No Falling Allowed (No Kissing Allowed) Read Free Page A

down at the drawing and the note below it—a stick figure with dark brown hair and blue eyes scribbled into the right place, blue colored over the pants like jeans, and a boxy green shirt on the top of the figure, the words Hunter’s Place across it at an angle because the kid had never been able to write straight.
    It’d been something they’d worked on in school for weeks now, each progress report noting his handwriting, until finally I’d showed up, demanding to see Mrs. Blake’s damn handwriting if she was such an expert at it. She stopped mentioning it in his reports.
    Focusing back on the drawing, I took in the words MY HERO and a list. My throat closed up as I read each word.
    My brother is a hero because:
    1. He makes me Mac & Cheese when I’m sick.
    2. He plays video games with me long past bedtime when I can’t sleep.
    3. He lets me sit on the bar and never tells me to be careful.
    4. He taught me to throw a fastball.
    5. He let’s me sleep with him when I’m scared.
    6. He reads Harry Potter to me.
    7. He never asks me to make my bed.
    8. He protects me from bad guys.
    9. He takes me to see all the best movies.
    10. He didn’t go to Heaven.
    The knot in my stomach tightened, and even as I tried to push it down, I knew it wouldn’t fully go away until I made it back home. What the hell was I thinking? Of myself, that was what. I’d needed a weekend away, to breathe, to think, to feel like a man again. It’d been so long since I’d been able to think of anything other than my responsibilities that I felt drowned by them. But at the end of the day, this life of mine wasn’t about me. Not now.
    Grabbing my phone, I called LaGuardia, pushed all the numbers necessary to get me to a person, then as soon as her voice filled the phone said, “I need a flight out to Atlanta. Tomorrow.”
    After going over every available option, all they had was an expensive-as-hell first class spot on a flight early in the morning, but it’d have to do. I couldn’t wait until Sunday to head back.
    “What the hell you doing?” Charlie called from the door. “Crowd has arrived. Need ya out here.”
    “Be right there,” I told him. Then, to the airport attendant, “Yeah, book it.” I recited the credit card info from memory, because for some reason my brain liked numbers and they settled into my mind like some people remembered faces or names. Only, I never remembered faces or names, likely because I didn’t give two shits about anyone but my family and the few people I counted as friends. Even those could slip out of my mind if they weren’t careful. I learned the hard way what mattered, and it sure as hell wasn’t useless people who took more time than they gave, only to disappoint you.
    “Hunter. Get your ass out here.”
    “Yeah, coming.” I quickly tore off my white button down from the Met event, my thoughts drifting to that sassy Yankee there, with her long black hair and even longer legs. I wondered if she’d take the bait and show tonight, though even if she did, what would I do? What could I do?
    Nothing. That girl wasn’t my type, and I sure as hell wasn’t hers.
    I slid on my long-sleeved, gray waffle-knit shirt, the words Hunter’s Place etched in green on the front making me feel a little bit more at home, then threw on my jeans and shoved my feet back into my boots. I tossed everything into my bag, pocketed my cell and wallet, and set out to the bar, and damn, Charlie was right.
    The crowd of twenty had exploded to probably a hundred, with a line outside waiting to get in. That’s what happened when Charlie offered a new drink and gave out the first one free. Plus, this wasn’t just any drink—it was one of my creations, and one of the most popular drinks I served back at Hunter’s Place. Everyone who tried it begged me to offer up the recipe, but so far no one had weaseled it out of me. Charlie always said I should bottle the shit and make a fortune, but I didn’t need or care for money.