After We Fell (92 page)

I'm half asleep when I turn the corner to the kitchen, but what I see next stops me in my tracks. I rub my eyes and even blink to clear the distorted image that has formed in front of me.

But it's still there . . .
they
are still there no matter how many times I blink.

My mum is sitting on top of the counter, her thighs parted. A man stands between them, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her hands are buried in his blond hair. His mouth is on hers, or hers on his—I don't fucking know—what I do know is that the man isn't Mike.

It's fucking Christian Vance.

W
hat? What is happening? For one of the few times in my life, I find myself speechless. My mum's hands move from Vance's hair down to his jaw, her mouth pushing harder against his.

I must have made a noise—probably a gasp, I don't fucking know—because my mum's eyes spring open and she immediately pushes at Vance's shoulders. His head quickly turns to me, his eyes go wide, and he steps away from the counter. How did they not hear me coming down the stairs? Why is he here, in this kitchen?

What the actual fuck is happening?

“Hardin!” my mum says, her voice high with panic as she jumps down from the kitchen counter.

“Hardin, I can—” Vance starts. I hold up my hand to silence them while my mouth and brain work together, trying to make sense of the fucked-up sight in front of me.

“How . . .” I begin, the jumbled words flying through my mind not really connecting. “How . . . ?” I repeat, my feet beginning to move backward. I want to get away from them as fast as I possibly can, but I need an explanation at the same time.

I look back and forth between the two of them, trying to reconcile the people before me with those that I thought I knew. But I fail to do so, and nothing makes sense.

My heels hit the back of the stairs, and my mum steps toward me. “It's not—” she begins.

I'm relieved to feel the familiar burn of anger beginning to chip away at my shock, sweeping over me and pushing away any vulnerability that may have been present seconds ago. Anger I can deal with—I revel in it; shock and stunned silence, not so much.

I'm walking toward them again before I realize what I'm doing, and my mum steps back, distancing herself from me, while Vance steps in front of her. What?

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I interrupt her, ignoring the selfish tears shining in her eyes. “You're getting married tomorrow!”

“And you,” I seethe at my old boss, “you're fucking engaged, and here you are about to fuck my mum on the goddamned kitchen counter!” I lower my hand and strike a harsh blow to the already damaged countertop. The cracking sound of the wood splintering excites me, makes me want more.

“Hardin!” my mum yells.

“Don't you fucking yell at me!” I nearly scream. I hear the rush of footsteps above me, a signal that our voices have woken Tessa up, and I know she's on her way to find me.

“Don't talk to your mother like that.” Vance's voice isn't loud, but the threat in his tone is clear.

“You don't get to tell me what the fuck to do! You're no one—who the fuck are you?” My nails dig into my palms, and my anger grows, gathering into a large mass, ready to explode.

“I'm—” he begins, but my mum's hand wraps around his shoulder and pulls him back.

“Christian, don't,” she begs him.

“Hardin?” Tessa's voice calls from the stairs, and she enters the kitchen only seconds later. She looks around the room, at the
unexpected guest first, then her eyes settle on me as she comes to stand next to me. “Is everything okay?” she nearly whispers, wrapping her small hand around my arm.

“Everything is just fine! Perfect, really!” I pull my arm out of her grip and wave it in front of me. “Although you may want to warn your friend Kimberly that her beloved fiancé has been shagging my mum.”

Tessa's eyes nearly fall out onto the floor at my words, but she remains silent. I wish she'd stayed upstairs, but I know if I were her, I wouldn't have either.

“Where is your lovely Kimberly? Staying at a nearby hotel with your son?” I ask Vance, sarcasm screaming through my words. I don't like Kimberly, she's fucking nosy and obnoxious, but she loves Vance, and I was under the strong impression that he was just as much in love with her. Clearly, I was wrong. He doesn't give a fuck about her or their upcoming wedding. If he did, this wouldn't be happening.

“Hardin, everyone just needs to calm down.” My mum tries to defuse the situation. Her hand has dropped from Vance's shoulder.

“Calm down?” I scoff. She's unbelievable. “You're getting married tomorrow, and I find you here, in the middle of the night, laid out on the kitchen counter like a whore.”

The moment the words hit the air, he's on me. Vance's body collides with mine, and my head smacks against the tile floor of the kitchen as he tackles me to the ground.

“Christian!” I hear my mum scream. He uses the weight of his body to hold me there, but I manage to get my hands out from under his grip. The moment that his fist connects with my nose, my adrenaline courses through me, taking me over, and all I see is red.

A
m I dreaming? Please let this be a nightmare . . . what's happening surely can't be real.

Christian is on top of Hardin. When his fist connects with Hardin's nose, it makes the most awful sound. The sound burns my ears, and my heart plummets. Hardin's fist reaches up between them, delivering a blow of equal force to Christian's jaw, causing Christian's hold on him to slip.

Within seconds, Hardin rolls from under him and shoves his shoulders, pushing him back to the floor. I can't keep track of how many punches they exchange, and I can't tell who has the upper hand.

“Stop them!” I scream to Trish. Every part of me wants to step between them, knowing that if Hardin sees me he'll immediately stop, but the slight fear is there that he may be too angry, too out of control, and accidently do something that would later drive him mad with guilt.

“Hardin!” Trish grabs Hardin's bare shoulder in an attempt to pull him from the violence, but she goes unnoticed by the both of them.

Adding to the chaos, the back door is yanked open, revealing a panicked Mike. Oh God. “Trish? What is—” He blinks his eyes under his thick glasses as he registers what's happening.

Less than a second later, he joins the rumble, stepping behind
Hardin and grabbing him by both of his arms. Large man that he is, Mike lifts him effortlessly and pushes him toward the wall. Christian scrambles to his feet, and Trish pushes him against the opposite wall. Hardin is shaking, fuming, breathing so heavily that I'm afraid he'll somehow damage his lungs. I rush to him, unsure what to do but needing to be close to him.

“What the hell is going on?” Mike's voice commands attention, demands it.

Everything is happening so quickly: the terror in Trish's brown eyes, the angry bruises covering Christian's face, the deep red trail of blood running from Hardin's nose to his mouth . . . it's all too much.

“Ask
them
!” Hardin shouts, tiny drops of red splattering onto his chest. He gestures to a frightened Trish and an angry Christian.

“Hardin,” I gently say. “Let's go upstairs,” I reach for his hand, trying to keep my own emotions at bay. I'm trembling and I feel the hot tears on my cheeks, but this isn't about me.

“No!” He jerks away from me. “Tell him! Tell him what you were fucking doing!” Hardin tries to lunge toward Christian again, but Mike quickly steps between them. I close my eyes for a moment, praying that Hardin won't assault him, too.

I'm in my old dorm room again, Hardin and Noah on either side of me, as Hardin forces me to confess my infidelity to the boy who I spent half of my life with. The look on Noah's face wasn't nearly as heartbreaking as the one I'm looking at right now. Mike's expression is a mixture of realization, confusion, and pain.

“Hardin, please don't do this,” I beg.

“Hardin,” I repeat, pleading with him not to embarrass this man. Trish needs to tell him in her own way, not in front of an audience. This isn't right.

“Fuck that! Fuck all of you!” Hardin screams, and his fist drives down against the cheap countertop, snapping it in two.

“I'm sure Mike won't mind if you two use the premises tomorrow.” Hardin's voice lowers; each word is deliberately measured and cruel. “I'm sure he'd let you, seeing as he probably wasted a shitload of his money on this joke of a wedding.” He half laughs.

A chill sets deep in my spine and I stare at the ground. There's no stopping him when he's like this; no one tries. Everyone is silent as Hardin continues.

“What a nice couple the two of you make. The engaged ex-wife of a drunk and his loyal best friend,” he scoffs. “I'm sorry, Mike, but you're about five minutes late to the show. You missed the part where your bride had her tongue down his throat.”

Christian tries to grab hold of Hardin again, but Trish leaps in front of him. Hardin and Christian eye each other like panthers.

I'm seeing an entirely new side to Christian. He's not playful or witty; anger is radiating from him in thick waves. The Christian that holds Kimberly by the waist and whispers how beautiful she is is nowhere to be found.

“You disrespectful little—” Christian says through his teeth.

“I'm
disrespectful? You're the one going on and on to me about the glories of marriage, yet you've been having an affair with my mum!”

My mind can't wrap itself around this. Christian and Trish? Trish and Christian? It doesn't make sense. I know they've been friends for many years, and Hardin told me that Christian had taken Trish and him in, taken care of them, after Ken left. But an affair?

I never thought of Trish as the type who'd do such a thing, and Christian has always seemed so deeply in love with Kimberly. Kimberly . . . My heart aches for her; she loves him so much. She's in the middle of planning her dream wedding with her dream man, and now it's pretty clear that she doesn't know him at all. She'll be devastated. She has built a life with Christian and his son. No matter what I have to do, I will not let Hardin be the
one to tell her. I will not let him humiliate and mock her the way he just did Mike.

“It's not like that!” Christian's temper is just as hot as Hardin's. His green eyes are glowing, burning with rage, and I know he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around Hardin's neck.

Mike is silent, his eyes focused on his fiancée and her tearstained cheeks.

“I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen. I don't know—” Trish's voice breaks into a heartbreaking sob, and I look away.

Mike shakes his head, clearly rejecting her apology, and he stays silent as he strides across the small kitchen and walks out, slamming the back door behind him. Trish falls to her knees, her hands covering her face to muffle her cries.

Christian's shoulders slump, his anger momentarily replaced by concern as he kneels next to her, drawing her into his arms. Next to me, Hardin's breathing picks up again, his fists tighten at his sides, and I step in front of him, bringing my hands to his cheeks. My stomach turns at the sight of the blood, which has now reached his chin. His lips are stained crimson . . . so much blood.

“Don't,” he warns me, pushing my hands away. He's staring behind me at his mother, wrapped in Christian's arms. The two of them seem to have forgotten that we're here—either that or they just don't care. I'm so confused.

“Hardin, please,” I cry and raise my trembling hands to his face once more.

He finally looks at me, and I see the guilt rising behind his eyes.

“Please, let's go upstairs,” I plead with him. His gaze stays on my face, and I force myself not to look away from his eyes as his anger slowly passes.

“Get me away from them,” he stammers. “Get me out of here.”

I drop my hands and wrap one around his arm, gently leading him from the kitchen. When we reach the staircase, Hardin halts.

“No . . . I want to leave this house,” he says.

“Okay,” I quickly agree. I want to leave the house, too. “I'll grab our bags; you go out to the car,” I suggest.

“No, if I go out there . . .” He doesn't have to finish his sentence. I know exactly what will happen if he's left alone with his mother and Christian.

“Come upstairs—it won't take long,” I promise him. I'm trying my best to keep calm, to be strong for him, and so far, it's working.

He lets me take the lead and follows me up the staircase and down the hall to the small bedroom. I hastily shove our things into our bags, not taking the time to pack them properly. I jump and stifle a scream when Hardin knocks over the dresser, and the heavy piece of furniture lands with a loud thud against the floor. Hardin kneels down and pulls out the first empty drawer. He tosses it to the side before grabbing the next. He's going to destroy everything in this room if I don't get him out of here.

Just as he flings the last drawer against the wall, I wrap my arms around his torso. “Come to the bathroom with me.” I lead him down the hallway and close the door behind us. Grabbing a towel from the rack, I turn the faucet on and instruct him to sit on the toilet seat. His silence is chilling and I don't want to push him.

He doesn't speak or even flinch when I bring the hot towel to his cheek, dragging it across the blood pooled under his nose, across his lips, and down his chin.

“It's not broken,” I quietly note after briefly examining his nose. His busted bottom lip is already swollen but no longer bleeding. My mind is still racing, flashing angry images of the two men assaulting each other.