Beth Hyland - Fall Into Forever

He moves in the direction of the gate. “I’m going to go get—”

“Do not go inside!”

He pauses before responding, probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me, but thankfully, he doesn’t ask why. “Okay, but will you stay put if I go look for that ladder?”

As if I have anywhere else I can go. “Yes.” I glance toward the front of the house for the umpteenth time. “Hurry.”

Less than five minutes later, he’s propping a ladder against the eave. That first step, when I swing my legs over the edge and blindly try to find the top rung with my bare foot, is the hardest. My heart is racing, my hands are sweaty, and I seriously think I’m going to fall to my death.

“I’ve got you.” He grips my ankle and guides my foot to the metal rung.

As I inch myself down, strong hands grip my calves, then my thighs, then my waist. If I slip, I’m pretty sure he’ll catch me. It’s amazing what having a safety net will do for your confidence.

“That’s it. Keep coming.”

When I step from the bottom rung and onto the grass, I breathe a huge sigh of relief that I’m not dead or seriously maimed. But now I need to face my embarrassment.

“You made it,” he says from behind me. “Good job.”

I take a deep breath, steel myself, and turn around. And for the second time tonight, I’m looking straight into the eyes of Jon Priestly. The tattooed guy from the fight. The guy with the female entourage. The guy I’m pretty sure was banging some chick in an upstairs bedroom when I was looking for the bathroom. I’m not sure I could be any more embarrassed right now.

Underneath his unzipped black and gray snowboard jacket is a faded concert T-shirt. He must’ve just taken a shower because his dark hair is damp and he smells like herbal body wash.

A million butterflies flit around in my stomach and my mouth goes bone dry. Forget what I said earlier about facial hair and clean-cut guys. The guy standing inches away from me is hot.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.” My voice is thin and reedy.

In the dim light, his pale blue eyes are sparkling with amusement, like it’s an everyday occurrence for him to rescue girls stranded on rooftops. Either that or he can read minds and knows exactly what I’m thinking.

But there’s something else. Sure, he’s dangerous and nothing but trouble. Anyone can see that.

The problem is that I am finding myself way too attracted to Jon Priestly, and I can’t afford to make any more stupid mistakes in my life.

That’s when I realize I am anything but safe.

Jon

When something inconvenient happens, you don’t expect it to change your life. An empty gas tank. An expired carton of milk (which is a real bitch when you forget to check the date and you take a swig directly from the container). You do what you need to do and move on. But sometimes a minor inconvenience kicks events into motion so that everything in your life changes, leaving nothing the same.

If I hadn’t agreed to fill in for a co-worker at the station tonight, I wouldn’t have been going to work. And if I hadn’t been going to work, I’d never have been on this side of the house where my motorcycle is parked. And if I hadn’t been on this side of the house, I wouldn’t have seen the girl on the goddamn roof.

At first I assumed someone else was with her. I mean, these parties can get pretty crazy and it’s not the first time I’ve seen people up there. But when she almost fell and no one came to help, I knew she was alone.

She either didn’t hear me yelling at her or was too drunk to care, because when I burst through the half-open gate into the back yard, she was reaching for the branch of an overhanging tree.

And now I’m looking straight at the girl I’ve been trying to find all night. Only this time, we’re alone, and she’s got mascara running down her cheeks. Her reddish-brown hair, which looked soft and wavy earlier, is tangled with bits of leaves and twigs.

What the fuck happened to her between the porch and now? Too many beers? Is she high? I hadn’t pegged her as a party girl when I first saw her, but this chick’s a mess. I’m not exactly sure why this bothers me, but it does. I thought— Fuck. I don’t know what I was thinking.

She turns slightly, and the light from a window falls across her face. I’m mesmerized by the color of her eyes, which instantly reminds me of the pictures of Ireland’s rolling hills in a book I got for Mom when she was sick. The thing was too heavy, so I held it for her and read aloud about various cities, castles, and places of interest. Like the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge joining a tiny scrap of a vivid green island to the mainland. She always wanted to go there.

I try to swallow, but my throat has just gone tight.

Even though this girl isn’t smiling, her eyes tilt up as if she’s about to. That’s got to be frustrating when you really want to convey to people that you’re pissed off. No one would ever believe you.

“What were you doing up there?” I don’t smell much alcohol on her breath, but then she’s probably a lightweight, unable to have more than a drink or two.

“I was just leaving.” She puts a hand on the tree trunk to steady herself and brushes off the bottoms of her feet.

“And you couldn’t use the front door?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “Careful. Those are crushed oyster shells in the flowerbed. They’re sharp.”

She jumps back like she just saw a snake.

“You’re not driving, I hope, because I can find you a ride home.” Didn’t she come with friends? Maybe I should bring her to the station. Depending on where she lives, Kelly can give her a ride when she leaves.

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She looks at her phone. “My roommate will be out here in a minute.”

Why the hell would she be up on the roof if she’s not wasted? And why the makeup running down her face? It’s true that she’s not slurring her words or acting confused, so I’m not sure what’s going on.

“Where’s your coat?” I ask, remembering the bloodstains.

“Good call.” She fires off another text. “I’ll have her grab it on the way out.”

“Tell her to leave it here. I’ll have it cleaned.” I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. Even though I’ve never taken clothes to the cleaners in my life, Mom used to take her designer shit there, gifts from the guys she dated, so I know they can clean just about anything.

“That’s okay,” she says, trying to give my jacket back to me. “I was going to—”

“Take it. I feel terrible about the blood and everything. It’s the least I can do.” As I situate my jacket back on her shoulders, I catch a whiff of fragrance. Not perfumey, but simple and uncomplicated. Vanilla, I think. From her hair. It’s…nice.

I grab my phone from my back pocket and hand it to her. “Put in your number and I’ll call you when it’s clean.”

She stares at the screen, then darts a glance nervously toward the house.

The realization hits me upside the head. She was on the roof to get away from someone at the party. Someone she’s afraid of. The makeup running down her face isn’t because she’s drunk. It’s because she’s been crying.

I flex my hands, trying to ignore the pain in my knuckles from the fight earlier. I’m going to pound the holy living shit out of the guy who did this to her. If there’s one thing that makes me lose my shit faster than anything else, it’s when a guy mistreats his girlfriend. There’s no fucking excuse for that. Having seen it way too many times with my mom and her messed-up love life, I have zero tolerance for it.

Like I said before, I’m no angel. Maybe that’s why I can easily spot an asshole.

“Where the fuck is he?”

Her eyes widen. “What? Who?”

“Your dickwad boyfriend. I’m going beat the shit out of him.”

She looks confused. “I…I don’t understand.”

“That’s why you were out on the roof, isn’t it? To get away from him?” I have an overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms and protect her from the jackass who did this to her. No one should be allowed to make this girl feel as if her only option is to climb out on a roof to get away. She could’ve fucking fallen.

Her expression softens as she looks at me. “No dickwad boyfriend,” she says quietly, taking my phone. Her fingers inadvertently brush against the palm of my hand, sending electricity shooting up my arm. “But thank you for…for wanting to beat the shit out of someone for me. That’s really…sweet of you.”

No boyfriend at all or just not a dickwad boyfriend?

“Then why were you up there?” Despite what I originally thought, it not like she got wasted and ended up on the roof in a drunken stupor.

She drops her gaze, turning her attention to my phone. “I’d rather forget about it, if you don’t mind.”

In other words, none of your business.

But...I want to make it my business. All those years looking after my mom have taken their toll. She had supremely bad judgment when it came to men and made a shit-ton of excuses for them—whether it was a current boyfriend or an ex-boyfriend. Including my father. She never went after him for child support or had anything bad to say about him. When one of his songs would come on the radio, she’d get all teary-eyed, but she’d never change the station. I was the one who had to do it.

So I’m telling you, this situation has asshole boyfriend written all over it. “An ex?” I ask, probing for an answer.