Free fall, p.1
Free Fall, page 1
Free Fall
Life Sucks #7
Elise Faber
FREE FALL
by Elise Faber
Newsletter sign-up
* * *
Copyright © 2023 ELISE FABER
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
* * *
FREE FALL
Copyright © 2023 ELISE FABER
Print ISBN: 978-1-63749-083-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63749-082-2
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Life Sucks Series
Life Sucks Series
Train Wreck
Hot Mess
Dumpster Fire
Clusterf*@k
FUBAR
Perfect Storm
Free Fall
Lost Cause
Contents
Life Sucks Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Life Sucks Series
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
One
Raven
“I fucking hate you,” she growled.
“Good,” Connor muttered as he supervised the therapy exercises that had been prescribed to her. “Keep hating me and keep telling me all about it. That strengthens your lungs.”
She growled again.
Then because it felt as though her lungs—those lungs she was supposed to be strengthening—were filled with glue, their membranes sticking together so they wouldn’t inflate properly, she stopped growling, clamped her lips together, and switched to glaring.
Why—oh why—hadn’t she replaced the wiring in her entire house instead of only her kitchen?
If she had, the fire wouldn’t have started, and she wouldn’t be here.
Here being Connor’s house.
Connor Jackson, her archnemesis, and…the biggest pain in the ass she had ever met.
Ever.
And considering she was a doctor in a busy county hospital’s emergency department, she’d met a lot of pains in the asses over the years.
But Connor took the cake.
Not because he was bad at his job, or even an asshole. He just…managed to push every single button she possessed. This would be annoying under most circumstances, but it was made more challenging because her best friends were tangled up with his brothers and his family was close and inclusive and held a party for every freaking thing. So even if she only accepted a few of the invitations they sent her way (and usually, she accepted as many as possible because the Jacksons—minus Connor—were fun and their parties were awesome), that still meant lots of crossover. Then add in that Connor was a nurse in the same fucking emergency department as she worked, and it was nearly impossible to get away from him.
And now…
She was staying in his guest bedroom.
Because Connor was the “best person to help” her during the recovery process.
This was according to her close friend, Kim, who’d hooked up with Caleb, who was—not a surprise because the universe hated Raven—a Jackson brother. And while it had been a logical statement from her friend, it was also annoying because it was logical.
Raven didn’t want logical if it got her stuck in Connor’s guest room during her convalescence.
She could take care of herself.
She was a doctor—she knew what to watch out for.
Unfortunately, between Kim’s logic and Raven’s house being torn apart and rebuilt due to the fire (caused by faulty wiring)—meaning it wasn’t exactly livable and wouldn’t be until the damage from the fire was repaired—she’d ended up here, anyway. Yes, she could stay in a hotel, but—and this was something she wouldn’t ever admit to Connor—her famous infallible energy had failed her.
She had never been this tired in her life.
The idea of fighting with Connor about staying here until she got her way was insurmountable, let alone packing her things and getting her ass to a hotel. It was a fucking effort just to push out of bed, to get dressed, to take a shower. It was hell to wash her hair, a nightmare to shave her legs.
She’d gone to medical school, had survived a residency.
And she’d never been this tired.
That didn’t mean she was too tired to fight with Connor—she just didn’t have it to fight about her living arrangements.
For now.
“Two more reps,” he ordered when she didn’t reply, namely because she was trying to catch her breath and not yak up her breakfast.
Both of which would be painful since her lungs were still healing.
Fucking smoke inhalation.
And goddamned second- and third-degree burns.
She would have permanent reminders of that night—not that she remembered much, just flashes of Caleb in her room, of heat and pain, of someone carrying her.
Of Connor carrying her.
He’d saved her life, and she was never going to hear the end of it.
“Fuck off,” she muttered.
“Two more and you’re done,” he cajoled. “And then you can sit your lazy ass on the couch.”
“Lazy—”
She broke off in a coughing fit, hating that his hand came up and rested in the space between her shoulder blades, rubbing gently, hated that the touch felt nice, hated that she knew he wasn’t being a jerk, that he was just trying to piss her off so she’d finish her exercises (she was the jerk, the ungrateful one, the one who was a total bitch, mostly because that kept him at a safe distance). Oh, and most of all, she hated that Connor was right. She needed to finish her exercises, even though they left her feeling like she’d been run over by a truck.
Jerking away from that gentle palm on her back, she grasped the railing of the pyramid of three stairs—up, up, platform, down, down, floor—and began hauling herself up.
Fucking hated him (or so she wished).
Fucking hated this (being here, feeling like this).
Up.
Up.
On the platform at the top, a moment of rest.
Down.
Down.
Hitting the floor.
One rep down. One to go.
Slowly, she turned and reversed her grip on the steps, black spots spinning in her eyes, exhaustion pulling at every cell.
Up.
Up.
Platform.
Down.
Down.
Floor.
Done.
Her head was spinning, her throat absolutely burned, her legs felt like they weighed five hundred pounds each.
Except Connor had called her lazy.
She wasn’t lazy.
Hadn’t ever been.
Wouldn’t ever be.
So, she turned again, reversing her grip, lifting her leg. She’d do ten more, fifteen, just to show him that—
A hand on her shoulder. “You’re done.”
She shook him off, kept lifting, raising her foot the six inches it took to rest it was on top of the first step, pushing up, lifting her other leg, slowly and painfully.
Up.
U—
Those black spots expanded, consuming all of her vision, but she kept lifting. Just a few more inches. Just a few—
She wavered, started to fall back, fingers clutching at the railing.
Clutching but slipping, not strong enough to hold her up.
She heard a curse, but she was falling by then, toppling backward…
Strong arms wrapped around her, hefting her up.
And she was against Connor’s chest.
Again.
Only this time she was conscious and the blackness consuming her vision dissipated and…
He was staring down at her, his hazel eyes annoyed.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
A sharp tone. That felt normal.
She was weak. Undeserving.
Lazy.
Eyes burning, Raven turned her head away, not wanting him to see. He couldn’t see—
His hand gripped her cheek, turned her head back.
And, God fucking dammit, a tear slipped free.
And, God fucking dammit, his entire face changed.
“Sweetheart—”
He was seeing too much. He was looking too closely. She was too near to the edge.
Agony ripping through her middle.
Fear and pain prompted her next action.
But need and desire fueled it.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, she found just enough strength to close the distance between their mouths, and…
She kissed her mortal enemy.
Two
Connor
Her face.
Fuck, it killed him.
Raven was fire and light. She was bubbly and sweet (albeit not with him). She was confident and smart and bright.
A huge, beautiful presence…that drove him absolutely nuts in most instances.
Mostly because she was smart and beautiful and funny and kind.
Just not with him.
A tear slipped down her cheek and he stopped thinking about all the things she was—both with and without him—and focused on the issue in front of him.
Triage.
Focus.
His thumb stretched, reaching for the droplet, wanting to catch it before it skated down her cheek or dripped into her hair. “Sweetheart—”
He didn’t get there, didn’t get the chance to wipe it away.
Because she was lurching in his arms, and he nearly dropped her.
A curse as he scrambled to hold on, to not lose his grip on her.
One of her palms clamped onto his shoulder. Then the other. Her face changed, fear and hurt and sad replaced with something else, something he only got a glimpse of before her mouth was slamming onto his.
Not gently.
Slamming.
Her tongue flicked out, slipped between his lips, and then it wasn’t slamming, it was gentle…and not. It was a kiss that sent heat scorching through him while at the same time making him completely aware that she was weakened and fragile and needed all that gentle.
She’d nearly died and—
That thought had him ripping his mouth from hers, lifting his head. His heart was racing and need for her was tearing through his insides.
He’d wanted this, dreamed about it, jerked off to it, way too much.
He couldn’t have it.
Further, she didn’t want it.
“What the fuck, Raven?” he snapped, walking over to the couch, and setting her onto the cushions.
Gently.
Because she was still healing, even if she was doing stupid shit like taking her exercises too far and kissing him to—
Well, fuck if he knew the reason Raven did anything.
She tried to tuck her elbows beneath her, to press up, but he dropped his hand to the center of her chest, slowly, inexorably pushed her back down against the length of the couch. “You need to rest,” he snapped.
Her eyes slid to the side. “I need to—”
“What?” he asked, leaning close enough that she sucked in a breath, unusual topaz eyes flaring and sending a resulting pulse through his middle (through his cock). He put a little distance between them, lifted a brow, knowing his tone was sardonic, but not giving a damn. “You need to try to distract me again, so I don’t see you’re trying to avoid a conversation?”
She glared at him, cheeks reddening. “I’ve had enough conversations with you to fill a fucking textbook.”
“Newsflash, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Same.”
A huffed-out breath. “Great.” She tucked her elbows under her with a wince. “Are we done here?”
Yeah. They were done. He was fucking done. Of her bullshit. He bent again, putting his face in hers. “If I leave you on the couch and go do something that’s not taking care of your stubborn ass, are you going to try and murder yourself by going up and down those stairs again?”
Her lips—lips that were damp and swollen from his lips—pressed flat. “No.”
“No?” he asked. “Or no, as in you’re just trying to shut me up so you can do what you want?”
“No, as in,” she snapped, “no. Now you can go.” A wave of her hand. “I can take care of myself.”
A snort. “Sure, you can.”
Her eyes sparked and then she did something that told him exactly how tired she was—she turned her head to the side and closed her eyes.
Avoidance.
Only this time, it wasn’t avoidance by kissing. It was just plain avoidance.
Shit.
He sucked in a silent breath, let it out just as quietly. Then, temper in check, asked, “Want something to eat?”
She pretended to snore.
Christ. This woman. Eyes rolling to the ceiling, he tried again. “Drink?”
Silence.
“The TV on one of your crappy shows?”
Her body twitched, but she didn’t turn to face him, didn’t do anything to further acknowledge him.
“Swear to God, Raven,” he threatened. “I will cancel that damn subscription you made me pay for and hide your phone so that you can’t get your fix.”
A slow swivel, her eyes open just enough to glare at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Somehow, her tone made him want to smile. “Wouldn’t I?”
She pushed up, a wince etched so completely into her face he felt a twitch of sympathy pain in his own chest. But she didn’t lie back down. Nope. Of course not. Because freaking Raven Montergo was stubborn to a fault. Instead of being smart and carefully lowering herself back to the cushions, she froze, holding still for several long moments. Then, like she was made of porcelain, she sat the rest of the way up.
He would have reached for her, started to actually, but her head whipped toward his extended hand, pain flashing through her eyes, and he drew back.
“Give me the remote,” she ordered, eyes going from his to the TV, a muscle flexing in her jaw.
Avoidance.
Distance.
He was finally getting it.
“Why are you always nice to everyone but me?”
A droll look. “Do you really need me to answer that question?”
More avoidance—spiked, snarky, asshole avoidance.
He moved across the room, grabbed the remote from where he’d left it on the coffee table—something that had been pushed aside so Raven could begin her home therapies. A toss and it landed on the cushions next to her.
But she didn’t reach for it, so he took advantage, asking, “What triggered you?”
Her shoulders tensed. “Nothing.”
“So, you just kissed me for shits and giggles?”
A painful-looking shrug. “It was better than listening to you bitch at me.”
So, kissing trumped bitching. That was an interesting thought to file away.
“For a woman who was saved from certain death twice now”—considering her fall off those stupid stairs would have landed her right back in the hospital—“you’re certainly ungrateful.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.” A glare. “Then or now.”
“Or let you fall?” A beat. “You’d rather me leave you to burn?”
She shuddered, and he couldn’t blame her. How close she’d come to being gone off this planet, out of his life, not around to torture him, was something that gave him regular nightmares. The flames. The heat. His brother unconscious. Having to choose who to take first. Who to leave behind. Carrying Raven out. Leaving Caleb. Seeing Kim and Cole on the grass, terror in their eyes, knowing he’d left behind—
Going back. Hoping he hadn’t just killed his brother…
The smoke.
The pain.
The worry.
All of it added to the bad dreams, made it so he woke frequently and walked down the hall to make sure she was okay, frequently checked in on Caleb, frequently drove by Raven’s house, half-expecting it to be ash.
“No,” she whispered after a moment. “I’m glad you didn’t leave me to burn.”
There. Progress. Thank God.
He turned toward the kitchen. “Watch your show. I’ll get you some snacks.”
