Falling Under (2 page)

I head to a spot I found yesterday, a little cafe not far from the Vanderbilt campus. It’s got good coffee, and killer chili cheese fries. I pull into the parking lot, cut off the engine, and hold my hand out. Kylie takes it, and I feel a tingle. Her smile, as I help her swing off the bike, is surprised, as if a guy like me couldn’t possibly know anything about manners. Except I’ve been raised by a single mom, and she expects me to do that shit. For her, and for everyone. I’ve never had a dad, so she’s tried to teach me things she thinks a man should know. Like how to be a gentleman. Kylie hangs the helmet on the handle, and I do the same with my own helmet and my jacket, not bothering to hide my stare as she arches backward to run her fingers through her hair, and then ties it back with a ponytail holder from her wrist. God, she’s gorgeous. Willowy, but with lush curves. And Jesus, that hair. On the red side of strawberry blonde, with the milk-white skin to match, a spattering of freckles across her nose. Her eyes meet mine, catching me staring, and I don’t look away, don’t let an ounce of apology enter my eyes. I was perusing all of her, not just her assets. I’m not going to apologize for looking at a beautiful woman, especially when I wasn’t just staring at her tits or something. Which I do get a good look at, because holy hell, are they perfect. She’s got this preppy country girl thing going on, girly cowboy boots, skintight faded jeans, a pale pink plaid shirt with slim, rolled-up sleeves, a blingy belt with a wide buckle. The shirt is unbuttoned to show just a hint of cleavage, but it’s enough to see that she’s got a rack to die for. Big, round, firm, high. Not huge, but probably a soft and tasty handful. I jerk my eyes back to her face, to her breathtaking blue eyes.

She looks me over. I’m tall, over six-four, almost six-five. I’m not an athlete or a workout buff, but I stay in shape, so I’m more lean than anything. Shoulder-length auburn hair pulled back low on my neck. Tanned, swarthy skin, a long hooked nose, brownish-gray eyes. I’ve got tattoos, an image of a road on my left forearm, two lanes, the double-stripe down the middle and lines on either side. It’s done in shades of gray, going from the base of my wrist up to my elbow. I’ve got some tribal designs on my left bicep, and on my right forearm I have a few lines of lyrics from Metallica’s “Wherever I May Roam.” The words are inscribed horizontally, done to look like someone had hand-written them there just a moment before, the ink glossy black and almost wet-looking. Pair that with old, faded, ripped blue jeans and scuffed combat boots, and I look every inch a biker.
 

After our mutual stare-fest is over, I hold the door open, and I’m once again treated to a surprised smile and a stunned “thank you.”

We sit down in a corner booth. She orders Coke, and I get coffee and an order of chili cheese fries. “You want something to eat?” I ask her. I grabbed my hat from my saddlebag as I swung off the bike, and I cram it backward onto my head, to cover up my helmet hair.
 

“What you’re getting sounds fine,” she says.

“Then we’ll share,” I say. She just nods, and I decide to get a feel for the lay of the land. “So, that guy, Ben. Your boyfriend?”

“No!” she protests, a little too quickly, I think. She seems to realize it, too, and calms down immediately. “No. We grew up together. Our parents are best friends. We’ve lived across the street from each other since kindergarten.”
 

“He seemed awful protective of you. A little too much for just friends.”

She flicks at her straw with her tongue. It’s hot, and distracting. I watch her tongue rather than her face, and I wonder what she can do with that tongue of hers. I almost miss what she’s saying. “…always been protective. He looks out for me, that’s all.”

I stir my coffee, more to get myself to stop watching her tongue and her lips than because it needs stirring. “Looks
at
you, maybe. He wanted to kill me when you got on my bike. I did steal you from him.”

Her eyes darken, and she frowns. “Yeah, that’s probably not gonna go over well, later.”

“I hope I didn’t cause you
too
much trouble,” I say.
 

She shrugs. “Nah. He’ll just be pissy. Why are we talking about Ben, anyway? Don’t you have a pick-up line to use on me?”

I grin. “I already used it, sweetness.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like it,” she says.

“Yes, you do,” I say.

She opens her mouth to protest again, but the waitress brings over my fries, which become
our
fries as Kylie reaches out and snags one. She tips her head back and takes a bite, chili and cheese dripping onto her chin. She even eats sexily. It’s unreal. The chili on her chin has to be scorching, and she’s trying to unwrap the napkin, but can’t get the sticky strip of paper undone. I don’t even think about it. I just reach out and brush the chili off with my thumb. Dumbass. But…damn, her skin is soft. And then, deliberately, I lick my thumb. Also stupid, and reckless, and bad for everyone involved.
 

She’s fixated on me, as if she can’t believe what just happened. I can’t, either. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not the charm-and-smarm kinda guy. A girl hangs with me, she knows what’s up. Mom and I, we’re nomads. We don’t stay anywhere long. So any relationship I have is, by nature, short-lived. Not gonna waste time on silly mush bullshit, like making a chick think I love her.
 

So why did I do that, touch her with my thumb that way? Sure, she’s hot, but it’s not like I’m staying in Nashville for long. A few semesters, finish out the degree. That’s it. So…what the hell, Oz?

I got nothin’.

“Where are you from, Oz?” she asks, by way of breaking the awkwardness.

I hate that question. “All over the place.”

“Your dad in the military or something?” She says it so innocently, no way of knowing how bitter I am about the topic of fathers.
 

I shrug, trying to keep the ever-present fury from my voice; it ain’t her fault. “No. Just Mom and me. And we just move a lot. Various reasons.”
I don’t know why
, is the real answer, but I’m not about to say that to this chick.

“You never knew your dad?” She levels a look at me, wiping at her cheek with her napkin. Her eyes are assessing, reading me, piercing me.

I shake my head. It’s all she’ll get out of me. “You got both your folks?”
 

She nods. “Yep.”

“What do they do?” I’m not just asking to get her off the topic of dads; I’m genuinely interested. Another bad sign.

Her eyes light up, and I envy her that joy. “They’re musicians. They’re Nell and Colt. They were signed to Columbia for a while, but they’re indie now. They have their own record label, and they actually just signed their first new artist.”

I’m a little impressed, actually. I know Nell and Colt. I’m a metalhead and will be till the day I die, but I’ve got a secret soft spot for singer/songwriter music. Thanks to my Mom, mainly. So we have music we can listen to together. She’s into hip-hop and pop and country, a bunch of stupid bullshit that I can’t stand. I had to find middle ground, so we could listen to music in the car on cross-country moves. Nell and Colt are pretty big in the singer/songwriter world, actually. I call it coffeehouse music, the kinda stuff you hear in little one-off hipster joints where they do art with the latte foam.
 

“I’ve heard of ’em,” I say. “I like ’em.”

Kylie blinks in surprise. “You—you have?” Her gaze flicks to my shirt, which features a skull with a rose growing from it, and a raven perched on the skull.

I wink at her. “I’m full of surprises, sweetness.”

She sighs. “Stop winking at me. And stop calling me ‘sweetness.’”
 

“You know that’s just gonna make me do it more, right?” I wink at her again, exaggerated. “Sweetness.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “Who even winks, anyway? I mean, really? Winking? Isn’t that for creepy uncles?”

I laugh. “I’m not a creepy uncle. But maybe you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. That’s why I said it. Duh.” She stuffs another cheese fry in her mouth, and again chili smears on the corner of her mouth.
 

I can’t help it. My hand reaches out by itself. My thumb touches her cheek, but her fingers encircle my wrist. Our eyes lock, my gray-brown eyes on her bluest blue, electric, fiery blue.
 

“Don’t,” she whispers.

“Why?” I match her volume; I don’t know why.

“I don’t like it.”
 

“You lie, sweetness. And why are we whispering?” I say it all
sotto voce
, and I know I sound stupid, using lines like that on her, but they just slip out.
 

I shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be acting like this chick could ever mean anything to me, or I to her. She’s got rich, famous parents. I mean, they’re not
famous
, but if you listen to the right kind of music, you’ve heard of ’em. They’ve even gotten some country station cross-over airplay. The point is, I’m a nobody drifter, with a nobody drifter mom. And Kylie? She’s got roots here in Nashville. Friends, family, the works.
 

She leans away from me, wipes at her face with a napkin. Slides out of the booth. “I’ve gotta pee.”

I pay the bill while she’s gone, and polish off the plate of fries. The girl did a number on them, to my surprise. The chicks I’ve known wouldn’t have gone to town on something like cheese fries, so watching her eat happily and with obvious pleasure was interesting. And hot. Yes, I’m noticing a pattern here. Anything she does is hot. The way she slipped out of the booth, for example. It was graceful, a sleek, elegant motion. No jerking or hopping or awkward movements, just a smooth slide, and then she was off across the cafe with a sway to her ass.
 

When she came back, I stood up to meet her. “Ready?” I ask.

She glances at the table, at the small pile of ones I left as a tip. “You paid already?”

“Of course.”

A third time I get the surprised smile. “You’re not what I expected, Oz.”

“What’d you expect?”

She shrugs, blushing. “I don’t know. You’ve got the tattoos and long hair and the motorcycle. I thought you’d be…I don’t know. You’re nice. I misjudged you, so…sorry.”

We’re outside and standing beside my Indian. I touch her chin with the knuckle of my index finger. “I may have manners, sweetness, but I’m not nice.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “Nope. You’ll see.” I swing on, shift forward to give her room.
 

Oh, man. The way my zipper tightens as she slides on behind me and wraps her arms around me and crushes her chest to my back, holding on a little too tightly…bad. Not good. Warning signs. She’s a good girl with a future. I’m a bad boy with none. Too bad I’m an idiot who never pays attention to warning signs.
 

She directs me with pointed gestures, and soon we enter a gated community outside Nashville. Huge,
huge
houses. Brick, lots of glass. Wide driveways and three-car garages. Lincolns, Beemers, Mercedes, a few pickups, Rovers, and Hummers. Manicured lawns, everything in place. I’m intimidated. Two-room apartments are all I’ve ever known. How do you live in places like this? What would that be like? Do you ever get used to such wealth? What’s it like to live in one city your entire life? I can’t fathom it.

She points at a house on the left side of the street. It’s not the biggest on the block, but it’s nice. Beautiful. A wide porch in front, a huge deck in back. An open garage door reveals a huge pickup truck with oversize tires, a small, sleek, black BMW, and a classic Triumph motorcycle. The motorcycle was being worked on, judging by the array of tools around it and the grease rag on the seat.
 

It was being worked on by the holy-shit-he’s-huge man standing in the driveway, thick, tattooed arms folded over a hard, muscular chest. I’d heard him sing, even seen YouTube videos of him and Nell performing together, but the man in person is scary as fuck. I don’t scare easily, but this guy could do it, if anyone could. I swallow my nerves, call on my reserves of cool. I pull into her driveway, let the bike roll to a stop beside Kylie’s dad, kill the engine. I put the stand down and swing off. He’s glaring at me. At my leather jacket, the spiked helmet, my long hair. Staring me down. I’d be lying if I said I’m not a little nervous. Not scared, just…nervous. Yeah.

Kylie hops off, hangs the helmet on the back of the bike, and slams into her father for a hug. He does it one-arm, the other hand stuffed into his pocket. “Daddy!” She leans up and kisses his cheek. “You’re back!”

He nods. “Yeah, got in this afternoon.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me while he speaks. “Who’s this?”

I step toward him. “Oz Hyde, sir.”
 

“Colt.” His grip is crushing, but not with intent, simply because his hands are just that strong. “Oz, huh? What kind of name is Oz?”

“Mine.” I meet his gaze levelly. I see where Kylie got her sapphire eyes.
 

There’s something in his expression. Suspicion? Awareness? I’m not sure. He glances at his daughter. “Ben said you’d gone off with some guy.”

“‘Ben said’?” She says it with a bit of anger. “God, really? Ben is my friend, Daddy, not my boyfriend, not my parent. I don’t have to stay with him just because he
says
.”

He has nothing to say to this. He looks back at me. “New in town, Oz?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.” I can’t help but be respectful to Colt. He’s dangerous. I can sense it in him. The fighter in me, the survivor in me, recognizes the hardness in him. He’s seen some shit, and he may live a cush life now, but he hasn’t always. Fists remember.

“Where’d you move from?”

“Atlanta.”

He glances at my bike, nodding appreciatively. “Nice bike.”

I grin, and nod at his Triumph. “Thanks. I like yours. What year is it?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Damn. Sure is sweet.”

“Yeah.” He blinks at me, assessing, thinking. “Look. My daughter is old enough to choose her own…friends. But listen to me, boy. You take my daughter on a ride, you ride
careful
. Got it? You hurt her, you deal with me.”