Free fall, p.3
Free Fall, page 3
That was his plan.
After he showered off the ER germs.
He walked quietly down the hall, making sure to move on soft feet past Raven’s door, not wanting to wake her, especially when the door was open a crack.
“I told you that I’m not sending you any more money.”
He froze.
Connor should have continued walking, should have pretended he hadn’t heard that, and just kept walking.
He didn’t.
So, he heard what he heard next.
“I almost died, Mom,” Raven said and the sad in it hit him hard in the gut. “I haven’t heard from you in a decade, and what? I ended up in the news, so now you remembered I exist and instead of pretending to give a shit about me before you hit me up for money, one sentence into our conversation, and you’ve asked”—a beat—“no, demanded I pay your bills again.”
Now he should have kept moving.
Taken that shower.
Gone for the game and fork and pie.
But—
“Fuck,” he whispered, locking his knees, staying in place.
“So, no,” she snapped. “The bank of Raven is closed. I funded you for long enough and—” A sigh, her tone becoming resigned. “Yeah, calling me names is really going to change my mind, Mom.” Another sigh. Another long pause. Then, “I knew I shouldn’t have taken the call. I knew this was never going to go well. I just…” She trailed off and when she spoke again the thread of hurt was back in her tone, something that really should have sent Connor moving. “I just thought that for once in your life you’d give a shit.”
Then…silence.
Long enough that he knew she’d hung up.
That got him moving.
Or a step, anyway.
Because then he heard it.
A sob.
Strong as steel, ball-busting Raven was crying.
He didn’t think about how her disdain had sliced deep, how they were oil and water, never to be mixed.
He just pushed into her room.
Five
Raven
Stupid.
This was why she didn’t talk to her mom.
This was why she didn’t answer calls from back home, at all, because her dad wasn’t much better. This was why she always let that area code go straight to voice mail.
Small.
They made her feel small.
Like she was that little girl hiding in the corner of their trailer, avoiding the angry gazes of her parents, hoping that if she could just make herself small enough, could cram herself into that corner enough then they wouldn’t see her.
Then she’d be hidden and…safe.
From the sharp words and slaps and the fists and the cigarettes hurting so fucking much when they were put out on her skin.
Her friends had worried about her—about her mental health—after the fire at her house, after the burns. They wanted her to come to terms with her scars. They didn’t get it. They didn’t know she’d already been through this before.
Not to the same degree.
But she’d been in a fire.
Had been burned. Scared.
She remembered the pain of the grafts, the stiffness in her limbs, the mix of dulled and heightened sensations.
The docs who’d taken care of her in the hospital had seen evidence of her parents’ irresponsibility, nearly killing them all when they couldn’t be bothered to use an ashtray, when their trailer had burned to the ground.
Her docs had seen her back.
And they’d seen the cigarette burns on her thighs, the sides of her breasts.
Seen she’d already been marked.
Many times over.
This was why she knew she’d deal, she’d gather her strength, she’d heal, and then she would move on. Her friends were worried. The doctors had recommended a therapist.
It was just…circumstances didn’t define her.
Not anymore.
Only…hearing her mom’s voice—
She swallowed hard.
For a second, she thought her mom might give a fuck, had turned over a new leaf because her daughter had almost died.
But that had only lasted a second.
A second.
Because then her mom had begun spinning some dumbass story about an investor for her new business falling through—and Raven had to admit, this was one step up from up from “needing money for milk” (that was actually spent on hydrocodone)—but damn…it hurt.
It shouldn’t hurt.
She’d had more than her fair share of manipulations and abuse from her mom, from both of her parents.
But…she’d almost died again.
And…they didn’t care, except when it came to what she could give them.
She was tired.
Even after spending the day with Connor’s parents, with Kim and Caleb and Cole, all of whom had fussed over her and made sure she hardly lifted more than a fork from her plate to her mouth (and she had no doubt that if it looked like she would falter in shoveling in the food Kim and Martha had whipped up for her that Martha would have snatched that fork and commenced in feeding Raven until she was stuffed full), she was exhausted.
With italics.
That bone deep sort of tired that made it difficult to even sleep, that no amount of rest seemed to alleviate.
And that was making her emotional. Not actually hurt because her mom was still her mom. It wasn’t real hurt filling her insides, slicing through her belly. It was the fatigue that came from healing, the exhaustion that trailed it.
Not that some tiny part of her had hoped it might be different now with her mom, with her parents. That things had changed and maybe she could have something that was like…well, something that was a little like what Connor had with his parents.
Love and affection, both freely given.
Helping without expecting anything in return.
A closeness—
She dropped her hand to her thigh, tapped at the screen a few times, and blocked the number her mom had called from.
Filed away her hurt into a deep, dark drawer.
Stored it under lock and key.
Stow safely out of sight.
Sighing, she pressed the button to lock her phone and stared down at the bedspread. Plain gray with threads of blue. Simple, but elegant. Put together.
No burn marks or holes or frayed edges.
Not the crappy tattered blanket she’d used growing up, not the expensive bedspread that had been turned to ash in the fire.
Simple. Elegant. Not hers.
Tears.
Those were hers.
Except, she didn’t cry. Not unless it was a sappy romantic movie and she was with the girls, sniffles happening all around. She definitely didn’t cry about her past and all the things she couldn’t change, all the things that would never change.
Right then, though, she couldn’t stop moisture from filling her eyes, from leaking out beyond her lashes, from dripping down her cheeks.
She swiped at them angrily, hating them, hating herself.
Then hating herself more when a sob hiccupped through her middle.
It hurt…and not just because of the pain radiating through her sides.
It hurt in that place deep inside her—
“Sweetheart.”
She jerked, cell falling to the bed, head coming up and…fuck her life.
Connor was standing inside the door, expression filled with concern. Paired with that soft endearment and…
She knew he’d heard.
Of course he had.
So… Fuck. Her. Life.
But even as that slid through her, she processed the rest of him, processed and grasped at the tiny straw it gave her. A distraction. Perfect. A way to pick a fight so he wouldn’t look at her gently. Even better. “Why are you in just your underwear?”
He jerked and glanced down, like he’d forgotten he was just on display like some damned Greek god of yummy muscles and golden skin and just the right amount of chest hair. “My change of clothes disappeared.” A shrug.
“Disappeared,” she stated drolly.
Another shrug, but though she turned away from him, though she picked up her cell and deliberately began to ignore him, the infuriating man didn’t leave the room, didn’t go get dressed like most civilized people would. He just stated calmly like that was a normal thing to have happened—clothes disappearing, him standing in her room in his skivvies—then crossed to the bed, plunked himself on the edge of the mattress next to her, and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Talk?
Fuck no.
Disappear into the ether—and especially disappear from the fact this man looked as good beneath his clothes as she’d imagined? Definitely.
She’d imagined a lot.
Stupid.
Then again, she’d proved that she was an idiot more than a few times in her life.
Especially when her imagination did not do him one bit of justice.
The man was…
“Rave.”
She blinked, tore her gaze from the powerful muscles of his thighs. “Talk about what?” she asked, affecting innocent, pretending like there were tears still drying on her lashes and her cheeks weren’t still wet.
“The fact that your mother was on the phone apparently asking you for money.”
Yup.
He had heard.
More than she wanted, more than she wanted anyone to hear, but, most especially, more than she wanted Connor to hear.
“Why don’t we talk about your disappearing clothes instead?”
He froze and, unbidden, her gaze shot up to his, just in time to see heat flaring through his eyes. To see heat that called to a burning, desperate need deep inside her, a well of yearning and desire she’d buried from day one, from meeting one.
Because he worked with her.
Because he was good.
Because she could never, ever allow someone like her to dream of being with someone like him. Not again.
His mouth tipped up and he grinned at her. “I’m good at disappearing clothes, baby.”
Her belly went molten.
She inhaled.
He leaned closer, and seriously, he smelled good. The man had to be dead on his feet after his shift, but he was sitting there next to her looking awake and focused (and in his underwear with no little expanse of golden skin and taut muscles on display). Also seriously, how had the man spent the last twelve hours working and still smelled good? Smelled freaking lickable and spicy, so much so she wanted to bury her nose in his throat and inhale deeply.
To fuse it into her cells.
To commit it to memory.
But…danger, danger. Alarm bells were ringing, and as they often did when she was feeling insecure, feeling vulnerable and like the people around her saw too much, she lashed out.
Lashed out so she could retreat behind her steel barriers.
“Yeah, I know you are. You’re good at helping people change. Same as you’re good at changing bedpans and putting on Band-Aids.”
He’d leaned in, his eyes soft, voice silken, but her words changed all that.
His gorgeous hazel eyes went flat, and he straightened, taking away the silky voice, the soft gaze. “Right,” he said with a shake of his head. “So why don’t we get on with changing out those bandages?” A cold question.
One she hated with every fiber of her being.
Stupid.
Stupid.
“I’m—”
A blip of something in that gaze. Curiosity? A sliver of heat?
Her lungs inflated so quickly she nearly choked, and clutching her stomach muscles tightly to prevent it sent a cascade of pain through her body.
Something she was familiar with.
Something she knew how to deal with.
She locked it down, told him, “I changed my own dressings earlier.”
Raven had.
It had nearly killed her, but she’d done it.
One step closer to getting away.
Another block in the wall between them.
Rebar and concrete and barbed wire.
Barbed words and intentional distance.
Because she could deal with a lot, but Conner, in just his underwear, all those muscles, that skin on display, calling for her mouth, her fingers, her tongue…she couldn’t cope with that.
“You did what?” More heat, but it was in the form of anger now. A rage that nearly stole her breath a second time.
Her chin came up. “I don’t need you.”
“Come on, Rave,” he said. “Aren’t we tired of this shit? Can’t we find a way to make peace and—”
Heart pounding because she wanted that—God how she wanted there—she sniffed and rolled her eyes. “No.”
A brow lifted. “Just no?”
“No,” she snapped. “We’ll never be friends. We’ll never be anything. You’ll never be more than an annoying asshole who can’t take no for—”
A flinch that sliced through her.
God, she was a bitch.
But…this had to be this way.
“—an answer,” she forced herself to say.
Silence. Long. Cold. Distant.
Perfect.
“Right,” he whispered.
And then he was gone.
Six
Connor
He left her before he did something dumb. Like strangle her.
Or touch her until she melted beneath him, that barbed wire unwound and exposing lush, vulnerable woman.
Or tear off that tank top that kept slipping down one shoulder and make her moan instead of snapping at him.
Rage-fucking was a thing—and to be real, it was a thing he’d partaken in with very pleasurable results—but it wasn’t a thing he could do with Raven.
Not ever.
But definitely not when she was recovering from a lung injury and burns.
So, he stood up, left her room, and did what he should have done when he’d first paused at her door—he kept walking. Straight to his bedroom, straight into the bathroom, straight into the shower.
Scalding hot.
To scour her from his skin.
To burn through him, to warm him when her words filled his belly with frost.
He couldn’t stand her.
“Then why the fuck are you letting her stay, man?” he muttered, filling his palm with shampoo and slopping it into his hair, scrubbing vigorously.
Because he was a fucking pushover.
Because he liked taking care of her.
Because even though she was a bitch to him, she was a good friend to his sister, to Kim and Misty and Maggie and Shannon.
Because he’d seen the tears in her eyes, on her lashes, the one glistening on her cheek.
Because he was attracted to women who were complicated.
This was one puzzle he didn’t want to unscramble.
Bite the hand that feeds.
“Yeah,” he muttered, after shoving his head under the stream and rinsing out the suds. “And you’ll be the hand that gets bitten.”
Right.
A sigh.
Cranking off the water.
Toweling off.
Throwing on some pajamas and going to bed.
Except…he didn’t go straight to sleep. Since he was a fucking glutton for punishment, he left his bedroom, walked down the hall.
Walked slowly past his guest room.
Past Raven’s room.
The lights were off. The door was closed. And when he paused in the hall, listened intently, he heard…nothing.
Right.
This was stupid.
This was really stupid.
He turned on his heel, marched his stupid ass right back into his bedroom, and went the fuck to sleep.
Or tried to, anyway.
Because he kept remembering Raven saying, “I just thought that for once in your life you’d give a shit.”
And he couldn’t help but wonder what that might do to a woman.
How that might make her react in vulnerable situations.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, punching his pillow. “You don’t want a fixer upper.”
He didn’t.
He wanted a woman to love him for him. To accept him for who he was deep inside.
Not one who decided to dump her past drama on him and make him feel like shit.
But even as exhaustion swept up and dragged him under, those words echoed through his mind.
He woke before his alarm.
Mostly because the scent of cinnamon hit his nose—or his stomach.
Whatever.
He hadn’t eaten when he’d gotten home, mostly because the shit that went down in Raven’s room had stolen his appetite.
“Christ,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair, and rolling out of bed.
Covers tossed up to the pillows, his halfhearted attempt to be neat. Cell from the charger, scrolling through notifications. His scrubs from the drawer, yanking them on as he brushed his teeth.
Raven was feeding herself.
That was a good thing—especially when she was doing it without burning down his house, since that was a skill of hers.
“Fuck,” he whispered, knowing that was a low blow, even with the tension between them, with the barbs exchanged.
She’d almost died.
Caleb with her.
Cole and Kim had been at risk too.
And then when she’d come to in the hospital and realized what had happened…the guilt and pain on her face, in her eyes, laced through her words—
Yeah, he’d felt that.
Which was yet another reason he’d ended up with her in his house.
The woman who’d worried about her friends more than herself had…well, he’d respected that.
He walked down the hall, bracing for the prickly woman to have taken up residency in his kitchen, for her to breathe fire when he dared to step through the doorway. But he needed coffee, and he needed to eat whatever the fuck was responsible for that delicious scent, so he risked encountering her, anyway.
Only…the kitchen was empty.
“What the fuck?” he whispered, frowning at the plate of cinnamon rolls, the icing dripping down their sides, pooling into thick puddles on the porcelain. Positively scowling at the cup of coffee steaming on the counter next to it.
