Home > Fall (Seaside #4)

Fall (Seaside #4)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Prologue

Present Day

Every curse word imaginable ran through my mind when I looked into her horror-stricken eyes. There was nothing on God’s green earth that I could say to make it better — nothing. Believe me, I tried. I was the king of pick-up lines, the 007 of smoothing things over.

And for once in my life I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’d messed up, royally screwed over my entire life — my entire future — all because I couldn’t say three little words.

Damn, One Direction. Screw them. It’s harder than hell and the minute I was given the opportunity to say exactly how I felt — that the sun literally rose and set on her light brown eyes — she was walking away. Out of my life — forever.

Granted, her walking was more of a stomp, and she had just mortally wounded my phone by slamming it against the ground.

But it was my fault.

All of it was. Story of my life. Oh look, One Direction again. I should call them maybe have them do a soundtrack to my misery. We could call it, “Jack ass.”

Her heels stomped against the hard floor and I watched her go. I looked down at my phone and froze. When Demetri Daniels, my half-brother, said I would fall, I had laughed in his face. I thought he’d been drinking again or at least smoking something. I’m one of those guys who knows himself. I can tell you exactly how many times I’ve ever been tempted to take it past a one-night stand or even just a quick hookup.

Once.

And I was staring at her pink cowboy boots as they walked in the opposite direction.

Every click of her heels was like a nail driving into my heart.

I opened my mouth to say something. I mean at this point even screaming her name would have been better than nothing!

But nothing was all I had.

Because in the end, when you screw up this bad. You know it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than words and yelling to get the girl.

I was going to have to chase.

Bloody hell, I was going to have to pursue.

Chapter One

Jaymeson

Three weeks previous

“You’re a man whore.”

Not what I expected my manager and longtime friend to say to me after not only starring in three blockbuster hits last year, but successfully pulling off the longest summer of my life in Seaside, Oregon with boy band AD2.

I know what you’re thinking, boy band AD2? OH. MY. GOSH. Seriously, shrieks aren’t my thing, so if you’re going to go all ape-shit on me, I’m out. Like, seriously out. To be fair, I’m incredibly done with both of them. I couldn’t care less that Demetri Daniels — seriously, stop screaming — is my half brother or that they made my life a freaking hell of a mess this last summer.

I don’t freaking care if the world is ending and the only place that’s safe is Seaside, Oregon. I’m not going. No chance in hell.

Wait, back up. Did my manager just call me a man whore?

“Pardon?” I tossed my cell in my hand and laughed as another text alert went off. Seriously. The girls loved me. Really, it’s not their fault I have an accent. Blame England.

WNNA MEET UP? CANDY

I hit ignore and stuffed the phone back into my pocket.

“As I was saying…” Peter cleared his throat. “You’re turning into a—”

“—whore, got it.” My phone went off again; I held up my hand. “Hold that thought, Peter.” My phone blinked another message. Candy again? Nope, this was from Brit. Ah, Brit. A man could get lost in those giant—

“—Jaymeson!” Peter snatched the phone from my hand and slammed it against the mahogany desk. “People want to like you, they really do. It’s just…”

My phone beeped underneath Peter’s hand. With his face turning an interesting shade of purple, he picked up my phone and threw it into the rubbish bin. Seriously? That was my fifth iPhone in three weeks!

“What the hell!” I lunged for my phone, but he moved to stand in front of the bin and glared. Uh oh. His nostrils were flaring; that only happened when he was royally pissed. Last time they flared, I spent the better part of my day getting lectured on why it isn’t socially acceptable to wear leather pants to a funeral. Shit, call it a culture barrier. I mean, the guy who died was a rocker; I thought I was being respectful. Then again, it was probably the Megadeath shirt I wore along with it that sealed the deal for me.

Maybe I should go back to England on an extended holiday. Anything to get rid of Peter.

So what? People thought I was a man whore. At least I wasn’t some drug-addicted madman running up and down Sunset Boulevard with my trousers falling around my ankles. I mean, really, there were worse things in life.

“We done?” I asked coolly.

“Not by a long shot.” Peter’s nostrils flared again as he pointed his finger in my direction. “You’ve gotta get your shit together, Jaymeson. I’m not kidding this time.”

“My shit is just fine. Thank you,” I retorted with a mocking grin.

He cursed and ran his fingers through his hair.

I stood and stretched. “Look, I’m the least of your worries. You’ve got celebrities shooting up heroin and snorting cocaine and slapping tattoos on their asses that have misspelled words. Compare me to them and I’m…” I exhaled. “Mother Theresa?”

Wow, good one. I smirked.

“And now you’re blasphemous,” Peter muttered. “And if you think you’re in the clear, then you’ve got another think coming. Look.” He threw down a few of the tabloids. Pictures of me littered them, as they always did, but this time it hit me straight in the gut.

   
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