After We Fell (84 page)

“What will you do about your father?” We both stand; she towers over me in her four-inch heels.

“I don't know.” I've been too distracted by the topic of Hardin to focus on my father.

“You should make him leave; he has no business being here clouding your mind and filling it with lies.”

“He's done no such thing,” I fire back. Every time I believe we've made any type of progress, she uses her sharp heel to kick me back down.

“He has! He has strangers showing up here, shaking him down for money! Hardin told me all of it.”

Why would he do that? I understand his concern, but my mother hasn't helped the situation one bit. “I'm not going to kick him out. This isn't my place, and he has nowhere else to go.”

My mother's eyes close, and she shakes her head at me for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. “You have to stop trying to fix people, Theresa. You will spend your entire life doing it, but then you'll have nothing left of yourself, even if you succeed in changing them.”

“Tessa?” Hardin's voice calls from outside the bedroom. He opens the door before I respond, and his eyes immediately scan my face for signs of distress.

“You okay?” he asks, ignoring my mother's presence completely.

“Yeah.” I gravitate toward him but avoid throwing my arms around him, for my mother's sake. The poor woman has already been dragged through twenty years of memories.

“I was just leaving.” My mother runs her palms down her dress, stopping at the hem and then repeating the action, a frown settling on her face.

“Good,” Hardin rudely remarks, quick to protect me.

I look up at him, my eyes pleading with him for silence. He rolls his eyes but doesn't say another word as my mother strides by us and marches down the hall. The obnoxious clicking of her heels sends me into a full migraine.

I take his hand and follow in silence. My father attempts to speak to my mother, but she brushes him off.

“You didn't wear a coat?” he unexpectedly asks her.

Just as puzzled as I am, she mumbles “no” and turns to me.
“I'll call you tomorrow . . . Answer this time?” It's a question instead of a demand, which is some sort of progress.

“Yes.” I nod.

She doesn't say goodbye. I knew she wouldn't.

“That woman drives me flippin' crazy!” my father shouts when the door closes, his hands flying into the air in exasperation.

“We're going to bed. If anyone else knocks at the damn door, don't answer it,” Hardin grumbles and leads me back to the bedroom.

I'm beyond exhausted. I can barely stand on my feet.

“What did she say?” Hardin lifts his sweatshirt over his head and tosses it at me. I detect a flicker of uncertainty as he waits for me to collect it from the floor.

Despite the greasy butter and blood smeared on the black fabric, I gladly remove my own shirt, along with my bra, and pull it over my head. I breathe in the familiar scent of him, which aides in calming my nerves. “More than she's said in my entire life,” I admit. My mind is still reeling.

“Did any of it change your mind?” He looks at me, panic and fear filling his eyes. I get the feeling my father must have had a similar talk with him, and wonder if my father holds the same grudge against my mother as she holds against him or if he admits that he's to blame for the turmoil in both of their lives.

“No.” I pull my loose pants down my legs and place them on the chair.

“You're sure? Aren't you worried that we're repeating their—” Hardin begins.

“No, we are not. We're nothing like them.” I stop him. I don't want anyone else getting into his head, not tonight.

Hardin doesn't look convinced, but I force myself not to focus on that right now.

“What do you want me to do about your dad? Kick him out?” he asks. He moves to sit on the bed with his back against the
headboard while I grab his dirty jeans and socks from the floor. Hardin's arms lift to rest behind his head, fully displaying his toned, inked body.

“No, don't kick him out. Please.” I crawl into bed, and he pulls me onto his lap.

“I won't,” he assures me. “Not tonight, at least.” I look up for a smile, but there isn't one.

“I'm so confused,” I groan into his chest.

“I can help with that.” He lifts his pelvis, and l'm forced forward, using my palms to steady myself against his exposed chest.

I roll my eyes. “Of course you can. Every problem looks like a nail when your first tool of choice is a hammer.”

He smiles wickedly. “Are you saying you need to get nailed?”

Before I can bemoan his bad joke, he takes my chin between his long, busted fingers, and I find myself shifting my hips, rubbing against him. I'm vaguely aware of my period; I know Hardin certainly doesn't mind it.

“You need sleep, baby; it would be wrong to fuck you right now,” he says softly.

I shamelessly pout. “No, it wouldn't,” I say and slide my palms down his stomach.

“Oh no, you don't.” He stops me.

I need a distraction, and Hardin is the perfect fix. “You started it,” I whine. I sound desperate, because I am.

“I know, and I'm sorry for that. I'll take you in the car tomorrow.” His fingers slip under the sweatshirt and begin to draw unknown shapes across my bare back. “And if you're a good girl, I'll even bend you over the desk at my father's house, just the way you like,” he says into my ear.

My breathing hitches, and I playfully swat at him, and he laughs. His laugh is almost as distracting as sex would be. Almost.

“Besides, we don't want to make a mess in here tonight, do we? With your father out there? He'll probably see the blood on
the sheets and assume I've killed you.” He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Do
not
start that,” I warn him. His cheesy menstrual jokes are not welcome right now.

“Ahh, baby, don't be like that.” He pinches my behind, and I yelp, sliding further into his lap, “Go with the flow.” He grins.

“You've used that one before.” I smile back.

“Well, excuse me for not being original. I like to recycle my jokes about once a month.”

I groan and try to roll off him, but he stops me and nuzzles my neck.

“You're disgusting,” I say.

“Yeah, I'm just an old bloody rag, I suppose.” He laughs and presses his lips to mine.

I roll my eyes. “Speaking of bloody rags, let me see your hand.” I reach behind my back and gently grab him by the wrist. His middle finger is the worst, a thick gash spreads from knuckle to knuckle. “You should get this looked at, if it doesn't begin to heal tomorrow.”

“I'm fine.”

“This one, too.” I run the pad of my index finger over the mangled skin on his ring finger.

“Stop fussing, woman, go to sleep,” he grumbles.

I nod in agreement and drift off to the sound of him complaining about my father eating his Frosted Flakes again.

I
lay in bed for over two hours, waiting patiently for Hardin to wake up, before I gave up. By the time I've showered and am fully dressed, the kitchen is cleaned, and I've taken two ibuprofen to get rid of my cramps and massive headache. I make my way back to the bedroom to wake him up myself.

I gently shake his arm and whisper his name. It doesn't work.

“Hardin, wake up.” I roughly grip his shoulder and recoil when the vision of my mother ripping my father's slumbering body off of the couch flashes into my mind. All morning I've been avoiding thoughts of my mother and the heartbreaking history lesson I was given last night. My father is still asleep; I imagine that her short visit has worn him out as well.

“No,” he grumbles sleepily.

“If you won't get up, then I'll be going to your father's house alone,” I say, slipping my feet into my flat shoes. I have many pairs of Toms, but I always find myself wearing the tan crocheted ones the most. Hardin calls them “hideous moccasins,” but I love the comfortable shoes.

He groans and rolls over onto his stomach, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His eyes are still closed when he turns his head to me. “No, you won't.”

I knew he wouldn't like that idea, which is precisely why I used it to get his behind out of the bed.

“Get up, then. I've already showered and everything,” I whine. I'm anxious to get to Landon's house and see him, Ken, and Karen again. It feels like ages since I last saw that sweet woman in the strawberry-print apron that she hardly ever removes.

“Dammit.” Hardin pouts, opening one eye. I stifle a giggle at the lazy expression covering his face. I'm tired, too, mentally and physically drained, but the idea of getting out of this apartment for the day has perked me up tremendously.

“Come here first.” He opens the other eye and reaches out for me. The moment I'm beside him on the bed, he rolls his heavy body on top of mine, encasing me in his warmth. He purposely rubs his hardness against me, grinding his hips until he's perfectly nestled between my thighs, his morning erection pressing torturously into me.

“Morning.” He's wide-awake now, and I can't help but laugh. He leisurely drags his hips in a circle again, and this time I try to wiggle free. He joins me in laughter but quickly silences me by covering my mouth with his. His tongue laps mine, gently caressing, hinting at an intention completely opposed to the sharp movements his hips are making.

“Are you plugged?” he whispers, still kissing me. His hands have moved to my chest, and my heart is thumping rapidly, making his sleepy voice barely audible.

“I am.” I nod, only mildly cringing at the hideous term I have become used to. He pulls away, his eyes slowly raking over my face, and his tongue swiping along his bottom lip, wetting it.

The sound of kitchen cabinets opening and closing carries down the hallway, followed by a large belch, and then the crash of pans on the floor.

Hardin's eyes roll. “Fucking lovely.” He stares down at me. “Well, I had planned on fucking you before we left, but now that Mr. Sunshine's awake . . .”

He climbs off of me and stands up, taking the blanket with him. “I'll be quick in the shower,” he says with a scowl toward the door.

Hardin returns less than five minutes later just as I'm tucking in the corners of the bedsheet. The only article of clothing he's wearing is a white towel wrapped around his waist. I force my eyes away from his gorgeous inked body and up to his face while he walks over to the dresser and pulls out a signature black T-shirt. Pulling it down over his head, he steps into a pair of boxers.

“Last night was a fucking disaster.” His eyes are focused on his busted hand as he buttons his jeans.

“Yeah.” I sigh, trying to avoid any further conversation that revolves around my parents.

“Let's go.” He grabs his keys and phone from the dresser and shoves them into his pockets. He pushes his wet hair back off his forehead and opens the bedroom door. “Well . . . ?” he impatiently remarks when I don't jump up right away. What happened to the playful Hardin from only minutes ago? If his bad mood continues this way, then I suspect that today will be just as bad as yesterday.

Without a word, I follow him through the door and down the hallway. The bathroom door is closed, and the water is on. I don't want to wait for my father to get out of the shower, but I also don't want to leave without telling him where we're going and making sure he doesn't need anything.
What does he do in this apartment while he's alone? Does he think about drugs all day? Does he have people over?

I shake the second thought from my head. Hardin would find out if he brought bad friends around, and my father sure as heck wouldn't still be here if that were the case.

HARDIN STAYS QUIET
during the drive to Ken and Karen's place. The only assurance I have that today isn't going to be a total wash is his hand resting on my thigh while he focuses on the road.

When we arrive, Hardin, as always, doesn't knock before walking inside. The sweet smell of maple syrup fills the house, and we follow the scent to the kitchen. Karen is standing next to the oven, a spatula is one hand while she waves the other through the air in conversation. An unfamiliar young woman is seated at one of the island stools. Her long brown hair is the only thing I see until she turns the stool around when Karen's attention is directed toward us.

“Tessa, Hardin!” Karen nearly shrieks with joy as she carefully places the spatula onto the counter and rushes over to wrap her arms around me. “It's been so long!” she exclaims, holding me at arm's length and then crushing me back to her body. Her warm welcome is exactly what I needed after last night.

“It's only been three weeks, Karen,” Hardin rudely remarks.

Her smile dims a fraction, and she tucks her hair behind her ear.

I peer around her to take in all the baked goods around the kitchen. “What are you making?” I ask to distract her from her stepson's sour attitude.

“Maple cookies, maple cupcakes, maple squares, and maple muffins.” Karen pulls me along gently while Hardin cowers in the corner, a deep frown set on his face.

Ignoring him, I look at the young woman again, unsure how to introduce myself.

“Oh!” Karen takes notice. “I'm sorry, I should have introduced you first thing.” She gestures to the woman. “This is Sophia; her parents live just down the road.”

Sophia smiles and reaches to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says with a smile. She's beautiful, extremely beautiful.
Her eyes are bright and her smile warm; she's older than me, but she can't be much more than twenty-five.

“I'm Tessa, Landon's friend,” I say.

Hardin coughs behind me, obviously displeased at my choice of words. I assume Sophia knows Landon, and since Hardin and I are . . . well, this morning it just seems easier to introduce myself this way.