Falling Under (9 page)

She shrugs. “No, they’re not. I’m decent. I’ve just been practicing that song for a while, and I still messed up. I hit, like, three wrong notes. I just…I’ve always wanted to be like Mom and Dad. I love watching them perform together. They have so much fun, and just… I’ve always wanted to be part of a duet. But all the guys I know only want one thing from me. They’d play and practice with me, and when I don’t put out, they ditch me. I’ve tried, okay? I asked Billy Nicholson to play with me last year, and he was all excited. He’s talented, like, for real. But as soon as we were alone in the choir room, he tried to kiss me. And I was like, eeew, because Billy Nichols is a man-whore. He’s fucked half the girls at the high school. I’m not that girl, and I said so. I told him all I wanted was to play music together, and he just…ditched me. Just like that.” She plucks at a string on the guitar I’m still holding, looking down. “So I tried again with Trey Ulrich. We practiced together for maybe a week, and then he tried to kiss me, too, and the same thing happened. As soon as I made it clear that there’d be no funny business going on, just music, he was all like ‘fuck this, then.’”
 

“Sounds like you know a bunch of horny douchenozzles, then.”

She laughs. “Yeah, you could say that.” She gave me a quick glance, and then looked away. “So I kind of gave up after that. Until I met you. We’ve been hanging out for a while, and I feel like I can trust you.”

Bad plan, sweetness.
I don’t say that, but it runs through my head. Because all this time, she’s been within kissing distance, and I’ve been trying not to stare at her lips, wondering what flavor lip balm she’s wearing, and if her lips are as soft as they look. “You shouldn’t trust me,” I do end up saying. “You shouldn’t trust any straight guy.”

She frowns, confused. “Why not?”
 

“Because you’re fucking gorgeous, and any guy who spends more than five seconds around you wants you. Guaranteed.”
 

She doesn’t back away at the implication. “
Every
guy?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“Even you?”

I laugh. “Most definitely me.” Our eyes meet, and I hate, for her sake, the gleam of interest I see in her gaze.

“But you haven’t tried anything.”

I shake my head. “No, I haven’t. You’re my friend, Kylie. Maybe you’ve noticed that I don’t have a lot of friends in my life, so there’s no way I’m going to screw up the one friend I’ve got in all of Nashville. Plus, you’re not even eighteen.”

She’s thinking hard about that. When she speaks again, it’s slow and hesitant. “What if I want—”

I put two fingers over her lips, which is a temptation unlike anything. “No. You don’t. You don’t know the half of what makes me the way I am.”

“I’d like to learn.”

“No, Kylie. There’s a reason I keep my bullshit to myself, okay? It’s not about keeping secrets, or because I’m ashamed. It’s because someone like you shouldn’t know about the shit I’ve done. My life ain’t pretty, sweetness. I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by dragging you through the mud of my messy-ass life. You’d get dirty, and you’re way too clean, way too gorgeous, and way too innocent for me to be willing to soil you like that. So no. For your own good, no. We’re just friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”

She turns on her heel and strides away, shoulders hunched, head down. I’m not sure if she’s hurt by my outright rejection, or just angry. Both, maybe. It’s for the best, though. I stand up, and place the guitar back on the rack.
 

“Keep it,” she says.

“What?”

“That’s my guitar. Keep it. We’ve got others I can use.” She slips through a door leading deeper into the basement, comes back with a basic hard-sided guitar case, sets it on end near my foot. “Here.”

I back away. “I’m not taking your guitar.”
 

Her head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Take it, goddammit. It’s just a cheap guitar. It’s what
friends
do.”

“Why?”

She shrugs, a tiny, defeated gesture. “Like I said, friends give each other gifts. That’s a gift. It’s not charity, because I’m sure that’s gonna be your next excuse.” Her eyes meet mine, and I see hurt, confusion, sadness. “You’re still playing the mic night with me. I signed us up already. So…you need a guitar to practice on.”

“What are we playing?” I lay the case on the floor and put the Yamaha in it, snap it closed.

“If you’re up for it, I’d like to try a couple of songs I wrote.” She’s turned away again, her hand on top of the piano, rubbing idly at the polished wood.

“Sure. I’m game.”

“Cool. I’ll show them to you tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I’m about to cry, and I want you to leave.”
 

Well, how’s that for honesty? I move behind her but don’t touch her. “I don’t want to hurt you, Kylie.”

“You already did.”

I groan. “You really don’t know what you’re asking for, with a guy like me.”

“Shouldn’t I get to be the judge of that?”

“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got a choice, too,” I say.

“And you choose to reject me.”

My eyes slide closed, and I feel the welling up of pain, guilt, regret. I hate that I’ve put hurt in this girl’s life. I don’t see a way around it, though. Her folks saw my scars, and they knew what they are. There’s no way in hell they’d let their only child date a hood-rat nobody punk like me. And they’d be right.
 

“Not reject. Protect.”

She spins around, suddenly a lot closer, almost touching, the round tips of her tits a hair’s breadth away from my chest, looking up at me. “I think you’re just scared.”

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 asshole, 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 fuck, 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fuck 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.”

I hear a groan, and I push Kylie toward the building. “Let’s go in. I’m fine.”

She grabs my arm and drags me toward the car. “No, you need to see a doctor.”

I pull away. “I said I’m fine.”

“You were shot. Your leg—”

My leg does hurt, so I glance at it. Didn’t go through; it looks like just a graze. I limp toward the door, not waiting for her. “It’s not bad. I’m going in. You should go home.”
 

She follows, though, shutting her car off and locking it. It’ll be a miracle if it’s intact when she leaves, but I can’t worry about that. I’m adrenaline-crashing and in pain and shaking with the onset of fear, now that it’s over. I slam the front door of my apartment closed, lock it, and lurch awkwardly into the kitchen. Pull a length of paper towel from the roll and press it to my leg. Hiss at the pressure and the pain. I feel dizzy. My head aches. My cheek hurts. That glancing blow hurt worse than I’d thought. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of the microwave; my face is a mask of blood. Kylie is pressed against the wall near the fridge, shaking, staring at me, horrified and terrified and about to collapse.
 

I gesture at the hand towel hanging off the handle of the oven. “Hand me that.” She does, and I replace the now-sodden paper towel with the cotton one, tossing the blood-soaked wad into the sink. “Kylie, relax. I’m fine. I’ve been hurt worse. This is no big deal.”
 

She shakes her head. “There were—there were three of them. They shot you. They could’ve killed you. Because of me.” She shudders, wraps her arms around herself. “You’re a bloody mess. You’re hurt.”

“C’mere.” I hold out my arm, and she rushes to me. Judging by the twinge of pain in my side when she slams into me, I’ve got a bruised rib. I ignore it, breathe through it, and hold her against me. “It was worth it, as long as you’re okay. They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

She shakes her head. “No. Just scared me. They…he was telling me what he wanted to—to do to me. It was so awful. And he was going to. I couldn’t get away. And I knew he was going to—”