Jump Then Fall Read online

  ALSO BY ALYSSIA KIRKHART

  Betrothed

  Enraptured

  Return to Me

  Obedience

  Surrender

  ALYSSIA KIRKHART

  JUMP THEN FALL

  Copyright © 2021 by Alyssia Kirkhart

  All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information contact:

  Aurora Dream Press, LLC

  P.O. Box 180

  Bossier City, LA 71110-0180

  http://www.auroradreampress.com

  ISBN: 9798718520316

  BISAC: Fiction / Romance / Contemporary

  Cover Design by Alyssia Kirkhart © 2021

  Cover Art: Shutterstock Photo

  For the artists who dare to dream big.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  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 LAWSON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN HARPER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE WEEKS LATER…

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  prologue

  Watching him ruined me.

  Made me want and long and fantasize, the way one does over fancy things. Cars, houses, clothes. Over people who are out of reach. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t send the correct signal from brain to feet to step forward. To acknowledge to him, to the thousands of screaming fans who’d braved the August sun for the biggest music festival of the year, that it was me he was singing about. The music, the soul-clenching lyrics he’d changed a million times over the summer, the guitar lick I knew everybody’d love, the kind that gets stuck in your head, makes you stop twenty years down the road.

  Because what a memory.

  What a song.

  What an artist.

  But to me.

  He was a man. A man I’d trusted. The man I’d loved for a precious, precious moment. The man I’d never get over, even though I had no choice but to do just that. He’d helped me grow, while reminding me to hold on to who I was. To never compromise the heart for outside circumstances.

  But outside circumstances, they happened.

  And I had to—I had to let him go.

  His string-callused fingers stole my heart. Scarred me for life. All I knew, all I wanted—myths, legends, lies. He took my paper universe, wadded it into a ball and hurled it to the stars.

  Watching him made me burn.

  For the nights he kissed me, held me, took my innocence and kept it. For the light in his eyes, the crooked grin when I’d said something to make him laugh, the concentration in his brow as he wrote at two o’clock in the morning.

  His passion, his desperation to give the world something to remember, the emotion he poured into every performance. He symbolized all the madness I never knew I had. The desire that stirs and expands inside like a hurricane over warm waters.

  Watching him destroyed me.

  Watching him put me back together again.

  chapter one

  I never was much of a dreamer.

  At eighteen, I’d lived my life by a strict set of rules. Most of which were unspoken, but more or less amounted to setting goals, working to attain said goals, and making new ones once the old could be classified as achievements.

  Acing high school? Check. Valedictorian, Most Likely to Succeed, president of every academic club that looked best on a college resume. Triple-check. Raised by a single father, I’d always had a lot to prove. To others, to myself. To the mom who left us before I was out of diapers.

  Dad helped me write my graduation speech. Months prior, when I told him I wanted to study international law, he grinned, put down the book he was reading at the dinner table. “What do you think about applying overseas?”

  He framed the offer of admission from Trinity College in England.

  As a literature teacher, Dad’s rules were simple: read two books at once—one fiction, one nonfiction—and never deviate from your own path.

  The night I met Lawson Hill, I deviated.

  We moved after graduation, Dad and me. A community college in Nashville, Tennessee had offered him an English professor’s position that paid double what he was making at St. Mary’s in Columbus, Ohio. We had no family. No real ties. Did I have friends in Ohio? Enough to count on one hand and have fingers leftover. Not enough to equate as long-term relationships.

  House hunting was easy. We took the first place that didn’t have leaky ceilings or dry-rotted floors. Got a job, too. Executive assistant to the community college’s head librarian. A refined title for the person responsible for shelving returned and discarded books.

  It was just a summer job. A means to pass time. Four and a half months and I’d be headed overseas for the next six to seven years.

  One other person at the community college filed books: Savana Petrov, the half-American, half-Russian actress who’d played on six episodes of Days of Our Lives and a handful of cell service commercials.

  She’d spent the first two weeks of my employment relaying all the ways being an actress in Nashville sucked—in supreme dramatic fashion, of course. I need Los Angeles, Harper Evans! New York, anyplace but the one spot in the U.S. where twangy-voice singers came to either make it big or fail trying.

  She only worked to keep her boredom at bay, not because she needed the money.

  “Country music,” she said. “Over half the population here writes it, sings it or wishes they could write or sing it. Make it big, go on tour with a name bigger than yours. Pray one day you’re the headliner and it’s someone else’s hungry soul begging for the opening act slot. Endless cycle.”

  I couldn’t’ve cared less. We might’ve been smackdab in the middle of Honky-Tonk Highway or whatever else people incessantly talked about in the cafes, restaurants, coffee bars and street corners. Nashville wasn’t special to me.

  It’s not that it wasn’t a nice place. People smiled a lot, said please and thank you, and held doors open for one another.

  Southern hospitality wasn’t dead.

  But there was no sense in getting attached. Dad could’ve taken a job in the middle of the Sahara, for all geographical location mattered. I was still leaving in September.

  When I told Savana so, she threw back her blonde head, laughed like she was auditioning for a Disney villainess. We were in the middle of the European history aisle. Someone told us to shoosh. From the corner of my eye, I noticed she’d misfiled one of fourteen books we carried on the battle of Waterloo. I made a mental note to correct that when she wasn’t
looking.

  Hired a whole week and two days before me, Savana hated when I went behind her.

  “Harper Evans.” She’d adopted the habit of using my whole name whenever she was about to impart wisdom. “That’s, like, forever from now. Besides, you’d better get used to the music scene, if you plan to live here. I’m not even joking. Music, like, pours out of the freaking sewage drains. Well, you know,” she said, sliding a Greek history account between two books on the second World War, “not, like, literally, but you can’t escape it. It’s everywhere. Better to accept and appreciate.”

  She started toward the end of the row, and I quickly re-shelved the books to their rightful places. “It’s not that I don’t like music,” I said, catching up to her. “But—”

  She turned around and we almost collided. “Look,” she said, “I’m gonna do you a huge favor, okay? My girlfriend and a few others jam at Lawson’s on Tuesdays. Work on stuff for upcoming open mic nights, that kind of thing. It’s fun but super chill and it’ll give you the chance to meet a couple of people before you leave. Whaddya say?”

  No. That’s what I wanted to say—what I should have said. Attachments were unnecessary, not that I planned to make any. I had a feeling Savana and I might exchange texts after I left, but eventually even that would fade. Then again—

  My back pocket buzzed.

  “One sec.” I stepped away, retrieved my phone.

  Hey, sport, Dad texted, how’s your day?

  Good. I texted back. Yours?

  Long. Think you can pick up dinner tonight?

  Translation: He’d be working late. Two weeks and there hadn’t been a single weekday when he’d gotten home earlier than 10 pm. He seemed to like it, though, his job. Said the other professors were cool and helpful, and that the students taking summer classes were a nice change from misguided freshmen. If he was happy, I was happy. He deserved to be happy.

  Chinese?

  Perfect. Just leave it in the microwave. Love you.

  Love you, too.

  “So?” Savana said as I slipped my phone back inside my jeans pocket.

  “I’m kind of on a tight schedule.” Wasn’t a total lie. Rules and schedules went together. Besides, there was no harm in prepping for the discipline I’d need once I had my college calendar. One class to the next with barely any room to breathe in between. Schedules were important. Necessary.

  “Doing what?” She laughed. “It’s summer. You work, eat, sleep and have fun. And this? This is part of that thing called fun. You do know what fun is, right?”

  I pursed my lips. “Of course I know what fun is. And I have fun.” Sort of. “In my way.”

  “Uh huh. Translation? No, Savana, actually, I haven’t had fun since I-can’t-remember-when. Please take me with you! Save me from my life of un-fun-ness!”

  I folded my arms across my chest, arched an eyebrow. “That is so not a word.”

  “Say yes.”

  I glanced up at the ceiling, at the single lightbulb that always seemed to flicker, no matter how many times the maintenance guy changed it.

  She wouldn’t stop. I didn’t know her well, but I knew her. She wouldn’t stop.

  “Say yaaasss,” Savana begged, and I laughed.

  Attachments were unnecessary. But neither did I want to be that girl. The one who never did anything fun. Who never said yes to invitations or went out with friends like young people were supposed to. I had two years left as a teenager. No one here knew me. As far as anyone else was concerned, I was the cool, outgoing new girl. I could play that role.

  “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”

  “Yay!” Savana clapped, then gave the guy who shooshed us before a dirty look when he shooshed her again. “Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at 8.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t understand why I was nervous all of a sudden. Meeting new people wasn’t hard for me. I didn’t buckle under curious stares. In fact, I found strangers challenging.

  Why, then, the onslaught of insecurity? The worry that I wouldn’t measure up or that I’d say the wrong thing, make a fool of myself? Was it because I didn’t want to make a bad impression? An omen of bad things to come? Savana was a decent coworker and I didn’t want things to be weird between us. Maybe that was it.

  As she walked away, presumably to go touch up her lipstick for the third time in the last hour, she turned around. “Oh, and wear something cute, okay?”

  “Cute?”

  “Uh huh.” She blew me a kiss.

  I didn’t do cute. Oversized shirts, shorts, sneakers. That was my M.O. Raised by a man, what else did she expect? I had a firm grasp on British literature and American football. Shakespearean plays and NASCAR. Every year’s NFL draft was a huge occurrence in the Evans household. I’m talking fries, wings, cheese dip—the works. I had two dresses to my name, one white, one black, and one pair of heels I hated.

  So, it was no surprise when I climbed into the passenger’s seat of Savana’s Mini Cooper, she took one look at me and said, “Sister. We’ve gotta take you shopping.”

  I wasn’t offended. She did look way more famous than me. Tight jeans, a lowcut top that displayed perfect, tan boobs, knee-high boots. She looked great. She smelled great. And there I was in my black yoga pants, oversized sweater and Converse.

  “I put on mascara and lip gloss.” Which somehow sounded lamer spoken out loud than in my head.

  “Uh huh. Yeah.” She pulled on to the street. “All I know is there’s no way I’m letting you go to England in the fall looking like a desperate housewife. Who are you texting?”

  “My dad.” Went out with Savana from work. Food’s in the microwave. Love you. “Just didn’t want him to worry.”

  “You’re close?”

  Shrugging, I said, “Guess so,” and turned attention to the city outside.

  Thirty minutes later we were slowing at a gated drive, where at least a dozen girls stood in outfits like Savana’s. Some held signs Sharpied with I LOVE YOU and MARRY ME?? Others were taking selfies in front of the gates, where beyond I glimpsed the kind of home that popped up on an old episode of MTV Cribs or when you Googled million-dollar houses. Wide, tall. Modern but in that built-to-look-like-a-classic way. Unattainable by anyone who had less than eight digits in their bank account.

  “Keep your window up.” Savana used the button on her steering wheel to turn down the radio. “These bitches don’t play.”

  “I thought we were going to Lawson’s.” A beefy security guard made one of the girls climb down from her perch on the fence.

  “This is his house.” Savana eased up, slowly, slowly, her car parting the sea of girls, who began stooping to look inside the car like a pack of velociraptors. “Where’d you think we were going?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a restaurant or something? A club?”

  A feminine snort. “I’ll admit, it’s pretty lax around here.” She rolled down her window as the security man approached the car. “But they still don’t let anyone under twenty-one into the clubs. Hey, Mack, what’s up?”

  “’Sup, Savana?” He gave her a fist bump. His hand was at least five times bigger than hers. “Doin’ all right tonight?”

  “Think the better question is are you doin’ all right?”

  He glanced over his muscled shoulder. “Eh, well, smaller crowd than usual. Some of the regulars must be on summer vacation with their folks.”

  Small? Jesus. Never once in my life had I felt the urge to hide my face. I was the one people looked to for help. The workaholic, the perfectionist, the chick who volunteered to lead group projects. Teachers loved me. My peers, they knew they could count on me. I couldn’t have hidden if I wanted to, especially in high school.

  But I found myself sinking into the bucket seat as two, then three, then five girls shaded their eyes against Savana’s headlights to peer inside the car at us—at me.

  “Who you got with you?” Mack’s brown eyes homed in on my face. “New friend?”

  “Co-worker,” Savana
said. “Figured she could use a night out.”

  “Harper Evans.” I leaned over Savana to give him my hand, which he squeezed warmly. Harmless enough, I gathered, but I sure as heck wouldn’t have picked a fight with the man. I would however make friends with someone who kept a huge crowd in check. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise, ma’am. Y’all have a good time, now. Careful pullin’ up the drive.”

  He punched a code into a keypad and the gates began to creak open.

  “Move to the side!” Raising his hands, he simultaneously waved us through while warning the crowd to clear a path.

  Boom. Twelve dirty looks. One girl downright snarled, then flipped me the bird.

  Savana didn’t appear fazed. Rolling up her window, she accelerated toward the house.

  It really did look like something from the pages of a magazine. French-style-meets-Southern-charm, the boxed hedges were lush, the hydrangea bushes overflowing with blue and pink blooms. A single gaslit flame danced over a thick wooden door.

  Savana parked behind a white Range Rover. Killed the engine.

  My heart was slamming like a fist to a punching bag.

  “Just breathe, okay?” She reached across the gear shift, squeezed my wrist. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I wasn’t—” But Savana was already getting out of the car.

  I followed her, slipped my long ponytail over one shoulder, then the other. I couldn’t place my nervousness. Couldn’t understand why it mattered. Sure, I was eighteen, lacking in life experience. But I’d always been mature for my age. Everyone who knew me said so.

  Inside the house, the first thing I noticed was the aroma of leather and pine. Soft, subtle. The kind of scent that harnesses a moment, creates a memory. I breathed it in, allowed it to sooth my nerves. This was fine. Normal. Lining the walls of a wide staircase were gold and platinum records. Achievements, milestones. This, I understood. This, too, was fine.

  But then I heard the singing. The gentle croon of a woman’s soprano wove through the air, bounced off the walls of the foyer. The hairs on my arms stood on end.