Headfirst Falling Page 8

  “She’s what?”

  “Never mind,” he says, turning his hat back around. “Actually, she’s taking it from him.”

  I lift my sunglasses and see that he’s completely serious. “He isn’t stopping her?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Looks like he’s just letting her do it.”

  I turn over to my stomach so I can watch the episode unfold. At this point, Taylor’s in complete control, pointing and giving orders. Laughter builds in my throat as I watch her pour a little of this, a splash of that, a drop or two of... Wait, what was that? Hot sauce? She’s lifting bottles dramatically like she’s in some sort of bizarre competition, creating a masterpiece—in her head she probably is.

  When she’s finished, she takes a tiny sip, and her face twists in disgust. Then she pumps her fist, celebrating and giving the universal sign for okay. She receives enthusiastic high fives from the three bartenders when she departs. She’s won them over. They’re all officially under the Hastings spell.

  I groan. “She’s bringing that for me, isn’t she?”

  Devin grins. “Looks like it.”

  I sit up and swing my legs off the chair. “This won’t end well, will it?”

  “Doubt it.”

  But I don’t care. I’d like to numb my mind in any way possible right now.

  “Look what I’ve got for you, best friend,” she sings, doing a little jig with her hips and waving the glass through the air.

  “Sit down,” I demand. “You’re embarrassing me.” Even as I say the words, I’m unable to deny my giggle. She’s charming, and it’s not something that many people are immune to. I’m certainly not.

  She blows a kiss at me and plops down on the end of my seat. “You love it.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “What is that?” The final product is greenish-gray, with an olive and a cherry speared together by a cocktail sword and wedges of lime and pineapple sitting on the rim. “Did you mix together every drink known to man?”

  “It’s a little specialty of mine.” She thrusts the glass into the air, holding it high above her head. “I like to call it the Donkey’s Ass.”

  “Bullshit,” I accuse. “You just made that up!”

  She shrugs. “So I winged it a little, big deal. It’s still going to get the job done.” She scoots forward on the chaise and shoves the wild concoction into my hands. “Now drink.”

  I bring it to my nose, and the smell of it alone almost elicits vomiting. “I cannot drink this.”

  “Plug your nose and drink it,” she orders.

  I shake my head. “No. This is going to make me throw up, or worse, it may kill—”

  She points at me with a red-polished fingernail and a stern expression. “Charlie! You drink that right now.”

  I’ve learned to choose my battles with Taylor wisely, because she doesn’t back down—not ever. Unless I want to listen to her hound me for two hours, I’ve got to down this drink, which may or may not give me alcohol poisoning. I plug my nose with one hand and use the other to bring the glass to my lips. I hesitate with my lips pursed on the rim. Then Taylor raises her hand like she’s going to slap me, and I take several large gulps.

  By the looks of it, I assume it’s going to be awful. In reality, it’s much, much worse than just awful. It’s the atomic bomb of cocktails. It burns and it’s bitter, and at the same time there’s a sweetness to it—and that combination is so wrong. I shut my eyes as I swallow it down, ignoring its threat to come right back up.

  “That. Was. Awful,” I sputter. “You seriously need to take a mixology class.” I hold the glass at arm’s length, because I want nothing to do with it.

  She and Devin burst into a fit of laughter.

  “I’m serious,” I insist. “My taste buds are done. Life doesn’t exist for them after a sip of that.”

  When she sobers, she pushes my outstretched hand back in my direction. “The second taste will be smoother. I promise.”

  Devin snorts. “Doubt that.”

  “Take one more sip,” she says, holding her index finger to her lips. “Just one. Then it will be over.”

  I raise my brow a little, just enough to let her see I know she’s full of it. “This had better make me feel better, Taylor.”

  “You won’t remember your own name when you’re finished with that glass.”

  Her big, easy smile is so freakishly contagious that I can’t possibly resist. I take another sip.

  * * *

  I survey the scene in front of me, my eyes too heavy for my head. The terrace is covered with scantily clad bodies now. Most are in the pool, swimming, floating, splashing. The rest are huddled around the tiki-style bar, watching the baseball game on the flat screen. Devin and Taylor are involved in a high-stakes game of Ping-Pong with another couple—for bragging rights, of course.

  I’m glued to my seat, where Taylor has instructed me to stay. Not that I could even walk at this point, not gracefully anyway. Today I love alcohol, tomorrow maybe not. Right now I don’t care, because despite the confusing haze it casts on everything, I feel happy.

  Except when I think about Jackson. But I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping my mind away from Planet Jackson since my first mouthful of Donkey’s Ass. That was at least three hours ago. And now that short, blissful period is over, because I’m realizing I’ve officially been blown off.

  Even if he never planned on coming, a text would have been nice. A nasty thought tumbles through my mind before I have the chance to chase it away: Maybe he’s with Mary Jane, or some other woman with big breasts. I glance down at my chest and frown. Do I need a boob job? My expression sours as I realize how quickly insecurity sets it. I can’t help but wonder how things would be if I looked different, no matter how pointless. If I had a larger chest maybe I wouldn’t be a twenty-one-year-old virgin. Not that I have any reason to be ashamed of that. Having high standards is a good thing. I’m waiting for someone special.

  When I say someone special, I mean someone like Jackson. I won’t deny that. I know I shouldn’t base my attraction to someone off the spark I felt with him. I shouldn’t compare anyone to him, period. If I keep doing that, I’ll never find my special someone. I fear no man will ever live up to my expectations. And that’s a scary thing, because if it’s true, I’m ruined for eternity. And I’m dying a virgin.

  Across the terrace, Taylor’s waving her arms in the air. When she gets my attention, she points from me to the table, motioning me to come play. I fan my hand through the air, declining. I have bigger problems right now—like my brain, which is shifting into a gear that I didn’t know existed. There are far too many thoughts spinning around my head for any one drunk person to handle alone.

  The way I see it, I have a few options. I could have my breasts augmented and stock my closet with clothes that are a size too small—like Mary Jane. But there’s no way Sober Charlie will be on board with that one. I could join a dating website instead. It seems simple enough—fill out a detailed questionnaire, and they match you with your most suitable mate. But what if you’re not compatible with anyone? My ego wouldn’t be able to take a hit that big right now. Too bad I can’t order a hubby online. Not that I make enough money to entertain that idea, but if I paid for my guy, surely I would be able to customize him. Every year on my birthday I could adopt a cat from the shelter. Slowly build an army.

  This brainstorming session isn’t getting my anywhere. Mainly because all of my ideas are crap. The only thing I can do to help my current situation is tell Jackson he sucks. He’s the reason I ventured into this messed-up thought process.

  I dig through my bag until I find my phone at the bottom and pull it out. I scroll through my contacts with my thumb. All of the names blur together, so I squint to bring them into focus. When I find his name I tap on it, feeling strangely empowered and uncaring of the fac
t that I’ll most likely regret this in the morning. I text him the first thing that comes to mind: I do NOT like you, Jackson Stiles.

  I drop my phone and grin like I just won a political debate. Take that! Sending him such a sassy text makes me feel like a badass. Jackson Stiles will not get the best of me. I can have fun. Just because he isn’t at the pool doesn’t mean I can’t have a good time. I can—Oh, shit. I slide away from my phone in a move that’s both panicked and clumsy. Did it just beep? Oh my God. It did just beep. He sent a message back! Why did I not consider his ability to reply when I sent that message? Technology is the devil. I should’ve destroyed my phone while I was sober.

  Why do you NOT like me, Charlie Day?

  He thinks he’s so cute and clever. I shouldn’t give him the pleasure of a response. I’m sure this is what he wants. Me here and obsessing over him, wondering where he is, what he’s doing. I’m not going to let him have that. I refuse to let Jackson make me feel any worse.

  My phone beeps for the second time.

  You look nice in purple.

  And you’re cute when you’re mad.

  I look nice in purple? What on earth is he... Oh. Oh! My head snaps up as I scan the crowd in front of me. Within seconds, I find him. Off to my right, smiling all smug-like. And damn it, does he look delicious. I do my best to keep my gaze trained on his face, but I can’t seem to stop my eyes from drifting below his neckline. He doesn’t have a shirt on. He needs to have a shirt on. Abs that magnificent could very well induce a riot.

  I force my eyes to the stained concrete and remind myself I’m mad. Mad because things got so weird when we said goodbye last night. And mad because I spent the entire afternoon obsessing over him not replying to my message. It hasn’t been sixty seconds when my resolve cracks and I find my gaze on his black board shorts. The way they’re hanging off his hips is reason enough for me to smooth my ruffled feathers and forget any of it ever happened.

  He plops down on the chair beside me and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Hey.” He raises his eyebrows at me as he twists the cap off the bottle of water in his hands. “Anyone home?”

  “What are you doing here?” As soon as the words are out, I want to sink into the ground and disappear. My voice not only comes out squeaky, but also wobbles.

  His mouth thins, but he can’t disguise the latent humor that’s there. “You invited me.”

  I clear my throat, grasping for some composure. “Well, I’m uninviting you.”

  He reaches out and I shift away before I realize he’s only handing me his water. “Uninviting me from a pool party that isn’t yours?” When I don’t respond, he nudges the bottle at me. “Here. You’ve gotta be hot.”

  I feel myself deflate a little, which isn’t what I want. I have no willpower when it comes to him. That needs to change.

  “Drink,” he says, touching the plastic rim to my knuckles.

  I hesitate for a few beats but take the bottle from him and tilt my head back. He watches as I down three big gulps and run my hand across my mouth. “Thanks,” I say, handing it back to him. “And yes, I’m uninviting you.”

  “I’m not sure it works that way,” he says, lifting the bottle to his mouth without wiping off the rim. He keeps his eyes locked on me as he takes a long drink.

  His ability to make something so simple look so fascinating can’t possibly be human.

  A red flag warns me to look away, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. The tendons in his neck bulge when he swallows, and for some reason that alone makes a slow tingle spread through my core. He lowers the bottle and there’s one tiny drop of water on the corner of his mouth. When he runs his tongue over his bottom lip to catch it, I know I’m in trouble, because the slow tingle accelerates until it’s an electrical current.

  Space. I need space. And fast.

  I tuck my legs underneath me and rotate until my body is facing the pool. “I can’t talk right now.” To you. And I probably shouldn’t look at you either. “Why don’t you go put a shirt on? You’re distracting me.”

  He chuckles and leans back in the chair, threading his fingers behind his head. “How much have you had to drink?” His eyes are smiling long before his lips curl up.

  I blink several times and look away. “Enough,” I finally answer. I can still feel him watching me, and it’s really scrambling my brain.

  “You should let me take you home.” His voice gets soft, and the change in his tone prompts me to turn my head. His eyes lock on mine, and all of a sudden the laid-back, no-worries vibe he was teasing me with moments before vanishes; it’s replaced by something sweet and deep that cuts right through the walls I put up to keep people out. Straight to the place that I don’t let anyone see, because it’s still too raw and fucked up.

  “I can’t go anywhere. We still have a good two hours of daylight left.” I need to keep this conversation in a safe place.

  He shakes his head and laughs. “What am I gonna do with you?”

  “Apparently nothing,” I retort, and just like that, the ball’s back in my court.

  His forehead creases as he frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His response flips a switch inside of me, and it takes me back to all the frustration I felt toward him before he showed up. “You know what it means!” Nothing can save him now. Not his tanned skin, or his ridiculous muscles, or his perfect smile.

  He runs both of his hands through his hair and exhales a long, sharp breath of frustration. “Look, Charlie. It’s—”

  “No, you look,” I interrupt, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice is. “I don’t want to argue, so I’m going to stay here. And I think you should go over there.” I point to the other side of the pool where Taylor and Devin are leaning against the Ping-Pong table, watching us like we’re on the screen at the cinema. As soon as they realize we’re staring back, they both whirl around to face the opposite direction.

  Jackson sits up and scoots forward, one leg on either side of the chaise. “So you’re asking me to go away?”

  I nod my head. “Yeah, it looks like I am.”

  “Alright.” He raises both hands, palms up and out in surrender. “Suit yourself.”

  But instead of standing, he freezes and his blue eyes circle my features one more time, studying me like I’m a problem he can’t quite figure out how to solve. After a moment, he looks away, and I hate how shaky the exchange leaves me.

  Even more than that, I hate the way he just stands up and walks away, calm and collected. Unaffected. It isn’t fair. Peeling away my layers comes easily for him; it’s so much harder getting through to him. His walls are taller and thicker—made from steel. They never come down.

  I glare at the back of his head as he strolls along the short pathway that leads from the pool to the bar. Who does he think he is, just walking away like that? And why do I care so much all of a sudden?

  As soon as he props his hip against one of the bar stools, a girl comes out from the woodwork and makes a beeline for him. She stops beside him and twirls around once. Then she giggles and does it again. The baseball game is playing on all of the TVs, so I know there isn’t any music. Weird. No matter how bizarre this is, I’ve got to admit that her rhythm is impressive. And she must be graceful too, because her hands are on his biceps and I have no clue how they got there. A few well-executed moves later, and she’s in front of him with both of her palms pressed to his chest. To his bare chest. I hate her, and I hate him right now.

  He’s got his back to me, so I can’t see his face. But it’s obvious that he isn’t telling her to stop. The stocky guy, a few stools away from Jackson, grabs the girl’s hand and spins her in his direction. The detour doesn’t deter her for very long. She pushes off of his chest and shimmies straight back to Jackson. Seriously?

  What is it about him that makes women so
crazy? It’s getting out of hand. If Jackson’s scent could be bottled and marketed, I’d be rich. I wouldn’t have any problem affording a mail-order husband then. Or sweaters for my cat army.

  My eyes go straight to Taylor when I look away. Her eyes lock with mine, and her body language communicates everything that needs to be said without speaking. First she throws her hands in the air like she’s having a WTF moment. Then her hands go to her hips, and she nudges her head in his direction. Her eyes get wider and her brows go up like she’s saying, You gonna do something about that?

  When I shake my head, she purses her lips, starts tapping her foot and her brows rise even higher. I imagine her message is something along the lines of: I’m putting a stop to that if you don’t. Right now. Before I’m able to calm her, she turns to Devin and her mouth starts to move. She’s talking so quickly that I’m not sure he can even understand her. Poor guy. The expression that passes over his face is clear as day: Help me.

  I stand and hold my hands out to both of them. They stop talking, and I give them the thumbs-up, implying that I’ll handle this. Not that there’s anything that needs to be handled. Jackson isn’t mine, so it’s not like I have any reason to be upset with him. Or her for that matter. He’s cute and not wearing a wedding ring, so she’s flirting; I can’t say I blame her.

  Ignoring them would be the smart thing to do, and if I were thinking logically, I probably would. But I’m not. I don’t know if it’s because I have ten different types of liquor in my system from Taylor’s master creation, or if it’s because Jackson truly does make me crazy. Either way, I fail to get my shit together.

  I take one step forward and wobble just the slightest bit. The fact that I’m unable to stand on my own two feet is proof that I shouldn’t be going over there. I have no plan, of course. I can’t exactly slip between the two of them and start grinding on Jackson. If my ability to walk is questionable then dancing is out of the picture without a doubt.