Page 59 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

I hear a sharp breath from Maggie and the fast, heavy beating of my heart in my ears as Jayden staggers, cradling the side of his jaw. The pinch of shocked pain on his face is a welcome sight, because how dare he put his hands on me? How dare he hurt her?

Shoulders tight and fists tighter, I glance at my girl standing aside. She’s holding the soft place at the front of her shoulder, where he elbowed her.

My blood boils hotter.

It’s hard not to go to her and touch her, make sure she’s okay, wrap her in my arms. But there’s no way I want her close to me if Jayden is foolish enough to come at me again.

He grits out.

“You did not just…. I’m gonna kick your ass!”

I eye him and see he seems serious—or thinks he’s serious.

The truth is I would lay this motherfucker out.

With a slight, warning turn of my head, I tell him.

“You can try to kick my ass, but I wouldn’t bother if I were you. You can’t imagine how much you’ve pissed me off. This is a fight you wouldn’t win.”

He glares as he sizes me up.

Doesn’t move otherwise, though.

Not even after many moments.

He doesn’t so much as look like he’s planning to.

“I’ll file a charge against you, then,”

he finally threatens.

“You can’t assault me and expect not to—”

“You can try,”

I repeat over him.

“but you started it by shoving me and a woman—probably bruising her, by the way—so which one of us is really gonna end up in trouble here?”

With an unwavering stare, I add.

“And that’s not counting the trouble you’d be in if I let certain other authorities know about your cheating habits. I don’t think they’d take kindly to that.”

Jayden somehow seethes and looks unsure at the same time.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, how fast I would.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause you’re jealous I went out and did something with my life.”

I cut my eyes along him.

“In fact, I couldn’t be less jealous of you, and it has nothing to do with you manipulating your way into a medical career instead of earning it.”

The cold air is still and thick as he sizes me up again. Momentarily, he turns his glower to Maggie. When it comes back to me, he points at me.

“If you’re really gonna be like this over some fucking girl and pick her instead of me after all the time we’ve known each other, then our friendship is over.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m gonna be like this over her—and over you, asshole. And since I guess you missed it when I said it earlier: our friendship is already over. There’s no ‘if’ about it.”

Inhaling deeply and slowly, he shakes his head.

Then, flipping me and Maggie each a middle finger, he takes a few steps back before turning and stomping back to his car.

I finally hasten to her and we watch him drive away. I’m not sure if he’d been planning to go into the bar himself; if so, I’m glad he changed his mind. She and I won’t be here for long—we’ll get in plenty of time tomorrow for New Year’s Eve—but being near him for even another minute would’ve been difficult.

He’s out of sight, so we finish our walk to the door, then get into the warmth of the building. There are a couple of people milling about right here, so I guide her to the old payphone alcove we stood in way back when Kyle first started bothering her.

In the empty space, I finally take gentle hold of her.

“Are you okay?”

I ask intently.

“How badly do you hurt?”

She nods. I feel her hands rubbing over my waist through my coat.

“I’m okay. My shoulder just feels tender. You were right that I might have a bruise.”

I clench my jaw.

“That fucking….”

“Are you okay?”

Her eyes inspect me the best they can from up so close and with clothes in the way.

“When he pushed you—”

I assure her.

“I’m fine. I barely felt it.”

After a beat, I lift the hand I’m belatedly realizing is aching.

“Felt that punch to his face, though.”

Maggie sighs and carefully takes hold of my hand. She looks over my knuckles; they’re a little red right now.

“You might be bruised later too.”

“Might be, yeah.”

We shift and draw each other into a hug. I try not to squeeze her too hard so I don’t agitate her shoulder.

I’m not sure when my pulse and emotions will calm down, but the feel of her in my arms definitely starts it.

She murmurs.

“I love you.”

I turn my face into her hair.

“I love you, and I’m so sorry all of that happened. It came out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, it did, but it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay that he hurt you.”

“Well, no, but you took care of that.”

She eases out of our hug and looks at me again.

“Thank you. I’m sorry it came to that.”

Bits and pieces of the encounter flit through my mind…including….

“No problem.”

I touch her face, her scar.

“He didn’t hurt your feelings, too, did he? When he was saying what he thinks of you? He’s so wrong about you, Maggie. You’re so beautiful and significant that it—”

“I’m all right,”

she cuts in softly.

“It’s all right. He—he did hurt my feelings a little, but….”

That bastard. It was one thing if he wanted to insult me. It was something else if he wanted to insult Maggie.

My chest clenches and my blood starts heating up anew.

Until I see the sweet honesty in her eyes.

“I’m all right,”

she repeats.

“I trust you, not him.”

She pauses, then lifts her shoulders.

“I…trust myself. Not him.”

Yeah, this does something to my chest and blood and mood that I love.

“I’m so glad,”

I exhale as I hold her face, moving in and down. “So glad.”

I kiss her firmly, slowly. She kisses me in kind, breathing with me, her arms slipping into my coat and around me for a more intimate hug, which can’t last long but is still very much wanted.

Shortly, she says.

“Question.”

“Shoot,” I reply.

“Jayden has been cheating in medical school?”

I roll my eyes.

“That’s what he said when I went out with him. Said he thought it’d be harder to cheat there than it was in college, but it’s not, and it helps him get through his classes.”

“Ugh.”

“I know.”

We put a little more space between us again.

“Do you think you should report him for that no matter what he does or doesn’t do to get back at you for punching him? We shouldn’t let him get away with it and become a doctor who doesn’t know what he’s doing, right?”

“I thought about that even before today, actually,”

I divulge.

“It was sitting in the back of my mind, bothering me. But if we think about it, he can only cheat at certain things. Times are gonna come when he can’t fake understanding the work or the tasks, and that’s when it’ll come to light that he shouldn’t be made a doctor.”

Maggie’s eyes narrow pensively. She nods her comprehension.

“You don’t need to tell on him because he’s eventually gonna do it to himself.”

“Exactly.”

“And it’s gonna happen before anyone actually lets him be a doctor. He’s gonna start obviously failing somewhere before that.”

I smile dryly.

“Yep. Probably in places that matter more than written assignments.”

I shrug.

“Or maybe he’ll get caught cheating. He’s arrogant, and arrogance will bite you in the ass if you’re not careful.”

Relief shows on her face.

“Good points.”

“But that’s just where I’m at right now. I can always talk to someone if I change my mind about what the right thing to do is.”

“Yeah!”

Her smile is not dry, just lovely, and it makes me want to kiss her again. So I do.

After we’ve chuckled out of the two short presses, she says.

“Okay, enough of him.”

I have a real smile now too.

“Yeah, we’re done with him. Let’s go get my gift card!”

Hand-in-hand, we leave the alcove.

I briefly compare this to the last time we were there—and I wonder if Mr. Moss would be as glad about me punching Jayden as he is about me having stood between Maggie and Kyle.

I believe so.

When I ask her, she heartily agrees, which…feels good, honestly.

But of course it does. I learned the other day, at long last, just how damn good it feels to make a father proud.

And I have the equally good feeling that it’ll keep happening for me. Unlike my former best friend, I’m not a fucking moron—not anymore. I grew up. I got better. I have what it takes to make Maggie happy and take care of her, and it’s going to be my sincere pleasure to continue doing those things.

That’s not to say I don’t laugh when she trips on nothing or that I don’t ask if she walks much as I help her get steady. What can you do, though?

I guess if you’re Maggie, you can give me an unamused look and then smack my ass.

I’ll take it.

God knows I love the spirited side of her just as much as the soft one.

—

New Year’s Eve with our friends is fun. Merritt’s is even busier than it was that Wednesday before Christmas, but Maggie and I came prepared for it this time.

And even though the place explodes with cheers and shouts of.

“Happy New Year!”

at midnight, all that really reaches me is the enthusiastic, grin-laced kiss she and I share, each of us with an arm tight around the other while we also hold little plastic flutes of champagne.

“You got a resolution?”

I ask her through the noise around us.

“Yeah!”

Her eyes are crinkling from that ongoing grin.

“To convince you to use your damn blinkers!”

I laugh big into kissing her again, unable—at least for the moment—to counter that my resolution is to convince her to leave me alone about the damn blinkers.

It’s probably going to be a back-and-forth we’ll have for the rest of our lives.

Bring it on, I think as I catch another glimpse of those magic-touched green eyes. I’m ready.

—

“Just about gone,”

I mutter. In the sunlight coming through Maggie’s living room windows, I study the small burn on my arm. It felt like ass in the early hours of New Year’s Day when I first got it—and later in the day too—but it’s healing up nicely now, a couple days later.

“Not too bad….”

“Finally feeling better?”

Maggie asks from across the room.

Her tone is light, but I know she’s thinking Paxton and I were halfwits to set that little spinning firework off so close to his car at his apartment. And it’s true because, yeah, the thing ricocheted off one of his doors and flew right into my arm.

She got a lot of mileage out of, ‘I told y’all we shouldn’t do fireworks in an apartment parking lot!’ We tried to argue that her original aversion to the idea had to do with getting in trouble somehow, but it wasn’t a good argument…especially since five minutes later, we did get warned by management to wrap things up and be quiet or else.

I rub at the blemish, then turn my attention to her.

“Yeah, it looks good and isn’t hu—”

Startled into silence, I soak up the sight of her.

Over there by the wall near her bedroom, she stands barefoot with her hair up in a ponytail, her body clothed in her shimmery dark green leggings…and a black sports bra visible through the sheer black crop top she bought a long time ago.

The crop top that looks fucking awesome on her.

“What do you think?”

she asks, her tone still light. She rubs at her hips in the leggings, then lets her arms hang loose, then puts her hands behind her back. After a second, she laughs softly.

“Um…your mouth is hanging open.”

I realize she’s right. I don’t bother closing it, though, just nod and quit standing here so I can walk to her.

“That looks so cool on you, Maggie,” I say.

“As cool as you thought it would?”

“No, even cooler.”

I touch her hips, then slip my fingertips up to the part of her midsection that’s exposed. She takes a faint breath. Next, I touch the chain of her necklace, and the shoulder that’s also not covered by the shirt, and I touch the shirt itself, which is silky somehow, like it’ll be good for keeping her cool during her exercise.

It doesn’t hide her shape, as we knew it wouldn’t. It flaunts it, as I knew it would—but yes, even better than I expected.

I quit absorbing her and look at her face instead.

“What do you think?” I ask.

Her cheeks have gone pink.

“I love it,”

she whispers.

“I love the way it looks and feels on me.”

A grin overtakes me.

Overtakes her, too, as she hunches her shoulders.

“Fuck yes,”

I say to her.

“Own it, babe.”

She nods and lets out a giggle and…and I am so proud.

I was proud of her back when we first started our fake relationship, when she said she was exercising to take control of how she felt about herself, even though I didn’t think there was a single thing wrong with her. I was proud when she stuck to her plan. I was proud of her when she bought this shirt despite her worry that it wouldn’t suit her. I was proud when she learned from her knee injury that she doesn’t have to exercise to be healthy, gorgeous, or okay with herself. I was proud of her days ago when she said she’s going to return to it casually and not for the purpose of soothing self-criticism or self-consciousness.

Now she’s wearing this crop top on the same body she used to disapprove of, and she is owning it, and I—

“I’m so proud of you,”

I tell her before I steal a kiss from her.

It passes and she says, “So am I,”

and then steals a kiss back from me.

This goes on, the presses and pulls of our lips growing longer and longer, our plan to actually follow a workout video clearly getting postponed another minute. She ends up between the wall and me with my fingertips skimming down her neck and over her bared shoulder, beneath the strap of her sports bra, down to her shoulder blade. I can feel chill bumps on her, feel the catches in her breath—can’t keep those things away from my own self as her hands go under my shirt and up my back.

I move my mouth to the line of her jaw. While I dot kisses along it, I tell her all the things I was thinking about the pride I feel for her.

Her.

“Thank you,”

afterwards is breathy, but I still hear the hint of tightness in it.

I shift to see her face, and I find her slightly tearful and all content.

Damn, the sight of her with not-upset damp eyes is as gorgeous as the opposite is painful.

“I’m proud of myself too,”

she says again.

“I’m probably gonna falter here and there, but….”

I thumb at her bottom lip.

“If you do, it’ll be okay.”

She kisses my thumb, then nods. After a moment, a little smile quirks at her lips.

“I kind of want to live in this shirt.”

I chuckle. “Do it.”

My hands slip down and beneath it once again, allowing me to hold her bare waist.

“You know,”

I add more lowly.

“I’d say I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’m not: half of why I wanted you to buy this shirt was that I wanted the chance to touch you in all these ways while you wear it.”

As her smile grows, silence briefly settles around us. And something shifts between us, ripples, tenses in a familiar and welcome way.

Maybe because we have our hands on each other’s skin. Maybe because there’s an aspect to happiness that’s hot. Maybe because this quiet is a reminder that we’re quite alone here since her friends are at work.

“And the other half of why you did it?”

she murmurs back.

The feather-light drag of one of her fingertips down my spine makes me shiver, makes me sway a little bit closer to her.

“Because I could see you loved it.”

My own voice is going breathy now.

“I wanted you to let yourself have it. Let yourself grab hold of something fun and not….”

The rest of that sentence fades into my mouth going against hers.

She makes a delicate, wholly feminine noise in the back of her throat that melts into the quiet groan I can’t keep in because she’s tugging my hips against hers.

In a breath between kisses, she whispers.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime and always.”

I lightly catch her bottom lip in my teeth, then swallow the fuller sound she makes because I need, need, need to kiss her more.

It’s not long before the crop top and my shirt are off of us and on the floor.

I sigh against her mouth.

“I want you.”

She nods, her brushing hands leaving a trail of sweet smolders down my chest.

“Have me. I want you too.”

I put one palm at the small of her back and use the other to push us away from the wall.

As soon as we’re in her room and out of the rest of our clothes, I get her laid back on her bed. It’s hard to resist her trying to pull me on top of her, but I manage because so many places on her body need kissing. I do my best at seeing to it; my mouth and hands bow to her chest, and she gasps and says my name and sinks her fingers into my hair, her back arching. I work downwards and her breaths rise and fall more shakily all throughout her.

I kiss her soft navel, her side, her hip. Gently yet deliberately, I cup her thigh in my hand and nudge it upwards, more open, then graze my nose down the crease of her leg.

I can feel the tension of her trying not to lift herself against my mouth. Can feel the deep huff of her exhalation.

Fuck, as badly as I want to climb back over her so we can just go, I also want her on my tongue. I wanted it the night we put everything between us out there and finally, truly made up. I’ve wanted it since then in less intense flickers, always either being satisfied with physically loving her in other ways or being distracted from it altogether by life.

I look up along her body, over every curve, swell, dip—so many of the bare inches I’m going to spend my life becoming best friends with—and meet her eyes. They’re full of wanting and shyness and adoration, just like the color in her cheeks is.

Squeezing her thigh and flattening other my palm over her stomach, I murmur throatily.

“Can I please…?”

It all heightens about her: that look in her eyes, that blush, that tension in her muscles and how she breathes through it.

I see her nod, and I try not to outright moan as I slip my arms under her legs, take her waist in my hands, and finally move my kisses to the center of her.

But I can’t hold back worth a damn when me tasting her quickly brings exquisite and unbridled sounds out of her, quickly brings the ache between my own hips to a heavy need. My moans are the deep match to her prettier ones.

We lose ourselves in this; I am, once again, lost to her.

I happily take my time here, not only because I already love this with her as much as I imagined I would but because I’m determined to make it just right for her. And fuck, she fills every second with some kind of appreciation—words, touches, movements—and it’s all just….

It’s so good.

So gorgeous.

So gratifying.

And I’m not even the one who comes from it in the end—no, that’s my fucking girl with her unstoppable.

“Oh my God, Luke,”

bursting through the air and her fingertips digging into my forearms.

It’s outstanding.

Still not on the level of really, truly having her, though. As evidenced by the shudder that rocks down through me once she’s caged beneath me and I’m settling into doing that very thing.

“Magnolia….”

Other words elude me; there are too many I could say.

I take her mouth with mine, and she takes my body with an embrace. She doesn’t say anything else right now either, except for all the things that are in her breathless noises of satisfaction.

Our heartbeats are fast, but we give to each other without hurry.

She holds on to me with a pressing grip that isn’t as fierce as before and is sweetly possessive instead. She blesses my cheek, jaw, neck with kisses that are as reverent as the way we move and the way she looks at me any time our gazes catch.

I touch her everywhere I can reach, lightly and with worshipping intent, using my palms and just fingertips, knuckles. I kiss her eyebrow, the place below her ear, her collarbone and the L on her necklace that has been jostled off-center.

Can’t stay so languid for too long, though. Neither of us.

By the time I’m approaching my end, we’re both damn near gasping, and a faint sheen of sweat is on her wrist beneath my lips, and my muscles are pleading for the snap of all this delicious, built-up tension.

The unexpected second snap of hers pushes me right over the edge.

I blow out.

“That’s my girl, come with me,”

and she goes from moaning sharply to consuming me with a kiss, clutching me as tightly as I clutch her while white-hot pleasure overtakes me.

After, as we lie side-by-side and try to catch our breath, she says in a soft, tired huff.

“Holy fuck.”

Between being surprised to hear her rare use of that word and being in complete agreement, I dissolve into wheezy yet hearty laughter.

So does she.

“Yeah,”

I agree out loud.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,”

lands laugh-laced against my balmy shoulder before her lips do.

“Although now I don’t feel like doing the workout we planned.”

I turn my head and meet her eyes beneath her mussed bangs.

I will never get tired of the good things I do to those eyes.

“Think it’s time we tried yoga,” I say.

“Really? You would do yoga with me?”

“Sure. That video Joy showed us the other day looked peaceful as hell.”

She smiles and nods, remembering. One of her friend’s resolutions for this year is to get into yoga, and the video made me feel like that kind of exercise wouldn’t be as hard to start as the bendy and balance-y stuff I previously saw led me to believe.

“Yeah, okay,”

she says.

“Sounds good.”

Then, more cheerfully.

“Let’s get stuff for eggs Benedict after that.”

That perks me up too. I roll onto my side and let my fingertips start following the lovely curves of her body.

“Aw, yeah. Perfect idea. Then let’s go to my place and start taking down the Christmas stuff.”

She shifts and bends one arm up so she can play with my hair.

“Okay. And maybe we should….”

We lie here with these little touches and make plans for the rest of our day, then for tomorrow and later in the week, our mood as golden as the sunshine filtering through her light curtains.

And when we’re drawn into new laughter, bright-eyed looks, and jokes over the memory of our first time cooking together, deep within me settles the truth that as good, gorgeous, and gratifying as sharing our bodies feels, sharing our hearts feels infinitely better.

—

“Oh, wow,”

I say. I humbly dip my head.

“Sincerest thanks, gentlemen.”

One of the businessmen points at the hefty cash tip, which they just handed to me instead of putting in the leather guest check holder.

“You deserve it, young man. Great service, especially for being on your own.”

“I try. Y’all have a great rest of your day!”

They lift a wave at me and leave the bar. I tidy up where they were sitting, as well as the spot a few stools down that was recently vacated by another happy customer. This has been a busy day for me despite that we’re in the middle of the week, and it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who feels like I’ve kept up well.

I like being busy, honestly. I like getting shit done. I mean, not being busy can be great, but as long as I don’t have a headache from hell like I did back when Maggie and I were still on unpleasant terms, then the flow of work is something I enjoy. And the more people I’m serving, the more money I have trickling in, which is always a plus, particularly since Lucent’s guests don’t typically tip poorly or refuse to tip at all.

Shortly, I check the clock and note that the second bartender on the schedule should be here in half an hour. We’ll work together for a while before my shift ends and he takes over. I look forward to the company itself; I like Shota.

It’s not hard to pass the time, obviously.

Indeed, he seems to arrive in the blink of an eye. We chat while we prepare drinks for a big table in the dining room.

Shota has only been here two or three weeks, but it has become our routine that every time I see him, he tells me about whatever fantasy book he’s been reading with his boyfriend. It’s always fun as shit to hear. I know I’m never going to pick up those books, so I let him spoil plot points for me, and he likes gushing about all of it as much as I like the surprise and the easy entertainment. Especially since he weaves in stories about him and his boyfriend that tend to crack me up.

We get the drinks done just as he finishes describing the first book in some crazy-and-amazing-sounding story featuring six badass main characters—and I spy Mr. Polk coming my way from the other side of the bar.

My pulse gives a bit of a jump.

Since going for the assistant manager job, anything to do with work has kept a mixture of hope, nerves, and steadiness in my stomach—sometimes it’s subtle, other times not. The latter is truest when I interact with Mr. Polk, of course. And I haven’t thought on any of it much today since I’ve been so busy, but I can’t help doing it now.

Talk of the open position has been lean since right before the new year. That hasn’t surprised me. Holidays are hectic times in all kinds of ways, and I’m not the only person who’s been interested in the job. Plus, we’re only almost a week into January; I wouldn’t think that’s enough time for everyone who’s even slightly involved in this situation to get back in the swing of things. So I’ve not bothered Mr. Polk about it, just settled into patiently waiting for him to decide what’s going to happen and tell me about it. Might be soon, might be next month. There’s no telling.

“Hello, sir,”

I say once he reaches the bar. Shota extends his own greeting.

He smiles between us.

“Hello and hello,”

he replies warmly.

“How are things?”

“Going well so far,”

Shota reports.

“though I haven’t been here long.”

I nod and give a thumbs-up.

“And I’ve been rocking and rolling.”

Mr. Polk chuckles.

“Good to hear, Shota, and I’m sure you have, Luke.”

He makes eye contact with me alone, and my pulse jumps more than just a bit when he gestures in the direction of his office.

“Luke, now that extra hands are on deck, I’d like to speak to you in private. If you’ve reached a good place to pause working, that is.”

I believe I have; I glance at Shota and find him nodding at both me and our boss.

“Sure,”

I tell Mr. Polk.

“Lead the way, sir.”

He’s always such an amicable man that while I’m sure this has something to do with the assistant manager job, I can’t read anything in the smile he’s still wearing. There’s no way to know if he really has news to deliver, and if so, what kind of news it is.

So as he leads the way, indeed, I walk out from behind the bar to follow, hopeful and nervous and steady as ever.

No matter what, things are good, I remind myself.

Yeah, that’s one thing I do know.

—

All right.

Time to let Maggie know.

I wonder, not for the first time, if I should’ve found a moment to text her while I was still at work. But as with all those other times, I know that wasn’t how I wanted to tell her what Mr. Polk said. It was best to wait until I got home and could be with her in person; she’s been waiting to hear about his decision just as much as I have.

I’m home now, shutting myself in, immediately catching sight of her across the way in my kitchen.

“Hi,”

she calls. I can see her smile from here.

Need it much closer, though.

“Hey,”

I call back.

“How was work?”

After I’ve shed my coat and keys and shoes, I go to her. She’s drying a saucepan, obviously cleaning up after cooking since a delicious aroma hangs in the air; whatever she made for us smells good. Her hair is up in a messy bun. She’s cozy-looking in leggings and my old Snow Patrol sweatshirt.

So lovely.

Her face is lovely, too, as she regards me with patience. It takes me a second to remember she asked how my shift was.

How do I say it?

I start with, “Well….”

Maggie sets the saucepan and hand towel aside. She opens her arms to me and I go right into them, eager as hell for a hug from her.

We sigh and hum into the embrace. I could just melt right here—so could she, judging by how she snuggles into my arms. Banding them a little more securely around her, I drop a peck of a kiss to the first place on her neck I can reach.

“Things were that bad?”

she murmurs.

Stomach flipping, I draw a slow breath. Draw out of our hug, kiss her cheek on the way. She chases me and stamps her lips to my cheek, too, getting a chuckle out of me.

I look at her and decide the best thing to start with is.

“Mr. Polk talked to me a little while ago.”

It’s funny how hope, nervousness, and steadiness etch themselves into her expression like they rolled through me earlier; she really is with me on this. All of it swirls in her moss-green eyes as she rubs at my waist with gentle yet comforting hands.

“Oh, yeah?”

she asks.

“About the job opening?”

I nod.

“What did he say?”

She’s so beautiful here in front of me. So soft and calm despite her nerves. So ready to support me no matter what has happened.

I spend many good, long moments appreciating her.

Then I take her hands from my waist, pull them around between us, give them a squeeze…

…and break out into a grin.