When I Fall

“Sweetheart, I’m starting to get wet,” he warns against my ear.

You ain’t kidding.

“Sorry.” I grip the handle with my free hand, my other clutching my phone, and place my right foot on the bar. I glance over my shoulder and nod when I’m ready.

Reed smirks, as if to tell me he doesn’t care if I’m ready or not, and lifts me off the ground, taking all my weight with ease and releasing me the second I settle onto the seat.

I should’ve flailed, squirmed in his arms a little. Anything to prolong that moment.

Really need to plan things out better, Beth.

“Thanks.” I smile down at him as I reach back for my seatbelt, only to find my hand grasping something unlike anything I’ve ever attempted to strap on. “What the . . .” I turn around in my seat, eyes widening at the bright red harness I’m supposed to be fastening.

“Ah, allow me.” He steps up on the silver bar below the door, gaining height.

I flatten against the seat when he leans over me to grab the strap beneath my left shoulder.

“Why do I feel like I’m getting ready to go drag racing?”

His quiet laugh rumbles all around me. “Truck’s been modified for when I go mudding. I had the other seat belts removed and replaced with these.” He brings both straps around my body, loops my arms through, and secures them together in the center of my chest.

“Is it that rough that you need to be strapped in like this?” I look down as his fingers tuck underneath the belt and give it a tug, lurching my body forward. “This seems a bit extreme.”

“The truck I had before this one, I flipped it off-roading four years ago. Totaled it. I was fucking lucky wearing only that lap belt. Only ended up with three cracked ribs and a nasty gash on my head.”

He leans back a bit, pushing all the hair off his forehead and exposing a white scar running along his hairline. It’s long, close to two inches I’d guess, and about as thick as a line you would draw with a blunt tip marker.

“See? I can’t go messing up God’s prefect creation any further. Any more damage to this pretty face, and the female population of Alabama would plummet.” He drops his hand and steps down out of the truck.

I laugh dryly. “So, you’re really just doing a service to your home state by using the latest safety features?”

His cheeks lift with his smile. “Exactly. There’d be nothing left for you women here if I didn’t have these looks.”

The door shuts and my eyes follow him through the front window.

God, I’ve never met a man so self-possessed before. Normally, cockiness isn’t something I find charming. Men can say too much, act too assertive, and I’m immediately tuning them out and wishing I never looked at them in the first place. But with Reed, his confidence only adds to what makes him appealing. I want him brash and unapologetic of his actions. No other way but this.

He climbs into the driver’s seat and starts up the truck. My seat rumbles with the engine, bouncing me ever so slightly against the soft leather.

“So, what are you in the mood for?” he asks, looking over at me as his hand drops to the gear shift. “Burgers? Mexican?”

My mouth waters. “Mexican. I love tacos.”

His hand shifts down, backing us out of the parking spot.

I’ve never ridden in a truck before, but I’ve seen them. Heard them. None have been this loud. This truck rumbles like there’s a fire burning in the engine. With each shift of his hand, it roars to life, the thunder below my seat vibrating against my legs. This isn’t just a man’s truck. This is Reed’s truck. It’s as arrogant as he is, commanding attention as we drive down the street and tower over the other vehicles. It smells like dirt and leather and him. Something distinctly Reed. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

The song changes on the radio. A soft tune, one I don’t recognize, spills through the speakers and stills me against the seat. The man’s voice is gravelly, scratching the air, with an accent that distorts the words filling the car. But not the words falling from Reed’s lips.

Oh . . . my . . . God. Are you kidding me?

His perfectly smooth voice has me breathing quieter, but somehow, heavier at the same time. I don’t turn my head. I don’t look at him for fear he’ll stop the second he realizes he has an audience. He’s barely singing loud enough to distinguish between him and the voice on the radio, who doesn’t hold a candle to Reed, and maybe he knows I’m listening, but I won’t risk it. I also won’t ask him the millions of questions I’m dying to ask to get to know him better. I can wait until we get to the restaurant, or until this song is over.

I’ll stay silent, clutching my phone, while he pulls me under just a little bit more. I can do that. No problem at all.

Reed

BETH IS QUIET THE ENTIRE ten minute drive to La Cocina Mexicana.

I steal glances at her every few minutes, catching her eyes either focused out the passenger window, or cast down at the phone in her lap. Her profile is lifted into a comfortable expression, like she couldn’t be more content than she is right now, sitting next to me.

I, on the other hand, can’t decide how the hell I should be feeling.

I know today was my idea. I know I suggested we get to know each other to make the situation Beth put us in seem believable, but I was still expecting this shit to feel forced upon me. I was still expecting this to feel like an obligation, something I was cornered into doing because of circumstances I had no control over. Yes, I ultimately agreed to partake in this bullshit on Saturday, but Beth was the one who forced me to have to consider it. Beth was the one who seemed to be on a mission that night to screw me as much as possible with that perfect fucking mouth. Take her and what she did to me out of the equation, and I’d never be preparing myself for a night with my ex. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">