This Is Falling(77)

“But you’re at this party,” I tease.

“Yes. But Tucker the Fucker’s here, too.”

“Nate! Stop that,” I say, pushing him lightly. I’m slightly serious, but I’m also careful not to make Nate jealous, because I know how that feels—I had the same feelings when he was talking about Sadie, and I would never want to do that to him. “I’m sorry that’s how you had to meet him. He’s actually a nice guy.”

“Yeah, probably,” he says, grabbing my hand in his and pulling me up the front steps into the house. “But that doesn’t mean he has good intentions when he looks at you. Especially in that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m a man, too, Rowe. And my intentions? They’re nowhere near good right now. They’re not even in the same language as the word good.”

“Oh yeah? What are they, Mister Preeter?” The sexy coed once again taking over my brain and body, I take a large stride and step in front of his path, stopping him in a room full of people. Nate pushes his forehead to mine and walks us backward a few steps, his arm around my body, keeping me close.

“Come on. Let’s go get you drunk, and we’ll find out.”





Being with Nate made everything easier. I dared more, and every day I felt more and more like the person I was supposed to be—the person before everything was stolen from me. Months ago, I never would have imagined me sitting here at a table with a dozen drunken college kids, screaming out obscenities and daring the girl before me to drink more, but here I am.

When it’s my turn to play, Nate stands close, caging me in between his body and the table in front of me, his breath hot against my neck. He’s been this way all night—possessive. And I think if this were normal, I’d fight it a little. But I know he’s just making sure everyone’s clear whom I belong to. And I like belonging to him.

“Okay, here’s how it works. You take this ball,” he says, handing me a small orange Ping-Pong ball. “All you need to do is get it in that cup on the other end. Do that, and that guy down there will have to drink the beer.”

“Got it. I think I can do that. It’s what? Like, three yards away?” I hold the ball up and squint one eye, lining up my shot. “What happens if I miss?”

“He gets to toss to your cup. And if he makes his shot, you drink,” Nate says, his hands sliding to my hips until he lets go and steps back, giving me enough room to throw. “Come on, baby! You got this!”

Seems silly to have someone cheer for you in a game like this, but everyone else is yelling, too. I make the mistake of looking down, and when I do, I realize just how much beer there is in front of me. All I can really compare it to is a Coke can, and it’s bigger than a coke can. And that’s…what…twelve ounces? This is maybe sixteen…maybe more. I swallow once, and take in a deep breath, raising my arm and lining up my shot. I feel like playing the bounce might be the best way to go, so I take a few practice swings with my arm, and then finally I let one go—and rim it off the edge of the table, about two feet wide of the cup.

Well, shit.

Turning to Nate, I shrug, and when I turn back, the guy on the other end is rolling up his sleeves, readying himself for his shot. Everyone behind him is yelling “Cash! Cash! Cash! Cash!” When they do, I realize I recognize him. He’s on the team with Nate. He’s a pitcher, which means he’s probably pretty good at aiming for things. And two seconds later, my hunch is confirmed by the small orange ball that’s taunting me from the bubbles in the center of my cup.

“Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!” It feels like it takes me minutes to get up the courage to pick up the cup and bring it to my lips, but when I finally do and tip it back—feeling the sharp tang of whatever cheap beer filled it—I down it fast.

“Woooooo!” I say, lifting the open collar of my shirt up to my mouth, wiping it clean, my insides burning a little from instant alcoholic fullness. “Okay, I wanna rematch. You! Yeah—you’re not getting off that easy. Let me see you do that again!” I was feeling brave…and probably a little drunk. No, I was feeling a lot drunk. But who cares. My boyfriend was hot, and I was in college, and nothing else mattered. This. Was. Awesome!





Nate





I knew better. But she looked so damned cute when she asked for another cup of beer. And she seemed like she was holding it together well. I was careful to make sure she was pacing herself, drinking water in between. But then we started playing a game. Fucking drinking games.

Rowe might be good at hitting a ball with a racket, but she was shit at throwing a Ping-Pong ball into a cup. And by the end of the night, I was just happy she hadn’t ripped the bra from her body and gone skinny-dipping in the pool.

She still looked hot as hell, but I was going to have to convince her to bust that outfit out another time, because there was no way she was doing anything other than passing out or throwing up tonight. Probably both.

“Nate, your girl can’t hold her liquor,” Paige says, walking over to me with a very Jell-O-like Rowe slumped around her shoulder. “I love this girl. But if she throws up on me, I’m dropping her.”

“I got it,” I say, reaching in quickly and pulling Rowe up in my arms, keeping her body close to mine.