Headfirst Falling Page 13

  He grits his teeth, the tension in his jaw visible. “I know that, Charlie. But goddamn it! I knew that fucker was up to no good. I knew it!”

  “It’s okay. Let’s just get him out of here. That’s what’s important.”

  We sit in silence until his anger is back under wraps. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish you woulda told me sooner—or Jessica, for that matter.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I rally. “This is the first time it’s happened. If he’d done something inappropriate before, I would’ve told you.”

  “I knew that little shit was up to no good though.” He lets out a long sigh. “I think he’s been stealing money from us too. But our accountant hasn’t been able to nail him on it.”

  Stealing money? My mouth drops open and my brows shoot up. “Why didn’t you say something? I could have been helping.” Is that why he’s been messing up so many reports? An effort to distract me? That bastard ass. The irrational, pissed-off part of my brain could care less about handling things the right way. It wants to see Stewart in a full-body cast.

  “I didn’t wanna worry you.” He looks less than his normal self for once. His eyes aren’t bright or happy and his voice is lacking its usual bouncing resonance. Seeing him like this makes me hate Stewart more than anything else.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask in a lowered voice.

  He leans forward and pushes the brim of his cap up a little. “Listen, there’s a lot you don’t know about Stewart. He may be able to sell the hell out of safety equipment, but he’s also a resentful piece of shit. If he has any reason to believe he was fired because of you, he’ll do something about it.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about revenge. Something’s not right about him. Got a few marbles missing from his jar and all that. I’ve seen him ruin men for less than a job.”

  My stomach drops. “What can we do?”

  “I’ve been building a case against him for months now. He’s been screwing up a lot. Misplacing orders, losing paperwork, overcharging for equipment. I’ve got more than enough to justify firing him.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” I ask.

  “I don’t want him to suspect it has anything to do with you,” he says, scowling. “I’m not puttin’ that on your shoulders. Let’s lay low for a week. Next Friday I’ll call him in for a meeting and lay out everything I’ve got on him. Then I’ll tell him to sack his shit and hit the road.”

  I stare at him in awe. It’s not often that I see him so serious. My strong, protective father. He’s the best parent I could’ve hoped for. I never needed a mother, not when I had him.

  I smile, despite the situation. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I hope you never have to be without me.”

  * * *

  Taylor’s on my bed, mindlessly flipping through a magazine. “What are you going to wear tonight?”

  I look at myself in the mirror. “I have no idea. What do you think I should wear?” I’m nervous, antsy and indecisive about everything.

  She scrunches up her face in thought. “Something expensive.”

  “Taylor!” I scold.

  She grins at me in the mirror and shrugs. “What about this makeup?” She holds the picture up and points so I can see.

  “No. I don’t want a smoky eye. Something more natural, or maybe bronze-y,” I explain. She’s always been better at this stuff than me. I can’t put on eyeliner without having a panic attack. So I’m thankful that she offered, but I still want to look like myself. And unlike Taylor, who has sharp, definite features, I could never pull off a smoky eye.

  I coil a strand of hair around the heated barrel of my curling iron. It falls into a perfect spiral when I release it. I do this to my entire head and then frown at the mirror.

  “These curls are too curly,” I fuss.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Taylor snorts, giving me the have-you-lost-your-mind? once-over.

  “I want it more wavy.” I make a wave with my hand, hoping she’ll understand me in my desperation.

  She rolls over and swings her legs off the bed. “You are freaking out.”

  “I’m just nervous,” I protest. “I want to look pretty.”

  “You always look pretty,” she says, stretching as she stands. “You’re beautiful.”

  I shake my head. “You’re full of shit. And as my best friend, telling me I’m pretty is an obligation.”

  “Charlie Day, you are quite possibly the most exquisite creature on this planet, and if anyone tries to tell you different, I’ll cut a bitch.” She plucks the comb out of my hand and smirks. “And sorry but it’s not an obligation. If your face gets maimed tomorrow you’d better believe I’m making you wear a ski mask when we hang out.”

  I press my palms to my chest and drop my jaw like I’m flattered. “That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She chuckles and starts picking my curls apart with the end of the comb, taming them into soft waves. “Seriously though,” she says, all joking aside. “If your face really were jacked, you’d still be pretty to me.”

  I laugh and shake my head. She’s ridiculous. And I’m lucky to have her.

  After sorting through my curls, she teases at my roots to add volume and covers my entire head with hairspray. Then she does my makeup, and by the time she moves so I can see myself in the mirror, I can’t sit still.

  “I’m impressed,” I say as I study my reflection.

  The makeup is subtle and flatters my features. My brown hair falls long around my shoulders, and she twisted part of it into a braid to keep it out of my eyes, something I couldn’t even begin to do.

  “Have I told you that I love you lately?” I ask, twining a strand of hair around my finger.

  “You don’t have to say it, Charlie. It’s in our unspoken bond.” She grabs me by the arm and hauls me to my feet. Then she shoves me toward the closet. “Get in there. We don’t have much longer.”

  I try on a million outfits, if not more. I’m not sure who’s pickier, Taylor or me, but I appreciate her honest opinion. We agree on a short, flowy sundress that’s a bright color. I like it. My shoulder blades peek through an oval window in the fabric on the back of the dress, and it makes me feel flirty and girlish. But then Taylor forces a pair of high heels—and I mean high—onto my feet and I’m all legs...long, long legs.

  I don’t have much time to fret over it, because she’s ushering me into the bathroom before I can blink. “We need earrings,” she says, riffling through my jewelry box. She pulls out piece after piece and holds them to my head.

  “What’re y’all doing in here?” Devin asks, walking through the door as she raises a dangly earring in the air and shakes it. In her other hand, she’s holding another that’s a feather. His eyes zone in on it and he squints. “Is that a knife?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No. Now get out.”

  He backs out of the room with his palms raised, and I don’t blame him. Her frantic need to find the perfect accessories is starting to scare even me, so I check out.

  On my right hand, I wear my mother’s wedding ring. My father gave it to me when I turned sixteen, and I cherish it. Not because it was my mother’s, but because it was a gift from him. It’s a heart-shaped diamond that sits in a simple platinum setting. The stone has a million microscopic facets that glitter when they catch shafts of light. On the inside it’s engraved, with love, always. I always keep it with me, because I know there are a lot of feelings tied in to this ring—a lot of love. I’m happy to wear something so special.

  “Charlie!” Taylor waves her hand in front of my face. “Are you listening?”

  I blink a couple of times and come back to earth. “I’m sorry. I must have zoned out.”

  She props o
ne hand on her hip and shakes her head. “My God, you’re a mess. I asked what you thought of these?” She thrusts a pair of mabe pearls in my face. And then a few bracelets. “With these?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I like them.” I put the earrings in, and she quickly fashions my wrists with the bracelets.

  Then from my jewelry box she pulls out a sparkling panda ring, composed of rhinestones. She holds it up, grinning wildly. “We can’t forget this.” She places it in my palm with force. “You can’t wear it because it’s an atrocity. But put it in your clutch. It’s lucky. I’ll wear mine tonight.”

  I laugh because it’s absurd, but I do as I’m told. In the seventh grade she bought the two matching rings from a craft show that passed through town. They’ve been our lucky charms since.

  “I’m ready,” I announce. “I mean, I think I am.”

  She points to my clutch. “Panda ring?”

  “Check.”

  “Lipstick?”

  I peer into my clutch then nod. “Got it.”

  “Debit card? ID?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “Cell phone? Keys?”

  “Double check.”

  “Okay, good. Condoms?” Her face is completely serious.

  I let out a puff of air, flushing. “You’ve gotta be joking.”

  Her face breaks into a grin. “Just curious.”

  The flush intensifies as I consider the idea. I want to have sex, and I want it to be with Jackson. But I don’t want to rush things. I got carried away the night after the pool. It was easy for me to lose control, and that’s overwhelming. I need to go slow with him—as slow as possible, anyway.

  Taylor checks her watch as headlights flash through my bedroom window. “I bet that’s him!”

  I let out a shrill giggle, and we jump up and down in my room like we are thirteen again. But then the doorbell rings, and I start to panic.

  “Jackson’s here,” Devin yells from the foyer.

  “Don’t let him in,” I scream back, and Taylor looks at me like I’m crazy. “Oh my God,” I whisper-shriek as I start to pace. “I can’t do this!”

  All the things that could go wrong race through my mind. Like having spinach stuck to my front tooth through the entire dinner. I could trip and fall. Breaking my ankle is a plausible possibility, considering the shoes I’m wearing. I could spend the entire night making bad jokes. Actually, that won’t happen because I don’t know any jokes. Not even any bad ones. What if we spend all our time making small talk and not laughing, because I don’t know any jokes? It could be a disaster.

  “Don’t be dramatic.” She pushes me toward the door, and I stumble forward. “Go!”

  When I don’t move any farther, she latches on to my arm and drags me from my bedroom to the living room. Devin is in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. “I didn’t answer the door,” he tells us before turning around like he doesn’t want anything to do with the panic attack I’m about to have.

  She spins me around to face her and smiles. “You’re going to be fine. You’re beautiful and charming and funny.”

  I pull my arm away from her hand. “And you are a bad liar.”

  She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. “Get it together, Day.” She pushes me to the door, and I almost crash into it in my fluster. “Open it!” she rasps, shooting me a serious look and pointing.

  I want to run, because my nerves are already frayed and swimming. But I don’t. I grip the doorknob instead. Then I twist and pull it open with such force my hair flies back with the pass of the door.

  Jackson’s eyes widen in surprise. “Charlie! Hi.” His expression changes as his eyes leave mine, traveling down my body, and then back to my eyes. “Wow, Charlie.” His voice is much softer, almost a whisper. “You look...wow.” He blushes—blushes—and clears his throat, regaining his composure. “You look beautiful.”

  He’s the beautiful one. His sandy hair is styled, messy in all the right places. A pair of slim charcoal pants and a white button-down shirt cover his lean frame, and his gray tie is loose around his neck.

  “You look handsome,” Devin says from somewhere behind me, and I whirl my head around to face him. He’s leaning against the wall at the end of the foyer with his bowl of cereal, feet crossed at the ankles and grinning.

  Jackson waves to him like they’re old pals. “Thanks, man.” He turns his attention back to me and raises the bouquet of roses he has in his hand. “These are yours if Devin will let you have them.”

  Their sweet scent fills the air as soon as he hands them over, but I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean down to smell one of the flowers anyway. “Thank you,” I say as I straighten. “They’re beautiful.”

  Taylor appears at my shoulder. She grins and takes the flowers from me. “I’ll put these in a vase for you, Charlie!” she says in a rush. I open my mouth to say something, but she starts pushing me through the door. “I’m sure you’ve got reservations somewhere, wouldn’t want to be late. Go on now. Have a great time! Bye!” I scowl at her, and she slams the door in my face.

  I shake my head and step down from our porch. “Sorry. She’s—well, you know. Taylor.”

  “Oh, I know.” He laughs and places his hand on the small of my back. Then he guides me down our front walk and toward the driveway.

  I stop when I see his car. Another one? “Seriously, how many cars do you own?” He had a few in high school, but geez. This one is a black BMW M6, with window tint as dark as the paint. It looks fast. Dangerous.

  He doesn’t give me an answer, just a grin as he opens the passenger-side door for me. I settle in, buckling my seat belt. Jackson jogs around to the other side and slips behind the steering wheel. The engine roars to life, and he pulls out onto the street.

  He drives through the busy streets with ease, darting in and out of traffic. I take the time to study him since he’s focused on the road. I think about all the little things I know about him. Like the fact that he plays piano, and he writes with his left hand but does everything else with his right hand. And that he’s the only person I know who likes yellow Skittles more than red. That’s the stuff I love.

  He interrupts me, his voice amused. “I can feel you watching me.”

  “I was not.” I deny it, trying to save face.

  He glances over, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Whatever you say.”

  I laugh and divert my attention to the objects whizzing by the window. “Why don’t you focus on getting us there in one piece.”

  * * *

  It doesn’t take long to get to the restaurant. It’s small and romantic with a deck where we can sit outside.

  He speaks with the hostess, and she leads us to our table on the terrace. It’s away from the area where the other guests are dining, on an elevated platform with an illuminated water fountain. The blooming hibiscus trees that circle us are tall and full enough to serve as walls.

  He put effort into this date. He must have. Unless this is routine for him, which would suck. Even if this is just the standard Jackson Stiles dating experience, it’s romantic. But I don’t think it is. Standard, I mean. I kind of feel like he went all-out.

  Our table is equipped to seat two, covered by a soft red tablecloth and lit only by candles of varying sizes and shapes. An arrangement of hibiscus flowers sits in the middle of the table, and a bottle of wine awaits us, chilled in a bucket of ice.

  He scoots in my chair beneath me as I sit, placing my napkin in my lap for me. Already I’m blushing like I’m twelve and he’s my favorite celebrity. And I’m swooning—big-time.

  “Wine?” he asks, pulling the bottle from the bucket.

  I nod, and he flips our glasses up, filling each. I take a sip. It’s sweet and earthy.

  “Like it?” he asks, his eyes locked on mine.

  “Yeah, I
do.” I take another drink before setting it down on the table.

  “Good. I’ve already ordered for us,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind. They get pretty busy, and I know you hate waiting.”

  So he’s been here before. And I hope he isn’t referring to the time I threw a fit in a restaurant because they forgot my spaghetti. I was eight years old and hungry. I thought it was the end of the world.

  “I come here a lot with my parents,” he explains. “It’s my mother’s favorite.”

  Thank God. If he had said it was Mary Jane’s favorite I would’ve started banging my head on the table. “It’s lovely,” I say, studying our surroundings.

  “It is. Though I’m not sure I thought this through very well.”

  My eyes flick to his in surprise. “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why’s that?” The candles on the table are the only thing preventing him from witnessing the hot flash I’ve been having since we sat down.

  He gestures to the candles on the table. “Because I can’t see you very well.”

  I push one of the small, flickering jars across the table until its light is casting shadows across Jackson’s face. “I like them,” I admit.

  Beneath the table, his fingertips brush across the curve of my knee. Just once. But his touch brings electricity and warmth that spreads across my cheekbones and neck. The candles are definitely a good thing.

  Our meal arrives shortly. It’s delicious. Filet mignon, grilled asparagus spears and twisted French bread. When we finish, our waitress comes and clears the table, batting her eyelashes at Jackson the entire time. He pays no attention to her, so I try not to either.

  He scoots his chair around the table until it’s next to mine. “That’s better.”

  Every time I stop smiling, he lights me up like a Christmas tree. “Much better.”

  My hands are in my lap, and he reaches for one, pulling it over to him. “Is this okay?” he asks, placing my hand on his thigh and threading our fingers together.

  When I speak my voice comes out a little high. “Yes.” More than okay.