Page 7 of The Upside of Falling
When we reach the balcony, we realize it not only wraps the length of the house, but it also extends to what looks like a man-made lake. The deck must be as big as the great room if not bigger, and it has not one, but two fire pits, a section for a pool table, and a spacious outdoor seating area.
“Damn, no wonder Tom decided to have a party. This place was made for it.”
“Have you even seen Tom?” I ask, scanning the area, cheers erupting around the pool table.
“Nah, but I’m sure he’ll pop up at some point. Always does.” Stryder walks toward the end of the deck and takes a peek into the dark wilderness, the moon glistening off the lake’s water.
The temperature has to be in the low twenties, but with the heaters surrounding the area, it doesn’t even feel like we’re outside.
Surprisingly, what I thought was going to be a rowdy party with booming music actually is more chill, laid-back; more grown-up than I expected.
Leaning against the rail, I take in my surroundings. Exits to the left and right, exit straight through the house to the front door, and if worse comes to worst, I can jump off the deck into the lake.
There are four surefire ways to escape.
Always have to know how to exit, always need to have an action plan, always need to have a way out. It’s what they teach us. It’s what we need to know.It’s what I know as well as the back of my hand. Never be unprepared.
Taking a deep breath, I sip my beer as Stryder nudges me with his elbow. “Check out the girls playing pool over there.”
I look at the pool table, which is surrounded by partygoers cheering on what seems to be one hell of an epic battle between two teams. One is made up of two guys who look somewhat familiar. Do I know them? And the other team is made up of a blonde and a brunette.
The blonde has shoulder-length hair tousled to the side, as if she’s been running her hands through it all night. Her lips have been painted with bright pink lipstick, bringing out the glow in her complexion. She is hot, really hot.
But she’s not the one who’s caught my attention.
Stick in hand, laughing at something one of the guys said, the brunette’s smile spreads across her face, lips full and natural, a light gloss highlighting them. Her long, brown hair falls over her bare shoulders in waves, blanketing her in a gorgeous waterfall of silky strands. Her body, fit and small with a light swell in her hips, tapers down to toned legs. There is an air of exuberance surrounding her, a bright beacon in the dark night. Her smile, her laughter . . . it lights up the night, drawing attention to her from everyone around her. There’s no denying her beauty or the way she so easily captures people.But I’m not sure she’s aware.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
The blonde makes another shot, and then calls for the eight ball to sink in the top right pocket. With one quick stroke, she sparks the cue ball right into the eight and sinks it, ending the game. The guys they were playing groan, gripping their heads, while the blonde and brunette give each other a quick hug. From afar, I can see the blonde whisper into the brunette’s hair, pulling a smile from her friend.
Sticks in hand, they pat the losers on the backs and, following the blonde’s lead, the girls head in our direction.
Shit.
Casting my gaze down, I stare at my boots, the fold of my jeans kissing the top of the stylish shoes I very rarely wear.
I’m hit first by a sweet, flowery scent and then a pair of grey boots come into view.
“Stryder Sheppard, right?”
Keeping my head pointed down, but peering up through my eyelashes, the blonde props her pool stick next to her and cocks a hip out to the side.
“Yeah.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Stryder’s signature smile pull at the corners of his lips. “Do I know you?”
Sticking her hand out, she says, “Ryan Collier. You came to our prom with Dani Barton, senior year.”
“Ah, Dani.” Stryder nods his head knowingly. “She’s going to school up in Idaho, isn’t she?”
“I believe so. Studying hotel management.”
Stryder nods his head in agreement. “Good for her.” Gesturing to the brunette, Stryder asks, “Who’s your friend?”
I take that minute to look up as the brunette moves a step forward, entering my line of vision. “This is Rory. Rory, you remember Stryder, right?”
The noise around us seems to quiet—movement of the lake slowing, and air stilling—as Rory speaks, her voice awakening something inside of me. “How could I forget the infamous Stryder Sheppard who led the senior and junior class in an epic rendition of YMCA? You were a legend that night.”
Chuckling, Stryder says, “That’s my jam. What can I say, I was feeling the beat.”
