Falling Under (Falling 3) - Page 19/73

I nod. “Yeah. For you.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“Because you can do better than me, Kylie. Look across the street, for starters.” I gesture in the direction of Ben’s house. “Boy’s got it bad for you.”

She steps toward me, shoves me. “He’s my best friend. He’s like a brother to me. And that’s how he sees me. He’s had our entire life to say if he felt otherwise, and he never has.”

I shrug. “Maybe he’s got his reasons.” I rub my face. “Fuck. Look, Kylie. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry if you don’t understand my reasons. But it’s all you’re gonna get from me.”

I’m up the stairs before she can say anything else, trying to be calm and nonchalant as I wave at Colt and Nell, tossing a polite “see ya’ll later” at them. Shit, I’ve got to get out of here. Out of Nashville. Away from the temptation that is Kylie Calloway.

The roar of my motorcycle fills my ears, and I’m ripping around corners, zipping through traffic and running lights and generally driving like an ass**le, but I need distance from her. She’d drag my shit out of me, and she’d want to fix me, and she’d say she didn’t care. But she would, and she should. I’m nobody’s project, and I’m not about to risk the innocence of someone as pure as Kylie. She’s a virgin, I can all but guarantee it. The way she looked at me when we were so close, eyes wide and a little scared, like she wanted to get closer and wanted me to kiss her, but was secretly afraid. The way her nostrils flared and her chest swelled with nervous breaths….god, so seductively innocent.

I’m inside my apartment without any memory of arriving. I slam my door closed and crack my window, toss my backpack to the floor and dig my tin out. Roll a joint with shaky fingers, spilling weed everywhere. Scoop up the spilled green, dump it back in the bag and light the joint. Connect my phone to the dock and blast the hardest, darkest metal I have in my library of music. I don’t even know what it is, who it is, it’s just grinding and brutal and what I need. Hit after hit, hold it deep, slow exhalations.

I did the right thing. Right?

The doubt is killer. Like a knife, slowly slicing away at the foundation of my certainty, like a rushing flow of water undercutting the riverbank. I lie back and fight the doubts, float on my high.

I hear a faint noise. “No, please…” I sit up, because the voice sounds familiar. It’s late evening, maybe seven, and since it’s early December, it’s dark outside. I pause the music and listen: “NO! Leave me alone! Let go! Please!” Fuck, that’s Kylie.

I scramble up and out, the door slamming and shivering, cracking the drywall, tear through the front door and down the steps. I see her in the shadows, pinned against the driver’s side door of the BMW. Jesus f**k, she followed me. It’s the same three guys we saw when I brought her here last time. One of them has his hands on her, holding her by the arm, leaning into her, mock-thrusting against her, laughing. And now he’s pulling at her, dragging her toward the nearest door. The other two are standing back and watching, laughing, egging their buddy on.

I don’t even hesitate to think or to plan my attack. I’m lunging across the sidewalk, pivoting on the ball of my left foot and swinging my fist up into his kidney, putting all my weight and force into it. They never even saw me. He stumbles back and I strike again, same spot, three short sharp jabs to his kidney. If nothing else, he’ll piss blood later. But I’m not done. Jack him in the jaw, knee to the gut, wrap my palm over the back of his head and slam his face down into my rising knee. He falls back, gagging on blood and teeth.

I feel a blow to my side, grunt, spin, lash out blindly, connect with bone and flesh. Stumble back, find the attacker, half-dodge a punch, catching part of it on my cheek. The skin rips, and I feel blood sluice down, salty and hot on my lips. Another hit to my skull, just above my ear. My head rings, and I see stars. I shake my head, twist to find a target. There he is. My high is gone, replaced by adrenaline and now pain. I kick out, a snap-kick to the knee. He lurches, and I fling myself forward, head-butt him. His nose crunches, and I feel his blood coat my forehead.

Slide-click. “Best step off, mothafucka.” Cold metal against my forehead.

“Go, Ky.” I don’t look at her, but I hear her hyperventilating. “Go!” She goes. Good girl. I hear a door slam, then tires squeal, and I hear the smooth roar of the finely tuned German engine, and she’s gone.

I turn, glaring hard into cold brown eyes. “Shoot, bitch.” It’s all bluff. I’m f**king terrified, knees knocking, about to piss myself.

His eyes narrow, and he twists his wrist so the pistol is held on a diagonal. “You wanna die? Huh, white boy? You got a death wish?”

“No. But if you don’t shoot me right the f**k now, you’re gonna regret it.” I’m tensed, ready.

He licks his lips, debating. Hesitating. Hesitation is deadly. I feel the barrel slip, tilt down, and I’m in motion. My hand snaps out, pushing the barrel to the side and down. My fist is flying, connecting with his throat.

I hear the gun go off, and burning pain slices through my leg. It registers as heat and pressure and pain, but it’s not enough to stop me. I grab his wrist, twist, wrap his arm under mine and pivot my body so he’s bent over and his arm is over-extended. He’s moaning and trying to gasp for breath. No f**king mercy here, bitch. I tilt forward and lean down, hard and fast, and his elbow joint cracks. The gun drops from his hand, and I step on it. Throw him forward. He topples, and his face smashes into the ground.

Blood drips from my face, my leg. My fists ache and burn, the skin on my knuckles split.

I don’t even register the sound of the approaching engine, or the door opening. I’m limping to stand over the gun owner. “She’s mine. Got it? Next time you f**k with her, you die.”

He can only moan an acknowledgment. I bend and scoop up the gun, eject the clip and the cartridge in the chamber. Shuffle-limp to the dumpster across the parking lot and toss it in. When I turn around, she’s there, standing in the open door of her car, staring at me.

“You okay?” I ask, from thirty feet away.

She rushes toward me. “Am I okay? You’re bleeding. I heard…I heard a gunshot, and I thought you’d…I thought he’d…I thought you were dead.”