Fall Back Skyward (Fall Back #1) Read online

  Fall Back Skyward

  Copyright © Autumn Grey, 2016

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Thank you for respecting the authors work.

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Cover design: Okay Creations

  Stock photos: www.stocksy.com

  Editing: PREMA

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the book

  Quote

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  PART TWO

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Note to the Reader

  Ackowledgements

  About the Author

  Other books

  We struggle.

  We fall.

  We rise.

  We fight.

  This book is dedicated to anyone who has fought, and is still fighting their inner demons.

  Just remember that you are more than enough.

  About the book:

  Eleven years ago, I saved her. I loved her. But they took me away from her and locked me up. For two years, all I could think about was her. She consumed me. Took up every room in my head and gave me something to focus on, knowing I would see her soon.

  Nine years ago, I watched her as she walked down the aisle and into the arms of a man who wasn’t me. My brother. I left my home and never looked back.

  Now, I’m staring at seven letters, each envelope stamped with one word in bold, red ink: URGENT.

  I have no choice but to go back home. Seeing her will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But in order to reconcile with my past, I have to face my present. Even if the thought of seeing her, knowing that she is out of my reach, kills me.

  I have no idea what awaits me, but I can only hope that the demons of my past will finally be buried and put to rest.

  **Due to possible triggering descriptions of self-harm, and some sexual situations this book is not recommended for anyone under the age of 17 years old**

  I’ve seen the inside of hell,

  battled my demons

  and clawed my way into the light.

  Every scar on my skin has a story to tell.

  Every scar makes me who I am today.

  A survivor.

  Eleanor Blake

  “I’M GOING TO PRETEND YOU didn’t just turn me down and try this again,” the woman sitting in the passenger seat signs before crawling across the console and trying to plant herself on my lap.

  I jerk back, getting ready to shove her back to her seat. Too late. She’s already straddling my hips and making herself comfortable.

  What the hell? I can’t believe this woman. Ever since Lawrence and Barnes Architects & Engineers was contracted for this residential project, she has been hitting on me. She was relentless the entire time we were in Boston.

  She grinds herself on top of me. “Come upstairs for a cup of coffee?”

  I reach for the door and flip it open, and then motion with my chin for her to leave the Suburban.

  Of course, she doesn’t.

  “So, you’re mad at me now?” she asks, leaning forward and nipping my jaw. Her fingers slide up the front of my T-shirt and halt on the right side of my chest. She tugs the nipple ring through the fabric there, and bites her lip. Her hands are too busy feeling me up so she leans back making sure I can see her lips, and says, “I’ve heard rumors around the office, Cole. I’ve heard you have a gift for making women see heaven.”

  I roll my eyes. Apparently, my one night of drunken misadventure five years ago, which I highly regret right now, made me a stallion in bed. Not that I mind. But messing around with the people I work with is not my thing.

  Glancing up at the rear view mirror, I focus on pulling my shit together and catch a glimpse of my cat, Sirius, batting furiously at the metal bars of the carrier. I should open it and set him loose on this woman. I’m that desperate. I mean, what part of ‘I’m not interested’ doesn’t she understand?

  “Get the fuck out, Sam,” I sign quickly, feeling my temper rising.

  She stares at me blankly, her bottom lip pushed forward. Sam is the ASL interpreter the company insisted my colleague, Tate West, and I bring to Boston with us. I had perfected lip reading by the time I was eleven and my verbal communication is not bad, thanks to the speech therapy. I hardly ever need an interpreter anymore unless I’m attending a large meeting, and neither does Tate. He was born deaf to hearing parents as the result of a recessive gene, but he is just as good in ASL, lip reading and speech.

  Sometimes a client feels more comfortable if an interpreter is present during meetings.

  Right now, I’m exhausted after the five-hour drive. All I want is a good meal, beer and my bed. The past few weeks working on the project were exhausting. Now I’m hoping to grab some downtime.

  This woman is not my type.

  My chest tightens as the memory of the only person I consider “my type” flashes in my head. Her name a torturous whisper that has my chest aching, reminding me I’ll never forget her no matter how hard I try.

  Eleanor Blake, but she preferred her nickname, Nor.

  Shit. I shouldn’t go there. Nothing good comes out of it. She belongs to someone else now. Besides, why remember something that rips your heart out over and over again?

  Already fed up with Sam’s clinginess, I grab her by the hips and exit the car. After quickly depositing her on the sidewalk, I duck inside, meeting Sirius’ furious green eyes, and snatch Sam’s
travel bag off the back seat. I shove it into her waiting arms and get back inside the car.

  She flips me off while glaring at me.

  Right before I close the door, I take a deep breath and glance at her, frustrated when the words don’t leave my mouth. This happens when I get too emotional.

  I raise my hands and sign, “You are worth more than this, Sam. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  I put the car in gear and drive off before she has a chance to speak. My only thoughts are of feeding Sirius and getting some sleep. Thank fuck it’s Friday.

  After parking the car outside my building, I grab my bag and the carrier, then lock the doors. I head for the main entrance and take the elevator to the third floor.

  I unlock the door, step inside and kick it shut with my foot. I head toward the kitchen and drop the bag on the floor, then let Sirius out of his carrier and fill his bowls with food and water. I dig out the letters that I picked up from our private mailbox and set them on the counter.

  When we moved to New York, Simon and I decided to rent a private mail box at the post office because we moved houses a couple of times during those first five years. We didn’t bother to cancel the subscription after we finally settled in this flat.

  I head to my office and settle on the swivel chair behind the desk. I skim through the mail in my hands and frown, staring at the seven letters with my name carefully scrawled in all too familiar handwritings on the right. One word stands out of all of them: URGENT. It’s written in red and underlined three times. My heart beats faster as my gaze moves from Mom’s handwriting to my dad’s and finally to Nor’s on the envelopes.

  My hands curl into fists to stop them from shaking as possible scenarios of what might be wrong flash inside my head.

  I received the first letter from Nor two months after I arrived in New York. I have no idea how she had gotten my private box address and I didn’t care back then. I’d ripped it to shreds and thrown it away without reading it. She had continued to send more letters. Eventually, I asked Simon to get rid of them, because I couldn’t stand the heartache every time they showed up in the mailbox.

  Dread clouds my brain and I close my eyes, taking deep breaths. When I open my eyes again, I’m calm enough to deal with this without resulting to panic. I haven’t spoken to my mom or anyone back home since that fateful day when my fucking heart was ripped out of my chest. Leaving my home and family had nearly killed me and the only things that helped me get through my despair were throwing myself into my school work, the two jobs I was working at that time and the gym to get out the hurt and aggression. My aim was to work hard, get a good job and pay my student loans.

  Glancing down at the letters, I let my curiosity take over. I flex my fingers to dispel the tension trapped in them, then pick up the letter opener from my desk and carefully open the first one.

  Dear Cole,

  Where are you? Is everything okay? This is the fourth letter I’ve written to you. I haven’t heard from you and I’m worried. Just, please. I need to talk to you. It’s Josh. He is not fairing on very well. Get in touch as soon as you can.

  Love,

  Mom

  Fuck, no.

  I toss the letter aside and snatch the next one. My heart is relentlessly pounding in my chest as the worst scenarios play in my head. Mom wouldn’t write if this weren’t serious. She knows the way I feel about Josh. About the place I left and never looked back at.

  I hold my breath as I read the next one.

  Son,

  Get in touch with your mother or me as soon as you read this.

  Love,

  Dad

  I drop it and dive into the next one, which is dated December 28th. Scanning it fast, I feel my heart shatter inside my chest.

  Nor.

  I shoot to my feet, my fingers clenched around the paper.

  Cole,

  Please read this. I know that things between us aren’t great and I don’t know where to start. I never heard from you so I assume you never read the letters I sent you. I wouldn’t be writing if it weren’t important. It’s Josh. He needs you. The doctors say he doesn’t have much time left.

  I’m begging you, not for my sake, but for your brother’s, Cole. Please. Come home.

  Nor.

  I grab the last letter on the table and rip the top open using my fingers. This one is dated January 20th. Three weeks ago. My mother’s handwriting, usually confident and flowery, is shaky at best. I’m terrified of the words written in there and yet, I can’t stop. I can’t even think. My head is completely messed up.

  Dear Cole,

  I miss my son. I’ve spent nine years wondering if I’d ever see you again. I need to know you are okay. God, I know how things are between you and your brother but his health is deteriorating fast. He was admitted to St. James Memorial last week. He needs you, Cole. I hope to God this reaches you in time. I’m losing him. I can’t lose you too. I just can’t.

  Love,

  Mom

  Reaching up, I pull the beanie from my head and run a hand through my hair. Of all the scenarios in the world that would successfully drag me back home, I never expected this one. Whatever exhaustion I felt vanishes. My chest aches as dread finds its way through places I never knew existed before. I glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight back home. There’s no way I can wait until tomorrow.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, scroll down, stop on Simon’s name, and open a new text message.

  Me: I’m going home tonight. Are you already in NY or still in Boston?

  The screen lights up a few seconds later.

  Simon: The fuck, man? I was buried deep in pussy. What do you mean you are going home? Florida?

  I would laugh if I could at his immediate response. He and I have known each other since kindergarten. When I moved to New York after leaving prison, he joined me a few months later.

  I quickly type, If you’re distracted, that pussy is not worth a shit. Something came up and I need to leave immediately. I’ll text you as soon as I can and let you know what’s going on.

  His text message flashes on my screen three seconds later.

  Simon: I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We need to talk.

  I frown down at the screen, nervousness creeping inside my chest. I’m not used to feeling like this and I don’t like it. Worse, if Simon says we need to talk, then it’s serious.

  Rolling my head to ease the tension building at the nape of my neck, I start to pace unable to stay still. My body is wound so tight, I can feel it cracking in some places. I pause and groan in frustration. This isn’t helping to lessen the panic I’m feeling.

  I head to my room and strip off my jeans and shirt, and put on a pair of running shorts. Seconds later, I walk down the hall to the gym. I slip on my gloves and start taking out my emotions on the bag hanging from the ceiling.

  Punch. Punch. Punch.

  Sweat rolls down my face, my chest. Air locks and leaves my lungs. I feel alive, my head is clearing.

  With one final punch, I pull off the gloves and toss them on the nearby mat in the corner. I exit the room, snatching a gray towel from the rack in the bathroom on my way to the kitchen to text Tate and let him know what’s happening. The lamp in the living room blinks a few times, alerting me that someone is at the door. I look up and see Simon striding toward me. His short blond hair sticks out in every direction and his shirt is on inside out.

  I don’t know why he bothers to use the bell, given that he lives here and has his own key.

  “Dude. You can’t just tell me shit like that while I’m getting laid,” he signs, halting in front of me. I see the concern in his eyes behind those words. Unlike me, Simon has perfect hearing. I guess signing comes automatically for him when he and I communicate.

  I nod my head to his shirt. He shrugs, smiling cockily, and takes off toward his room down the hall which is situated between mine and the gym room. He returns minutes later, clutching a bundle of letters held together by rubber band
s in his hands. He stops in front of me, his gaze on the letters.

  He frowns and shifts on his feet. “Remember when you asked me to get rid of these? I never did. Sorry, man. I thought you might need to read them one day.”

  Simon thrusts them to my chest. I scowl down at them, and then up at my best friend. “I don’t have time for this.”

  I turn around but a tap on my shoulder stops me.

  “What’s going on?” he asks when I focus on him again.

  “This.” I reach for the letters on the counter and give them to Simon.

  He scans them quickly, his face paling fast. He raises his head and says, “I’m coming with you.”

  I shake my head. “I got this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I feel like a fucking toddler. Helpless. “I got this,” I tell him again.

  He runs a hand along his jaw, his eyes narrowed at me. “If you think I’ll be sitting behind a desk and sucking ass all day while you have all the fun, you’re fucking wrong.”

  I shake my head and chuckle, relieved he’s making light of the situation though. I have fifteen hours of driving and not enough time to think or prepare myself for what’s waiting for me when I reach home.

  He jerks his chin to the bundle in my hands. “Do you think what’s in there has something to do with this?”

  I shrug. Right now, I have no fucking clue about anything. All I know is that my brother is in a hospital room, very sick, and the thought of never seeing him again terrifies me.

  I need to find out what’s in these letters, and be prepared for what awaits me back home.

  I set them on the counter and my hands fumble around until the rubber bands are gone. I grab the blue envelope on top of the mound, carefully rip the top and pull out a letter. Something slides from within and flutters to the floor. I watch its descent, frowning at what looks like a birthday card. Crouching down, I pick it up and flick it open and I’m met with a picture of two identical girls, grinning at the camera. They can’t be older than six years.

  A touch on my arm pulls me away from the image. I look up to find Simon staring curiously at the card in my hand, and then meets my gaze.