Fallon
Chapter thirty-two
Submitting
From the moment Cyrus grazed my cheek, my body went into sensory overload, igniting every beaten-down reaction I have for him.
That young, naive girl inside me raged, beating against my ribcage, trying to claw her way out, to fight for the love she’s been starved of.
Foolishly, instead of shoving her down, I submitted and for a brief moment she won.
Risking the life I’ve built on a whim. Foolish. Absolutely freaking foolish.
I shouldn’t have let him kiss me.
I couldn’t help it.
All the fight zapped out of me; his hand cradled my head, his lips on mine.
I know I shouldn’t compare, but it’s inevitable.
Our first kiss had been awkward and clumsy—sweet, in a teenage kind of way.
But now? Now he kisses with the savagery of a confident, grown man.
There’s a passion there that I have been starving for.
I drop my head back on the sofa, counting the blades of the ceiling fan as they lazily spin. My god that kiss had been what fairy tales are written about. My rotten luck is that it had to come from Cyrus.
I’ve kissed others.
The last nine years haven’t been a complete bust. Jules’s well-intentioned setups led to a few dates—some decent, some laughable. A kiss here, a brush of chemistry there. I even had a brief fling with a man in finance during my early trips to New York, while I was still building my color line.
There was a flicker of desire, a small spark, something I thought could grow if I wanted it badly enough…but no real passion.
It ended poorly within six months—he wanted me to move to New York, start over. But I couldn’t leave Bluestone City. This is Billy’s home.
No, we’re not invited to every private event, and yes, the town can be cliquey. But Billy has a group of friends who adore her, and we’ve carved out our own little community. After that relationship ended, I stopped wasting my precious free time on men.
I threw myself into my company, honed my craft, built my brand—and raised my daughter. Loneliness is an unavoidable side effect of being a single parent who devotes themselves fully to their child. But it’s a side effect I’ve gladly accepted.
Billy and I fill our time with joy—crafting memories in this home I wish I’d grown up in myself.
Sacrificing my love life for her stability hasn’t felt like much of a sacrifice.
One man ever truly held my heart—and lit up my libido.
That kiss last night reminded me of what we once had… before life tore it apart.
God, I would give anything to feel that again.
Doubt closes in around me, the overwhelming need to choke on my fear of him leaving me again.
It’s irrational, this level of deep-seated need for one particular man.
Out loud, denial is easy; not wanting to look like the love-sick fool I’ve always been.
But quietly, often at night when I’m alone with my thoughts, I can admit that I’ve been alone these years because no man measured up to Cyrus.
The thrumming of my pulse is a reminder of the residual fear still left behind from his first departure. What happens the next time he allows the peer pressure of loving me crack him?
I cannot continue to pretend that it doesn’t affect me.
Jules and I have spent plenty of late nights laughing over a glass of wine at the latest gossip.
I’ve done it all—drugs, escorting, theft, and my personal favorite- moonlighting as a moonshine smuggler.
After a while, it gets to you, chips away at the outer wall of your defenses, and slinks into your unconscious thoughts, so when you wake, the image of yourself is what others have painted.
It’s a soul-shattering day when you look in the mirror and no longer recognize yourself—only the damage others have done.
Jules, bless her heart, noticed when the depression first took hold, when community slander broke me.
She unceremoniously picked me up off the floor after one too many margaritas.
I was a heap of insecurities, curled around my porcelain toilet…
not a shred of dignity or confidence left.
Days later, Jules leaked a teaser about my product line to the local paper; she made sure it landed.
We sat front row at River Bend Fusion the morning it ran—Bluestone’s favorite brunch spot with gorgeous river views.
Jordan and her crew eat there religiously, at the same time, at the same table, every week.
Thanks to Jules’s friendship with the owner, Tom, copies of the paper—complete with my face and brand—were plastered across every table.
Since then, most people have been kind. Encouraging, even. But some… well, some hate when good things happen to others. I giggle thinking about last year’s stunt.
It’s always Jordan Addams who weaves tales of me with her friends; her unhealthy obsession has led to my phone number being changed more than once. Jules, fed up with Jo’s bullshit, mailed her a sympathy card after she lost to me in the PTA treasury race. I almost died of hysterics.
Jo responded by turning to social media, twisting half-truths into sympathy bait. She’s talented at it. People eat it up, even when the facts are easy to find. I sigh. The simplest boundary can send Jordan spiraling—and still, somehow, people listen to her.
I keep telling Jules to ignore her. But honestly?
Jules lives to get under Jo’s skin. And as petty as it may be, sometimes the parts of ourselves we’re not proud of feel good when we get even.
Jordan isn’t going away, and that brings my thoughts full circle, doesn’t it?
How is Cyrus going to handle the constant stream of harassment that I’ve had to contend with?