The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) Read online

  Me: Yup.

  Kash: ☺

  I shake my head and resume pulling up the information I came to retrieve for the very meeting Kash is mentioning. Saving several files to a flash drive, I pocket the small device and head to get dressed.

  As I begin applying my makeup, I stare at my still damp hair and grab my phone to send a text to Lo.

  Me: Hey. You want to go with me to get my hair done?

  Lo often does the business side of her work in the morning because she is now dealing with people on the East Coast, so I am surprised when my phone pings back within seconds.

  Lo: Yeah. When?

  “Good question,” I murmur, scrolling through my Contacts until I reach my hairdresser.

  He answers on the second ring with a cheerful, “Hello, Summer.”

  “Greg, do you want to do something crazy to my hair?”

  “Do I need oxygen to breathe?” he asks.

  “When do you have an opening?”

  “How crazy are we talking?”

  “A few hours.”

  “I just had a cancelation for Thursday morning. Can you be here at ten?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I hang up and text Lo the information. Then look at my reflection for another full minute before heading to grab my bag and jacket.

  Traffic is surprisingly light for a Monday, and I make it to the Knight residence in less than fifteen minutes. I find King heading out to the shop with Lo at his side. They both acknowledge me with a smile.

  “You guys playing hooky?” I ask.

  “We’re heading to Robert’s appointment.” King’s answer shoots a pang of guilt straight into my gut.

  I’ve been so caught up in my own drama, I completely forgot about Robert seeing the doctor today to follow up on his heart attack.

  “Let me know how it goes.”

  King nods. “We should be back in an hour or so.”

  Selfishly, I really wish someone was here at the house to provide some sort of distraction.

  Turning the handle, visions of Kash’s expression, the reverence and excitement so clear in his wide brown eyes and heavy breaths, his forearms roped with muscles, and his body next to mine, fill my thoughts. I don’t know how I have managed to stop myself from thinking about it since Sunday morning, but stepping into the house, I know things are going to be awkward. Beyond awkward.

  No one should ever instruct people to picture others in their underwear when nervous, because if anyone as attractive as Kash is sitting among them, I can assure you, it would only make it worse.

  My boots echo in the bare hall. Lo must have spent the night here and talked the others into helping her clean. I haven’t seen things so picked up in months. As I’m hanging my coat up, Kash comes in from the office, his unruly dark hair looking more mussed with the addition of his fingers running through it.

  “Hey.” He sounds almost as unsure as I’ve been feeling for the past twenty-four hours.

  I take a deep breath through my nose, wondering how it’s possible for sex to have made things so confusing, so different. I can’t look at him any longer because now that I’ve seen him naked, I can’t seem to keep the current clothes he’s wearing on him, and that just makes me feel embarrassed. For the first time in eleven years, I don’t know how to talk to my best friend.

  Trying to force a smile is worse than my attempt at finding the right words to sound both casual and unaffected when I am clearly neither.

  The door strikes my heel, making me move forward, as my head whips back with accusation.

  “Donuts,” Parker says, lifting a distinct box. “I think these things are laced with something ’cause I woke up craving them.”

  “That was because of your nightly extracurricular activities,” I say.

  Parker laughs. “It probably doesn’t help.” He hands the box to me and peels off a bright orange coat that he hangs next to mine. “So, do any of us actually know what we’re talking about in this meeting, or are you hoping the three of us can equate King?”

  “Summer’s spoken to the Swiss marketing team a few times, and I usually listen to King.” Kash’s reasoning is weak.

  With beginning his own career, King’s begun delegating more things to Parker and me to assist with. Even Kash has taken on more tasks, but the Swiss team and their work to brand Kash is something he and I are both adeptly familiar with. I know the reason he invited Parker over this morning, and it has nothing to do with his savvy business skills because he has none. Parker’s strengths are in choreography and networking because he knew everyone before Kash knew them. He’s here solely as a buffer.

  Parker rubs his hands together. “Want me to practice my accents?”

  “Offending them won’t help.” I jab my elbow into his side and take the box of donuts without looking at Kash.

  Parker sits across from me at the small table and props his elbows up. Chances are, he’s oblivious to how strange his presence feels and likely even more oblivious that something has changed between Kash and me. Something that has me wanting to get on a bike and ride over every obstacle I can manage in attempt to blanket the thoughts of what is coming.

  Kash sits across from me, but I don’t feel his stare. Pursing my lips, I chance a glance at him to see what’s occupying his attention. It’s a donut. He’s staring at it with such rapt attention you would think it had just flown into his backyard, strapped to a meteor.

  I’m already prepared for this meeting, and I can’t eat a donut right now because after my trip to Florida, where I ate every sugary concoction in sight, my jeans aren’t feeling very forgiving. This only has Kash’s worship-like stare making me grind my teeth together.

  The laptop sitting at the end of the desk comes to life with an incoming call, but instead of plastering a smile on my face or looking at the documents we’ll be discussing, I remain focused on Kash. I’m neither embarrassed nor bashful. I want him to look at me, and either return to being my best friend or face the fact that we had incredible sex, and there truly is something more between us.

  Not once does Kash look at me. Not even a passing glance. Not even when it’s my turn to present.

  When the meeting concludes and Parker starts doing a horrible impression of their German accents, I scoot my chair back with enough force that it makes a jarring screech across the floor, and grab my things. Stalking out of the office might be melodramatic, but I’ve never been one for subtlety.

  Parker makes a comment about me being on the rag that has me slamming the front door even harder.

  I need to ride.

  I need to scream.

  I need to get out of here.

  Anger reaches all the way to my bright red toenails when I glance up to my rearview mirror and don’t see Kash on the porch. The door isn’t even opened.

  “FUCK!” I scream, hitting the steering wheel with an open palm.

  UNCLE TOBY IS working on a bike when I walk through the front door of his office. He looks up from under a black bowler hat with eyes that are as familiar as they are foreign. I’ve never been able to read him; no one can. He’s known as Spark in the industry, because he has a temper that is ignited so easily and quickly, many are often blindsided by it. He also doesn’t do subtlety. Apparently, it’s in my blood.

  His heavily tattooed arms are like rods, completely exposed under the too large T-shirt he’s wearing. Even since hitting fifty, he hasn’t put weight on anywhere, except for his stomach, which is expanded to show his love for the many breweries in and around Portland.

  “You look more messed up than this bike, and it’s about to turn into a piece of damn scrap metal. Piece-of-shit airlines,” he mumbles the last part, dropping his attention back to the bent form that he drops with a loud crash.

  “I just came by to ride.”

  Without looking at me, he nods his head to the door that leads into the cement stadium. “The place is yours for the next ninety minutes. If you need a ride, the key’s on my desk.”

&
nbsp; “Thanks.” I do need a ride. I didn’t stop at my place to get one, and didn’t have the thought or patience to get one of the two I leave at Kash’s.

  I am relieved it was that easy, though not surprised. Uncle Toby has never been one for wanting to know even the details I’m willing to share, let alone the ones he has to work for.

  A silver-and-blue bike catches my attention first, and I wheel it out, the ticks of the turning wheels echoing in the cavernous space.

  This place once felt like home. I found myself here. Looking back, I feel as though I also lost myself within these walls. Lost myself to a world of hopes and dreams that abruptly vanished after a single bad decision. A world where a man became my focal point, one that I chose vehicles, paint colors, the house I bought, and every spare hour to be in accordance with him. He never made me. Never even pushed his opinions and preferences, I simply found them to outweigh any others, often even my own. I thought that was a sign that I must love him because everything he said and did held so much importance in my life.

  I mount my bike and push away from the ledge with the intention of losing myself again so that I can find myself once more.

  My lungs burn, my shins burn, and my hands burn, as though they’re on fire. I’ve reached the trifecta.

  Glancing at the wall at the far end near the entrance door, my satisfaction pales when I realize it’s been less than an hour. Still, I feel accomplished. Riding for nothing and no one but myself served as a necessary reminder that, fears and weaknesses aside, I’m still a strong competitor, and despite what I have lost, love the feelings and emotions the bike assists me in locating.

  A small part of my brain, the one I used to listen to without a second thought, wants me to continue. To try the routine I was practicing one last time to see if I can land with a little more precision. Go a little faster. Tighten up my spin a little more.

  Over the past couple of years, I’ve heard this voice in my head more often, but I seem to be questioning it more too. I’m not certain if that’s why it has become more vocal or why I’m arguing with it so much.

  I should probably check my phone. More than likely, I’ve missed a call or text from Kash, maybe even both. The thought of missing more than one of each enters my mind, followed closely by the idea of making him sweat a little longer so he can realize how much I mean to him.

  “Gah!” I yell, as I dismount my bike and leave it to rest on its side.

  I retrieve my phone because I don’t want to wait any longer. Doing so hurts me just as much, likely more. My heart is still racing from the physical activity, adding a noticeable pulse to my neck that increases when I see that I have only one message. It’s from King, asking me if I ordered the new helmets.

  “Want to teach a class?”

  My eyes cut to Uncle Toby. “What?”

  “I said, do you want to teach a class?”

  “I heard what you said.” I’m rolling my eyes, unable to stop the dramatic effect.

  “Then, why’d you say what?”

  “To give you a second chance,” I counter.

  “You know your shit. You don’t let anyone get away with anything. And I know you have fuckin’ free time, so don’t even try that one with me.”

  “Have you lost your goddamn mind? I know you’re too young to be senile. Did you fall and hit your head?”

  “Every Tuesday at four. You can bring your own ride or use one of mine.”

  “I didn’t say yes!” I cry.

  “Consider it you paying me back.”

  “For what? I slept on your couch! It’s not like I put you out.”

  “But who taught you how to ride and gave you your first bike?”

  Moments like these, I know he’s my mother’s brother because their twisted minds always veer toward manipulation.

  “You want me to do your job because you had to take care of me when I was a minor?”

  “Just have your ass here tomorrow at four.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You love me,” he says, releasing a throaty laugh that reveals his lifelong habit of smoking.

  “Hate!” I yell.

  “Go home. I have a new class about to start, and they’re all beginners. If you’re here when they arrive, you get to start today.”

  I growl. If thrashing a bike didn’t seem like a heinous crime, I’d do it right now. Electing to express my anger by giving him extra work, I leave the borrowed bike and storm out of his shop, my jacket balled in my fist.

  The rain in November is colder than during the summer months, the drops fatter, dampening my shirt and skin instantly. The sky is a depressing shade of gray that looks as impenetrable as my bad mood.

  My truck’s engine hums when I start it, and I begin fumbling with the many dials to crank up the heat and turn on the defrost because the windows are all steaming up with my soggy presence.

  Once again, I flip on every light as I walk through my house, even the rooms I don’t ever use and the ones I certainly won’t be in tonight, like the gym. I finish in my bedroom, the farthest room from the front of the house. There I strip free of my clothes, hating to admit that I briefly question if they’re bad luck. Superstitions are alive with any sport, even BMX racing. Some riders theorize that certain items or foods or even people can curse you.

  The spray of the shower feels like pellets on my skin. I purchased the high pressure sprayer online to remind myself that everything will pass. That’s its entire purpose, yet standing under it doesn’t serve as a reminder to appreciate what I have and the obstacles I’ve overcome. Instead, it feels like one more swift kick in my ass, forcing me to hurry.

  I shiver as I dry myself, my muscles aching with tension and overuse. After several minutes of digging through my closet, I finally feel like I’m receiving a break when I find the blue-and-white-striped pants I was in search of. The fleece fabric is soft and pliable under my grasp, melding to my hand and cushioning the pressure my fingers are applying. Pajama pants. Pajama pants are the first feeling of comfort I have experienced in over twenty-four hours, and the fact makes me feel a little more pitiful. The clock on the microwave telling me it’s barely after noon increases that feeling.

  I refuse to wallow. Nothing in this life is deserving of that. I just need some me time where I can reevaluate my career, my life, and my truck to ensure things are what I want.

  I’m thirty-two. I should know what I want. I should have my life goals made and be on my way to accomplishing them. I should know what in the hell love is or recognize it’s nothing but a facade. All of these things I feel that I should know or have completed seem bigger and more daunting than ever before, making me feel like I am a complete failure.

  What in the hell happened? Where did the time go? How did I not think of these things sooner and give them more precedence?

  Kash.

  He is the answer to all of them.

  I DRAIN THE remainder of my wine and lean my head back amid a pile of pillows.

  After realizing Kash was at fault for nearly everything wrong in my life, I decided the best way to kick off a me day was to drink one of the bottles of red wine I keep stocked in a built-in rack above my dishwasher. I’ve never entertained in this house, and due to my lack of female friends, I don’t get invited to dinner parties; therefore, that rack has been filled with the same bottles for years. Since I spend most of my time at the Knight residence and Kash prefers beer, I buy beer. I drink beer. But I prefer wine. This bottle went down smoothly and fulfilling.

  Finishing the first glass, I had the brilliant idea of making my couch into an oasis with every snack food in my fridge and pantry and flipping through all six hundred of the cable channels I pay for and never watch.

  When I finished my second glass, I added a pair of fuzzy socks I’d received as a gag gift a number of years ago, and realized the gag was on them, because apart from needing a note of caution for walking on tile floors, they were amazing.

  Upon finishing my third glass, I decided to
order a pizza because the only times I eat it are when I’m with Kash, and then my options are cheese because it’s Mercedes’ favorite, or meat lovers with extra mushrooms because that’s what King and Kash prefer. Mine arrived with a garlic cream sauce, chicken, bacon, roasted garlic, tomatoes, spinach, and artichoke hearts. It was savory, salty, and so damn good that I ate half of it and didn’t feel even slightly guilty when I saw the grease stains marking the inside of the box.

  Now that I’ve finished my fourth glass, I look around and wonder what else I should do for myself. Something that won’t require much movement since I feel like a bowling ball has taken residency in my stomach.

  What do I do when I’m not hanging out with Kash or riding with King and Parker or planning things for Kash’s blog and advertising campaign? I hang out with Mercedes, I listen to Kash’s thoughts on new choreography and marketing ideas, and I participate in the ribbing all of us share. But what do I do for myself? Besides riding, what are my hobbies? What do I like to do? Years ago, I deleted my personal social media accounts because I was so sick and tired of only seeing babies and meals the women I grew up with posted about on a daily basis. They never did make me wish to live the same path.

  I grab my iPad and type into the search engine, ‘Hobbies for 30-year-old women.’ A few quizzes appear at the top.

  “I can take a test to find the right hobby?” I ask the room as I click on the link.

  The questions start off making me feel good about myself. I’m a fit and happy person … mostly. I like my life and am happy to be alive. Then, it asks me how many friends I have.

  Friends or acquaintances?

  Sometimes, that line is so blurred. Kash is my best friend, but will he be? Should I consider him my best friend now that I have realized how many things in my life have revolved around him and his preferences? If I’m not friends with Kash, am I still friends with King? Parker? Lo?