell you’re thinking. Lay it out there. If things are going to go up in flames, we might as well make it one hell of a bash!”

“It’s like you want to sabotage everything.”

“That’s not what you were thinking!” My words are forceful as I take a step closer to her. “You wanted to scream at me. You wanted to tell me how much you hate me!”

“What happened? Was Tommy an asshole? Did he try something?”

I laugh bitterly. “Tell me what a bitch I am.”

“What did he do, Summer? Did he say something?”

“He nearly killed us!” I shout. My face is flushed with heat, and my muscles resume their slow vibrations I was only controlling with great focus and effort. “I thought I was going to die tonight.” This time, my words are a quiet confession, one that makes my eyes well with tears and my throat burn with the need for air.

Lo doesn’t answer or move. She’s completely silent, drawing my gaze to her. Perhaps she’s still processing my admission. Perhaps she doesn’t believe me.

Would I believe me in a reverse situation? Would it look like I was trying to get attention from the man who fears car accidents above practically everything else?