The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (3 page)

“King, Lo isn’t that kind of girl, and we both know that. Lo has so much talent. I bet, if they want her, they won’t give a shit if she wants to live here. Artists do that all the time. Sure, she’ll have to travel, but in this day and age—with phones, computers, conference calls—hell, you can reach people anywhere these days,” I assure him.

“She does love the rain. We’ve got that going for us.”

I smile and squeeze his knee. “She loves you, King. Nothing’s happened. There’s no reason to freak out and try to commit suicide each time you step foot into the shop.”

King dips his chin and rolls his eyes upward. “Suicide?” he drawls with annoyance.

“If you didn’t have as much experience as you do, you’d be in a wheelchair from this past week. You’ve been careless and completely insane.”

He runs a hand over his hair, drawing attention to how long it’s getting.

Standing, I reach forward and ruffle the locks standing in disarray. “You should get a haircut before she gets home. You’ve only got two days left, and then the world will even out again.” In an attempt to assure him, I wink and head to the door.

“Thanks, Summer,” King says from behind me as he follows me up the basement stairs. “Maybe I’ll look over footage for the next couple of days or go on to the paths around back.”

“Good idea.”

“You sticking around for dinner?” he asks as we round the kitchen where I left my jacket.

“No, I’m going to head home. I’ve got some editing I need to get done.”

“You have to stay!” Mercedes cries. She redirects her path to the living room and heads toward us holding a cereal bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. “I need a female around for a while. The house is starting to smell like man.”

“I hate to tell you this, but it’s always smelled like man.”

Her frown deepens as I grin. “When Lo was here, it didn’t.”

Mercedes’ comment has me gazing around. While the house isn’t in its constant state of disarray like it had been last fall, it has become messier. Random things are covering the kitchen table and couches, and are piled up beside the front door.

“Tell your dad to hire a housekeeper.” Zipping my jacket, I avoid eye contact with her.

“You know he won’t. This doesn’t bother him.”

“Maybe you should tell him that it bothers you.” Glancing up, I see her eyes are trained on me.

As Mercedes gets older, I notice more and more of her mom, Arianna, in her. I never even knew the woman, yet after seeing so many pictures of her with my cyberstalking Kash, I feel like I do. Mercedes occasionally makes some of the exact same expressions, and it does something strange to my stomach. I often don’t know whether or not to tell her that she resembles the woman who was so beautiful many thought she would go into modeling with Kash’s growing fame.

The strange sensation becomes even more prominent when it’s followed by pangs of jealousy.
Is it because I feel a sense of possession over the girl I’ve known and cared for since she was too young to roll her eyes or even giggle, though there isn’t a trace of me in her? Or is it because on occasion, Kash will look at her, and his eyes will light with fond memories of the past over a woman he once loved and might never get over?
I know, from my own mother, that one never gets over their first love.

“But he listens to you.”

Mercedes’ retaliation has me cocking my head to the side with thought. It certainly doesn’t feel like he ever does.

“Says the person he never says no to,” King reaches forward to rest a fist against her bicep with a playful punch that doesn’t even leave her swaying.

Mercedes scowls and bats his hand away, her face screwed up with annoyance.

“All right, I’m out of here. See ya,” I say before any more objections can be made or Kash comes out to weaken my conviction to go.

Closing the front door leaves me with an icy feeling of regret. The Knight family is mine. Birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings—all of them, I spend with the three of them. When I have a bad day or hear a juicy piece of gossip or receive good news, my first call is always to Kash. They’re more than just a familiarity; they’re the light, the humor, the only reason I eat cake on my birthday each year, and why I am willing to deal with mall crowds every December.

I hate whatever is happening, and even more, I hate that I can’t talk to Kash about it because I am so fearful of the rejection and the pain he could so easily induce.

This isn’t us. And this certainly isn’t me.

I climb into my truck and start the trek down the long driveway, keeping my eyes focused on the narrow edges that hide the promise of deer and other wildlife that have found a small refuge in the city.

My uncle used to take me out each fall to hunt these bastards that I love for their majestic beauty and loathe because I feel guilty each time I see one along the highway. Is it fair to hate something because of the way it makes you feel even though it has no control over that fact? I believe it is, and this brings me right back to Kash.

Muddled thoughts pique my road rage, and when a small Civic cuts me off, only for the driver to hit the brakes because traffic is at a slow crawl, I slam my palm against my horn and yell a handful of expletives that I’m certain she recognizes in my reflection in her rearview mirror. I wish she could hear how loud and degrading I’m saying them because drivers like her need to hear them. Perhaps she would think twice the next time she tries to cause an accident by being impatient and reckless, but it’s doubtful. It’s like riding; rarely do you consider the full ramifications of what could happen to you until the doctors are telling you that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put you back together again.

“
T
HIS IS CRAZY
,” I remark, looking at the endless fields of white through the panoramic windows of the limousine in Northern Alberta, Canada.

I’ve seen snow plenty of times, but seldom so much of it. Downtown Portland rarely receives more than a dusting, and when we do, it lasts only a short while before the rain follows its path and turns it all to slush.

I know this photo shoot is going to be beautiful. The contrast of color and movement will be gorgeous and likely worthy of being on the front of several magazines. Still, this seems a bit dangerous, even for us.

Maybe my hormones are on high alert because, until today, I haven’t seen Kash since I left the Knight residence ten days ago. It began coincidentally. Parker caught strep throat, and King banned him from the house and shop because he didn’t want to get sick before Lo got home.

Then, Kash flew down to California to do a couple of endorsement deals. Normally, I attend events like that to take pictures for his fan blog, help out with styling him, and just hang out because ad campaigns can be boring as all hell. It’s a game of hurry-up-and-wait. You wait for the natural light to be right, and the sun doesn’t hurry for anyone. You hurry to meet everyone’s schedules, for weather, for endless breaks. You’re always waiting for something or someone. In addition, shoots are taken way too seriously, and then they turn on the cameras and want you to relax and act like you’re having fun when all you really want to do is borrow a nail file, so you can put yourself out of misery.

But I had scheduled to shoot King the weekend before that event in California was scheduled, so I had an easy excuse. Getting King not to cancel on me was the tricky part. I had to dust off and try on my grown-up voice as I told him he needed to do them if he wanted to be taken seriously and show people he was back after the injuries he’d endured at the beginning of summer.

“How will you have any traction?” Lo verbalizes one of my many concerns, interrupting my thoughts of the photo shoot I did with King that she attended so that she could make some quick outlines for sketches of her favorite muse—King.

One of the things I really like about Lo is the fact she keeps her mushy feelings mostly to herself, but they’re very apparent within the pages of her sketchbook.

King moves his attention from the window to Lo, his eyes and lips softening with adoration. He’s not as good at hiding his affections. I’m still working to remind myself I’m happy about this since I’ve never seen him have a reaction of this sort.

“There won’t be much,” he explains. “We put on new tires that will work better in this weather, but bikes aren’t really made for this.”

“Are you worried?” she asks.

“Nah, we’ve done this before. It will be shits and giggles out there. When you lose traction, your reaction time has to be swift. So, you’re not actually thinking while riding in this kind of condition. You have to allow your reflexes to take over and your body to ride like it knows how to.” Parker’s explanation couldn’t have been better.

We used to have a blast when we found a new challenge. Adrenaline highs were what we chased as we followed our dreams.

Now though, I feel my lungs tightening, fighting for any semblance of calmness. Over the past eleven years I have looked to Kash whenever my nerves stir with unease—something I can likely count on one hand since few things rock me. Still, the gesture feels as normal and necessary as breathing. Instead, I force my attention to remain on Lo. She’s rubbing the knuckle of her middle finger with the pad of her thumb. A few months ago, I realized it is something she does when she’s battling her own nerves.

“So, will the others be staying up here with us?” This is Lo, and this is why I have grown to like her so damn much. She understands that we need this release. If she were to try to meddle with reason and logic, it would only fuel our fires that feed off the energy we receive from riding.

Her question makes King’s hand tighten around her own, and his lips curve into a smile. However, it makes my heart sink for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom.

“Not the whole time. Just tonight and maybe tomorrow, depending on how things go,” Kash answers.

Again, I don’t turn to face him.

“I’m going to whitewash the hell out of Tommy Chapman. He’s going to be seeing snow when he closes his eyes tonight.” Parker smiles broadly. Sitting back against his seat, he pops each of his knuckles with the satisfaction of his plan.

“If you start a war with Tommy, I do not want to be involved,” Kash states.

King shakes his head, but laughs in agreement.

“He’s not that tough,” Parker rebuts, bringing a chorus of snickers from the guys.

“No, but he is relentless,” Kash murmurs, his attention focused on the view outside.

“Who’s Tommy again?” Poor Lo has been making a valiant effort to remember everyone’s names, even going as far as looking up their profiles on social media so she has a general idea of who they are as we feed her stories about the ones we’re close with and general facts about the ones we aren’t.

“Tommy is the other rider doing the promotion for the event in March. He’s been on the scene for a while, but got injured when he first came out. It took a few years of rehab to get him back on and another couple to get any kind of following,” Parker explains. “The dude doesn’t feel pain. It will freak you out. He’ll crash and have bacon all the way down his face, and won’t even flinch. That’s partly why it took him so long to get back into the circuit. They were afraid that he’d hurt himself even worse because his pain tolerance is so high. You could hit the guy in the face with a two-by-four, and he’d keep going.”

Lo’s gaze travels to mine, seeking confirmation.

I smirk at the bewilderment that was in Parker’s tone. “He feels things. He definitely doesn’t have the same kind of reaction a normal person does, though.”

Her eyebrows rise, and silence fills the small space.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s crazy,” I explain. “Come on. We need to get a picture of the limo, so I can send it to Mercedes. I promised I’d send her picture updates.”

I crowd closer to Lo and King, and pull up the camera app on my phone. We rarely get limos for transportation, and while this seems particularly unnecessary for this excursion into the frozen tundra, I won’t complain. It came stocked with four bottles of champagne, a bottle of Patrón, and a case of Pelican Pub beer because it’s Kash’s favorite.

The limo stops in front of a large cabin that has me peering out the windows with curiosity. “This isn’t the place, is it?”

“Nah. They said there were enough cabins that everyone would have their own place.” Parker drops his head so he can see more clearly.

Car doors close from the limo behind us, directing my attention to Kash for clarification.

His brow furrows, and then he shrugs before shaking his head. “Maybe they couldn’t get the place?”

The door of our limousine opens, exposing our suited driver and endless piles of white that have been cleared from the driveway. “Welcome to Toevluchtsoord,” he says, waving a hand toward the cabin that is so close in resemblance to the Knight residence with the wide log siding and green roof.

Being closest to the door, I slide out first. A cold wind has me pulling my shoulders forward and neck down as I peer at the open sky in front of me.

“Shit!” My exclamation is lost in the howl of the wind, but that’s fine. I’m lost, watching the flakes endlessly fall around me. It’s mesmerizing. It also makes my equilibrium off-balance when I drop my chin from looking up to see who is calling my name.