Headfirst Falling Read online

  I’m passing by a few cocktail tables that circle the pool’s edge when someone snags my wrist and pulls. The tug sets me off balance, and my right cheek connects with what I believe to be a chest. A set of hands grab my waist and steady me.

  When I’m sure I’m not going to topple over, I inch back to see who I’ve crashed into. I recognize him the instant I see his face. Big brown eyes with matching hair and biceps the size of my thighs.

  “Dave!” I say as I recall his first name. Dave...Johnson? I can’t be sure. But I remember him from high school. He graduated a year before me.

  He moves his hands from my waist to my shoulders and shakes me. We both sway a little, and I realize Dave, like me, has been drinking. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that we’re tipping back, because the earsplitting smile never leaves his face. “Charlie! Where’d you come from, girl?”

  “Um, I was walking.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder and force a small laugh. “Right over there, remember?”

  I try to take a step back, but his grip tightens. “Where ya goin’?”

  “To the bar,” I say, glancing off to my left. The first thing I catch sight of is Jackson. He’s turned away from the counter now, and he’s glaring at me like he’s pissed. The girl isn’t dancing anymore. She’s talking instead, but it doesn’t look like he’s paying attention.

  Dave puffs air into my face, blowing back the strands of hair that have fallen from my braid. And ew—his breath stinks. Like Jägermeister and stale cigarettes. He’s swaying a little, so I put my hands on his arms to steady him.

  “You okay?” I ask, leaning back as far as his grip will allow.

  “Who, me?” He licks his lips and looks at me like he wants to devour me, which is annoying, because I’m not a cheeseburger. But I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, because he was a decent enough guy in high school. I mean, I think he was. I can’t remember much about him.

  Dave moves his hands from my shoulders to my hips. His calloused palms are pressed against my bare skin, and it makes me want to cringe. “Where ya been?” he asks, raking his eyes down the length of my body and making a slow trail back up.

  I shrug and try for a casual approach. “I’ve been around. What about you?”

  “Mmm, I don’t wanna talk about that.” He pulls me forward until we’re pressed together, his fingers digging into the flesh at my hip bones. “I wanna talk about me and you goin’ a round. Or coming.”

  Okay, screw the whole benefit of the doubt thing. I’m officially creeped out. “I’m not interested,” I tell him, making sure my words are loud and clear.

  His easygoing grin is replaced by something more sinister. And as soon as I see his expression change, I decide that if I have to kick this shithead in the balls to make him leave me alone, I’ll do it. I place my hands on his chest and push. “Dave, seriously. Back off.”

  Instead of budging, he leans forward and lets more of his weight press against me. He’s heavier than I assumed. And stronger. For the first time since he touched me, I panic.

  He lowers his head and speaks with his mouth pressed to my ear. “You’re not going anywhere.” His hot breath pours down the back of my neck, and my skin prickles.

  I cut my eyes to the left then right, hoping someone nearby is witnessing how inappropriate this has become. The group of people who were around when he snagged me up have all scattered. Taylor and Devin are both still turned in the opposite direction. We’re surrounded by people, but my voice won’t reach any of them unless I raise it. Making a huge scene is the last thing I want to do, but unless he gets his meaty paws off of me, I’m going to embarrass the hell out of both of us.

  I clench my hands into fists and shove him with more force. “Back off. I’m not going to ask again.” My icy tone is laced with venom, but Dave doesn’t seem to notice.

  His hands slide around to the small of my back and drift toward my backside. “Things like this shouldn’t be displayed if they can’t be touched.”

  I know I need to do something. Hell, I’m pissed off and ready to do something. My mind is just racing too fast to figure out what. Head-butt him? Stomp on his insole? A knee to the balls? I want to do it all, because guys who think they can get away with stuff like this need the shit beat out of them.

  Just as one of his fingers slips into my waistband, I’m ripped from his grasp and stumbling back in surprise. My mind connects the dots in slow motion as Jackson barrels into my line of sight and pushes Dave back with force. Dave isn’t leaving without getting his face bashed in, but I’m not the one who’s going to do it. He’s too drunk to react immediately, but once he gets his bearings he lunges at Jackson and they crash together. Dave is stocky, and I know he’s strong. Jackson is tall and lean, full of tightly corded muscle, and his rigid frame doesn’t flinch in the face of Dave’s brute force.

  Everything is happening too fast for words to be exchanged. Nothing needs to be said, anyway. Drunk or not, Dave knows what he did. He throws his arms around Jackson’s middle and propels both of their bodies forward. I take a giant leap back to avoid being steamrolled by them and look away long enough to realize that we’re close to the lip of the in-ground pool now. I have no idea how we migrated this far so quickly.

  Jackson’s arm is reared back when my eyes return to him, and I hear the unmistakable impact of knuckles meeting face. Dave’s not too inebriated to swing back, and his fist hammers into Jackson’s side, right at the rib cage. His efforts throw him off balance, and he topples to the side. Jackson follows, giving no indication that he even felt Dave’s hit. He’s too busy hurling him back to his feet.

  I have a fleeting memory of when he and Adam were pissed-off, hormonal teenagers. They fought. A lot. Never with each other, but any other guy? Fair game. And they always said: Never hit an asshole when he’s down. That’s the only reason Jackson’s holding Dave up. He isn’t ready for this to end.

  The memory is thrown from my mind when Jackson rears his arm back again. He lands the punch square to Dave’s nose, and I hear the sick crunch of bones beneath the devastating blow. I don’t feel sorry for Dave, but the noise makes my stomach turn. For a single second, everything slows and fades, and I feel frozen. Dave is swaying back and forth on his feet, and a spray of his blood is splattered across his chest. The entire scene has a dreamlike quiet.

  Then the sound and action rush back with hyper-speed. There’s no doubt in my mind that this fight is done. The only thing keeping Dave on his feet is Jackson. I’m not sure if he’s even still conscious at this point. It’s over. Or it should be. But Jackson doesn’t stop.

  He brings his fist back again and again, landing blow after blow after destructive blow. His knuckles are covered with Dave’s blood. And maybe some of his. I can’t be sure. I’m too horrified by the scene unfolding before me. I know this happened fast, but somewhere along the way a crowd of people gathered around. Why aren’t any of them trying to break this up? And wasn’t Dave with friends? Where are they? Surely I’m not the only one who sees what a threat Jackson is. Take his military background, then factor in his speed and strength; add his rage to the equation and the outcome is deadly. He doesn’t need a weapon—he has his hands.

  This has to be stopped.

  I shout his name. Then I shout it louder. I know my voice is reaching his ears, but it’s not crossing through to his brain.

  I force my shaking body to surge forward, resolving to put myself between them. I grab his shoulder just as he brings his fist back, intending to prepare for another punch. His elbow connects with my chest, and the abrupt change in momentum yanks my equilibrium from beneath me. I topple backward, reaching for something that isn’t there and grabbing fistfuls of air. My legs wobble beneath me as I stumble onto an uneven surface. My toes are planted on the concrete, but my heels are hanging off a ledge I wasn’t even aware I was on. The lip of the pool. I s
tand there for a nanosecond, waving my arms and trying to regain my balance. Jackson whirls around just in time to see me fall into the water with an ungraceful splash.

  My first thought is that I’m going to drown. Mainly because I didn’t get the chance to take a breath before I went under. Now I have a mouthful of chlorinated water. I managed to inhale some of it in my fluster, and having dirty pool water in my lungs seems like the perfect seed for pneumonia. I’m choking on water and I’ve been drinking. But I don’t feel drunk, so I can only hope that the wild rush of adrenaline I’m experiencing somehow chased my buzz-induced haze away.

  My legs and arms tangle as I search to find something—anything. The surface, the bottom, a swimming body; I don’t care. I’ll be happy with whatever I get as long as it isn’t more water.

  Before I do, a figure cuts through the water in a graceful drive. One secure arm wraps around my waist and the other guides us to the side. Then hands are on my bottom, and I’m pushed out of the pool. I pull in a huge gasp of air as Jackson crawls out behind me. The concrete is warm from the sun overhead. I just want to sprawl out on it and breathe, but Jackson’s long fingers wrap around one of my wrists and I’m pulled to my feet before I realize it’s happening.

  I’m hacking and gasping like a suffocating goose; his breathing is almost back to normal, steady and calm. Water is dripping over his face, and he looks completely delicious. He also looks mad as hell. His usual blue-green eyes are now hard slates of gray beneath his wet lashes.

  He runs his hand across his face then shakes the droplets off with a few flicks of his wrist. “Goddamn it, Charlie.”

  Oh, yeah. He’s pissed.

  I open my mouth to speak, but he holds his palms out to silence me. “Don’t. Get your things. We’re leaving.”

  “But—”

  “Now,” he barks. “Get your stuff now.”

  With that, I don’t argue. I’ve never seen him this angry before.

  * * *

  When Jackson cuts across two lanes of traffic to exit the freeway, I finally speak up. “Where are we going?” My voice is quiet and a little hesitant. I don’t understand why he’s so upset with me. I wasn’t doing anything wrong with Dave.

  He hasn’t said a word since we got into his truck. The quiet stillness of the cab is almost enough to make me crack. I wish he would just yell at me. That would be better than this. Silence is the best form of punishment. It’s worse than words.

  I drop my head to my hands and cover my eyes. The buzz is long gone, and I’m instantly propelled to the unpleasant side of inebriation. Now comes the unfortunate act of sobering up.

  After another minute of deafening silence, I chance a peek at Jackson. His entire body is tense, and beneath the splotches of dried blood, his knuckles are white from the tight grip he has on the steering wheel. I wouldn’t be surprised to see it shatter to pieces in his hands.

  And he still looks delicious.

  The mess I got myself into with Dave is pushed away as my eyes make a slow trail across him. Over the flexing muscles of his forearm and to the curve of his strong shoulders. He protected me, and something about that is really, really sexy. He was watching me. He cares about me.

  We pass a large Dallas Zoo billboard that coaxes cars to take the next exit and come spend money. I point to the sign and try a different tack. “Are you taking me to see the animals?”

  His eyes don’t leave the road. “I’m taking you home,” he answers calmly. Much too calmly.

  I pull in a few deeps breaths and try to decide if I need to throw up. Verdict: possibly. I don’t say anything the rest of the way.

  When we pull into my drive, he exits without saying a word and walks around the hood to yank my door open. I step out and turn to face him with timid uncertainty. I still haven’t figured out why he’s so upset with me, and I have no clue what to say. In lieu of speaking, I spin on my heels and hightail it toward my front door. He follows.

  When we reach the door, he twists the handle and holds it open for me. I step inside, and I’m surprised to see that he does too. “Go to your room,” he orders, pulling the door shut behind him. He sounds like a strict father. A rebellious giggle rises in my throat, but I swallow it before it can climb any higher.

  Jackson heads to the kitchen as I veer off toward my bedroom. I drop my bag beside my desk and go straight to the bathroom. I do a double take when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I’m a mess. Knowing I rode the entire way here looking like this embarrasses me a little. This isn’t a good look for me.

  I turn on the faucet and pull the hand towel from its ring. Then I splash my face with cold water and dry it. My breath smells like alcohol, so I brush my teeth and rinse with mouthwash twice. My eyes are bloodshot, road maps of red lines webbed across white. There isn’t anything I can do for them, so I flip the light off and leave.

  Jackson is sitting in the chair at my desk. The blood has been washed away from his hands, and he looks like he’s lost a little steam. His eyes have thawed from rock-hard ice to heavy clouds of gray.

  I sit on my bed and bring my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “I’m sorry about everything... For sending you that text and being so weird when you showed up. I’m sorry about the Dave thing—I don’t even know why or how that happened. He just snagged me up and started talking. I tried to get away. Before and after his aggression came on. I really did, but he wouldn’t let me. It all happened so quickly, and I still can’t believe things escalated the way they did. I just—I don’t know—wish none of this would’ve happened.” I shut my mouth as soon as I realize I’m rambling, but the room is too quiet without the sound of my voice, so I add one more thing. “I hope you can accept my apology.”

  He runs his hand across his jaw and sighs. “You don’t owe me anything. You’re the one who deserves an apology, so I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you. I’m just...” He pauses, searching for the right word.

  “Angry with everything?” I supply.

  He smiles a little but shakes his head. “No. I’m just...mad, I guess.” The smile vanishes, replaced by something serious that I don’t like as much. “Seeing you talk to Dave made me wanna lock you up and throw away the key. Guys like him are bad news. I don’t want you around them. Ever. I don’t want them to touch you, or talk to you, or even look at you. And knowing I can’t make that happen makes me crazy. I lost my temper. Big-time. I’ll never do anything like that again.”

  When he’s finished, he crosses the room and lifts a glass of water off my nightstand. “Here.” He puts the glass in one of my hands and presses two small white pills into the palm of my other. “It’s Advil,” he says.

  He watches as I take the pills. I hand the glass back to him and say, “So you’re not mad at me?”

  He laughs and sets the cup aside. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m dead serious,” I say, but I’m grinning.

  He lifts his hand and places it on my knee, and I freeze. Then he runs his thumb across the spot just inside of my calf, and I’m not sure if my heart is even beating. “You’re the last person in the world I could ever be mad at.” His voice is like his touch: soft and warm, barely there.

  Due to the tsunami waves rolling from his fingertips to my skin, I fail to muster a reply, and he stands. “Wait,” I blurt. I open my mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Will you turn off the overhead light?”

  A look passes over his face. Surprise, maybe. I’m not sure, because as fast as it comes it goes. “Sure.” His hand drops away, and he heads for the switch on the wall.

  The room is dark for a second or two after he switches it off. Then he cracks the door a little wider, and light from the hallway filters into the room. Instead of coming back to me, he leans against the frame, hand still wrapped around the brass handle.

  “I should probably
head home,” he finally says, and my heart drops. He lets go of the handle and straightens up. I know that means he’s leaving and I need to say something.

  It’s not until he takes the first step away from me that I’m able to reply. “Jackson.” My voice is so quiet I’m surprised he hears me. “Please don’t go.”

  He freezes for a beat then runs his hand across the back of his neck.

  “Just for a minute,” I add.

  “Okay.” He sounds reluctant, but he turns and takes one step back into my room. “I’ll stay for a minute.”

  When he doesn’t move, I pat the spot beside me on the bed and grin. “Feel like sitting?”

  He’s facing away from the door so it’s hard to see his face, but I catch the subtle tilt of his lips as they shift into a smile. “Sure.”

  “Wait,” I say when he’s halfway across the room. “Will you close the door?”

  He’s close enough for me to see his brows shoot up in surprise. I’m sure my expression is a perfect reflection of his, because the request shocks me too. Where is this coming from? I asked him to stay, and now I’m trying to get him alone in my dark room.

  The sound of the door clicking into place with the jamb sends my nerves into a frenzy. I lunge toward my side table and fumble around until I find the base of the lamp beside my bed. I knock it over twice as my hands fly up and down its length in search of the switch. I’m too worried about not looking like a pervert to care about the racket I’m making. Does this stupid lamp even have a switch? I’ve never used it. Come to think of it, I’m not sure if it’s even plugged in.

  Apparently it is, because it blinks to life right as my hand runs into another hand. Jackson’s hand. His big, strong hand that’s moments away from being in my bed and alone—Oh my God, something is wrong with me.

  I pull my hand back in a jerky movement and glance up at him mid-freak-out. His lips are pressed together, and it looks like he’s trying not to laugh.