Free from Falling by E.L. Massey

Author:E.L. Massey [Massey, E.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NineStar Press
Published: 2024-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

MATTS HAS A reputation for being violent.

He’s not a goon; he’s not an enforcer. But he’s made toeing the line between legal and illegal hits something of an art form, and while he doesn’t start many fights, he certainly welcomes them. He’s not violent, though, or at least, he’s never considered himself violent before. Until he opens his door to Sydney with blood on her face. Then, he thinks maybe he is a violent person after all.

He was practicing guitar before going to bed, trying to get the solo from “Master of Puppets” down, when his phone lit up with a text from Sydney.

can I come over

No punctuation. No context.

Red Right Hand had a concert at House of Blues that night. It was the first real venue that ever booked them, nearly three years prior, and they wanted to play there again before kicking off their first ever headlining stadium tour. For nostalgia, Sydney said. For excellent drinks, Rex said. For hot bartenders, Sky said.

House of Blues isn’t far from Matts’s apartment. He would have gone if tickets weren’t sold out by the time he talked himself into looking for them. So, he knew something was wrong when he got the text from Sydney a little past 11:00 p.m.

Do you need me to come get you?

give me your address

Matts sent his address.

And now, he opens his door to Sydney, standing on the mat with half-dried blood running from her nose to her chin, cracked and starting to flake over the bow of her swollen lip. His heart feels too big for his chest. Matts wants to hit something. Someone.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, pulling her inside.

She laughs, a raw, hysterical edge to it.

“Who did this to you?” she mimics, low and mocking.

His fingers are on her face. He’s not sure how they got there. “Is that supposed to be my voice?”

“Stop,” she mutters roughly, pushing at his hands. Blood smears on his thumb. “You’re like a romance novel cliché right now.”

“Sydney,” Matts says and doesn’t recognize his own voice.

She stops.

She swallows.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Security took care of it. I need—” Sydney sets her motorcycle helmet on the entryway table and hugs herself, hands wrapped around her biceps. Her hair is a frizzy mess, her eyeliner is smeared halfway down her cheeks, and her tongue keeps probing at her swollen lip. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I need. I—can you—”

Matts is intimately familiar with wanting something and not knowing how to ask for it. He hopes he’s right when he assumes. “Yeah. Yeah, come here.”

She folds into him as if all she needed was an invitation, as if she didn’t know she already had one. He should probably ask for permission before manhandling her. But he doesn’t have the words; he needs her closer, needs tangible proof that she’s okay, that there aren’t other injuries hidden under her clothes. Sydney doesn’t flinch away from his searching hands. She doesn’t protest when he lifts her off the floor entirely.

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