All Amity Allows (Fall for You Book 2) (2 page)

Even if Amity was specifically needed for one of those types of assignments, she would generally have received the request the normal way—straight into her angel mind, buried beneath the layers of humanity she tried to wrap around herself. True, she would have ignored it for a while, but Heaven had come to expect that.

That was why it was apparent that if Michael had personally come to deliver the request for her presence, there was something major going on. It had to be the sort of assignment that either needed her particular fast and furious style, or that could only be handled by her greater capacity to know truth from lie. It was impossible for Amity to deny the fact that she really wanted to know why.

She wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to take on another personal case, regardless of what Michael might have wanted. Still, she was definitely curious. Most likely, it was a monumental screw-up that they needed her particular lack of tact to resolve. Something they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do for fear of crossing the line and not being pious for one goddamn second of their existence.

She waited for Michael to elaborate, enjoying the way he squirmed in his seat under her gaze. The action was a confirmation of everything she’d suspected. A wicked grin crossed her features as she realized that it might have been even bigger than she'd suspected. There was no way she was going to let Michael get out of this one easily.

It was almost refreshing to think that maybe someone else in Heaven had screwed up. That she wasn’t the only fallible one. The memory of her failure weighed heavily on her for a moment before she shook it off. That was then; this was now, and it was different. She’d had plenty of time to close her angelic-self off from the world in order to heal after that nastiness.

“What did you do?” she asked with a barely suppressed chuckle.

Drew threw
his keys into the bright bowl on the stand near the front door.

The ring full of metal struck the side of the dish with such ferocity that for a moment, he thought the glass might shatter. As if he would have cared if it did. If he’d shattered his perfect little bowl—the one that sat at what he considered exactly the right distance from the door—it would just be one less thing for him to dust. One less thing for him to worry about. The fact was that he needed to have less to worry about at that particular point in time. Well, more specifically, he needed to worry less about everything—or maybe he needed to fill his mind with random crap that didn’t matter. Anything to stop his mind from working overtime like it was.

He looked around the house that he'd moved into just the day before and felt more uncomfortable in the spacious living area than he ever had anywhere else in his life. Everything in the house seemed to taunt him with unfulfilled promises. Even the salmon-pink walls seemed to mock him with their cheer. When he'd first looked through the house, he’d thought his girlfriend—now
ex-girlfriend
—would adore the uniquely colorful paint. Her possible opinion on all of those things had felt so important to him when he’d found the place. Now that the two letters “E” and “X” had been added between them, all of his choices were meaningless.

The only reason he’d even leased the house was so he could move away from his father’s place where he’d lived since moving back to Flint, Michigan. Things had been so different just yesterday. He’d been happy then and thought she was too. In the space of just a few short minutes at her house, less than an hour earlier, his worst fear had manifested into reality and he still wasn’t sure how to process that.

He tried to ignore the sting in his eyes, working hard to convince himself that it wasn’t the burning of tears ready and waiting to fall if he let them. He’d never cried in his adult life and he wasn’t going to start today. Especially not over some woman.

Admittedly, he was probably the closest to crying he ever had been.

And she wasn’t just
some
woman. She was Becca. She was
the one
.

He'd been in love with her since the eighth grade. So many of his dreams over the years had been filled with images of her. Her curly black hair and large green eyes. Her soft, pink lips and womanly figure. She’d filled his heart with the promise of love and happy ever after.

That was nothing more than a fantasy though. The future, which had seemed so bright and full of promise, was behind him now. Shredded into tatters that could never be repaired.

Even now, each time he closed his eyes, he could hear her laugh and see the sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

Although circumstances had driven them apart soon after he’d first discovered his feelings for her, he’d thought his return to Flint might have changed that. At least, he'd hoped it would. Maybe she wasn’t the only reason for his return, but he’d only be lying to himself if he tried to deny that she’d been a big part of it.

In the time he’d been away—almost ten years—he’d half expected Becca to have left the city, married, or at least become deeply involved with someone else, but she hadn’t. He’d only been back home for a few days when he'd learned she was available, and seemed more attracted to him than she ever had been in middle school. For a time, it looked like his risk had paid off.

It had all been going so well.

After their perfect reunion, and the wonderful dates that followed, he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, all of his dreams were coming true. It had all seemed like something out of a fairytale or romance novel. Every time he’d closed his eyes when he was with her, he could see their future stretching out in front of him: bright and full of unchecked promise. It was logical that he'd continue to work his ass off at the hospital until he had enough of an upstanding reputation to find a better position somewhere in a better city. In the meantime, he’d save as much as he could until he had plenty of money put aside—at least enough to whisk her off to another town. A bigger one where she could chase every career whim she might ever have and he would continue to progress toward his specialization in cardiothoracic surgery.

The heart.

It was ironic then that his desired area of expertise was the very part of him that Becca had shattered without even uttering a word. All it had taken was one look at her smitten face when she looked at photos of another man, for Drew to realize the truth. He’d been lying to himself for too long.

What a fucking joke, Drew thought as he filled a glass of water.

He wanted to hate her—wanted it with every fiber of his being. But he just couldn’t.

He’d spent so many years longing for her—even when apathy and distance had separated them—that he didn’t know how to feel anything else but desire. During the drive from her house—from the madness-inspiring scene in her private darkroom where she had surrounded herself on all angles with her personal collection of photos of that fucker—he’d been half-crazed and he was still trying to figure out the best way to process what he’d seen.

She’d picked another man and there was no way to win her back. That fucker had screwed everything up, and she hadn’t even been willing to listen to Drew’s warnings about Evan’s true intentions.

He should have trusted his instincts better. He should have fought harder against the influence of that prick, Evan. That bastard had walked right up and stolen Becca’s heart out of Drew’s tender grasp, all under the guise of friendship.

Worse still was the fact that in so many ways Evan could have been Drew’s doppelganger. They shared their eye color: hazel, although Drew’s nudged toward blue rather than Evan’s muddy brown. Even their hair had the same chestnut hue. Despite their similarities though, Becca clearly preferred the shorter, less fit version of the two. God only knew why.

Drew set the untouched water back on the counter as the thought of taking even a sip made his stomach churn. Reaching for the edge of the counter, he steadied himself and took some deep breaths to calm the raging storm that had taken hold of his body.

That was life, he philosophized, as he tried to loosen his hold on the counter and stop his teeth from grinding together. Things didn’t always go the way people planned, he reasoned with some difficulty.

His jaw ached from the crushing pressure he exerted on it even as he tried to be rational in his head. When he was finally able to pry his hands away from the countertop, they had formed involuntary fists in a desperate need to move, to react, to inflict some sort of revenge on the one who’d stolen his happiness away. On Evan.

As if a light had been switched on in his mind, he figured out the best way to get over Becca. He would do what he had always done before. What he did whenever he didn’t know what else to do. He would punish his body in a grueling workout. Then he would study.

In that way, he would move on.

Hadn't his years in college been filled with little more than study, the gym, and the occasional round of meaningless sex?

It had helped him to focus then, and there was no reason it wouldn’t work any longer. Right now, he needed focus more than he needed anything else. He simply had to force himself to realize that what he’d hoped for with Becca was nothing more than a pipe dream and the pipe had officially burst.

Who needed love when he had his career? And other more immediate distractions—like working out.

That’s exactly what I need
.

Moving through his house, he readied himself for a good workout.

Perhaps he should have stolen one of her precious photos, he mused to himself when he ripped off his suit and pulled on a pair of gym shorts. Not because he wanted to see that prick, Evan’s, face again, but it would have made a great addition to Drew’s punching bag. He could have used the image as inspiration to exact some semblance of revenge and pretend he was beating the shit out of the guy’s smug face and tacky smile. If nothing else, it would have been a little extra motivation to hit harder and faster than he usually did.

Drew headed for his garage where he'd left the beginnings of his rudimentary gym. With only the bag and a treadmill, it was fundamentally lacking in equipment, but it would do. He had a membership to a more professional establishment in town, but at that moment, he didn’t need fancy equipment. More than anything else, he needed to smash his fists against something until his arms ached and his body protested. He wanted his breath to leave his body for all the right reasons and not just because he found it hard to breathe around the gaping wound in his chest.

As he yanked on his boxing gloves, he stretched and warmed up. Bouncing from foot to foot, he pictured encountering that fucker in a dark alley.

With steady, calming breaths, he let his imagination run away with him until it was easy to believe the punching bag in front of him was a brown-haired, hazel-eyed, girlfriend-stealing bastard.

Drew’s fist connected with the side of the bag with a sturdy thump. He’d used more strength than he usually did, drawing on the power of his entire side to force energy into his fist. He only wished that inflicting pain on this analogue would make the real Evan feel the same things, like some sort of gym-inspired voodoo doll.

“We’re just friends,” he growled at the bag as his other fist smashed into the bag with all of the strength he could muster.

They were words she’d uttered to him whenever he’d expressed concerns about the fact that her
friend
was far too obsessed with her to be normal.

“He’s gay,” he said again, shoving his right fist against the bag again.

I told her he wasn’t, he thought to himself, delivering another blow.

He paused as a sickening thought entered his head.
Had she known that all along
?

Had she just wanted to see how many lies Drew would believe before seeing the truth? For all he knew, Becca and Evan had been an item since before Drew had ever arrived. Was it possible that they’d been having a good old chuckle behind his back after every date?

He released a primal cry and hurled his fists at the bag in a fast flurry, each hit that landed making his knuckles scream in protest. The agony made him more desperate for a violent outcome, so he ignored the pain and hit harder. Even though part of him was conscious of the fact he would regret it in the morning, he was more than willing to endure aching limbs if it dislodged the agony of losing Becca from his chest.

“Trust me,” he said in a mocking impression of her singsong voice. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

That was almost a mantra for Becca, especially in the last few months.
Nothing to worry about my ass
.

“Are you in love with him?” he spat at the bag.
What sort of a question is that
?
Why didn’t I demand she explain the photos
?
Maybe I misunderstood and she actually still wants me, but I left before she could find the words
.

He shook his head.

You know she doesn’t, he thought, stamping down on the hope before it had the chance to swell into something that would cause him further pain.

The part of him that clung desperately to the hope like a life preserver in a sea of tears reasoned that she’d never actually answered his question. If he’d waited a little longer, maybe something more would have been revealed.