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  FALL FOR ME

  BOOK 1 IN THE LADDER COMPANY SERIES

  JC EMERY

  Copyright © 2015 by Left Break Press

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

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to an authorized retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Traditional Scottish folk song, "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," public domain

  Find JC Emery on the web!

  http://www.jcemery.com

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  http://www.goodreads.com/jc_emery

  Cover Design by JC Emery at Left Break Press

  http://www.jcemery.com

  Edits performed by Michele Milburn

  Series & Titles by JC Emery

  Men with Badges Line

  Marital Bitch

  The Switch

  Bayonet Scars Series

  Ride

  Thrash

  Rev

  Crush

  Vow

  Burn (coming soon!)

  Ladder Company Series

  Fall for Me

  This book is dedicated to a woman who will never have the chance to read it—Areolle Starr.

  For everything you did, everyone you inspired, and all of the love you gave so selflessly.

  I love you, girl.

  R.I.P. Areolle Starr

  February 9, 1989 – February 20, 2015

  The First Summer

  Chapter 1

  Melanie

  As I sneak through the large room, I do my best to avoid being seen by anyone I know. If I have to endure anymore idle chitchat about stuff I don’t care about while rocking this gnarly wedgie, I’m going to lose my cool. There is absolutely only so much pain one can endure before they forget their manners and tell old Mrs. Goldstein to push her obviously-gay-to-everyone-but-her grandson off on someone else, because I like sex and, while I’m not opposed to trying a three-way just once, I’m absolutely opposed to marrying some poor dude just to be his beard.

  No, just no.

  So I take the long way around the ball room and hope to avoid anyone else who may try to sidetrack me on my way to the ladies room to evict this supposedly amazing satin thong from the crevices of my ass.

  Halfway to my destination, I catch my sister’s eye and wave her off with a serious glare that hopefully says everything it has to—don’t even think about following me. Because while Claire could provide good cover, she’s also slow as hell in those stupid heels she insisted on buying. They’re no less than five inches tall, and my dear sister isn’t exactly well-versed in wearing heels. Cleats are more her style, but Mom and Daddy would have a fit if she showed up ready to rock third base at a society event. Not that she plays anymore. Much to her chagrin, there’s not much of a career in softball unless you’re the crème de la crème, and while my sister is good, she’s not that good, and she knows it. So she hung up her cleats some time ago. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss it, though, because she totally does.

  I was never into sports, so I spent my teen years trying—mostly unsuccessfully—to be sexy while rocking heels and making my way around the Upper West Side, which means I can make it across this room in twice the time Claire can.

  When I reach the ladies’ room, tucked under an expansive curved staircase whose only real purpose is to show off the debs as they officially enter into society, I find a long line trailing from under the stairs. The event happens literally once a year, and yet the committee of the public trust felt the need to redo the staircase some years back so their daughters—sorry, bartering tools—had a more elegant way of entering society. It’s ridiculous since half the girls make their official entrance into society on their backs while working some stupid rich brat to pay their way rather than on this staircase. But whatever. I opted out of the meat market for a reason. I’m not the kind of girl who can endure epically uncomfortable circumstances in favor of being a lady of society. Not that New York society is all too keen on my people anyway. We’re new money, and the only thing old money hates more than the poor is the recently poor but now rich.

  “Some line, huh?” I ask a young woman who can’t be more than a year older or younger than me. She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and slides her bright blue eyes that are done up with a smoky-eye look up and down my frame. Her gaze softens when I bounce uncomfortably on my heels, and she nods her head. Ladies don’t dance like cats in heat while waiting for the restroom. They also don’t say “huh” at the end of their sentences, and they don’t start random conversations with people in line. So, in short, I’m no lady and this chick knows it, and she seems cool enough to be cool with me and not judge me for not being a lady. In fact, she seems relieved.

  “I’ve been in line forever,” she says and blows out a frustrated breath. She’s got a thick New York accent, so I know she’s not a lady because they beat that shit out of you when they’re teaching you how to fit in with the rest of the snooty-tooties.

  The woman in front of her turns just slightly toward us, and then, with a carefully concealed expression, she turns back to the front of the line. I almost miss the slow and casual way she leans forward to the woman in front of her. Her jaw barely moves, but then the woman in front of her very slowly turns toward us and pretends to be surveying the room for no reason at all, but I know the score, so I call bullshit on that move. Old money usually comes with old-ass standards, and the old-ass standards say that women are to be seen and not heard. But that’s just not how I was raised, so I aim to be seen and to be heard even when I’m at a society event. So instead of being the lady my parents’ bank account wants me to be, I raise an eyebrow at the woman’s rudeness and place my hand on my hip. She can get snooty in her old-ass money having way, and I’ll get bitchy in my I’ve-been-fighting-this-battle-my-whole-life way that I do. And bitchy in my way is the kind of bitchy that old-ass money and old-ass manners can’t handle, because there’s nothing a lady can really do to deal with bitchy but to stay silent. If they take the bait and get snooty-tooty, then I won because their facade’s fallen apart and mine is still intact.

  “Do you know of another bathroom?” the chick asks. I think on that one for a moment. I don’t think I do, but I hate to stand here and be judged by the pretties for too long. I spent a couple decades with those attitudes, and when I escaped to college out of state, I ditched that stuff far behind, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  “The only bathroom I know that doesn’t have a line is the men’s room upstairs.”

  She turns to face me, and with a serious look of contemplation, she thinks this over. I’m game if she is, but it’s got to be a team effort, because there’s no way to stop a dude from walking in on one of us without backup. The woman in front of me rocks back on her heels and raises her brows, and then looks at the line behind her. She leans in and whispers, “How trashy is it to use the men’s room with a crowd like this here?”

  “Incredibly trashy,” I say with my eyes fixated on the nosy chicks farther up in the line. They keep their gazes forward, but I can tell they’re listening by the way their ears are crooked for maximum he
aring allowance. “But desperate times, desperate measures.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she says in the most appreciative manner I’ve ever seen. Her chest deflates, and she smiles in a panicked, tortured kind of way that tells me she won’t ever admit it but she’s on the verge of an accident. Can’t blame her. No woman wants to admit she’s about to pee herself, and definitely nobody wants to admit she’s about to pee herself at a fancy charity event that’s crawling with some serious man candy. The only thing hotter than a hot dude is a hot dude in uniform. God, I love those dress blues the FDNY wears.

  “Follow me.” I lead us away from the line slowly and behind the stairs to the elevators. I push the UP button, and we wait in relative silence. When the doors open, she gestures for me to go first. I do since I’m the one who knows where we’re going. Once inside, she turns to face me and starts babbling in a way I not only understand but totally appreciate because it’s in this minute I realize I’ve met someone I can cling to for dear life and stalk until she agrees to be besties.

  “I’m Royal. Royal Hayes. And I feel totally out of place here. I don’t even know why I’m here, really, except that my brother’s accepting an award and I want to support him, but holy crap, this is so not my scene. Before you showed up, those women kept giving me that devil look like they knew I don’t belong here, and well, I don’t, but still that’s rude, and I thought all you society ladies were supposed to be polite and stuff, but apparently you’re not. And you’re awesome so far, and please, please tell me the bathroom is close because things are getting serious under this pretty dress.”

  I laugh lightly and then stop when my thong twists and rides up a little farther. The look of discomfort on my face must be very telling because she just stares at me like I’ve grown two heads, and well, I’ve had a few flutes of champagne, so maybe I have and don’t know it yet.

  “Melanie Kincaid, and I’d shake your hand, but my stupidly expensive thong is exploring places I didn’t give it permission to, and every time I move, I feel myself losing another layer of flesh. For what it’s worth, I don’t really like it here, either. But I’m here to support my dad who likes the FDNY—not in the way I like the FDNY, but still. The snooty-tooties aren’t real keen on our being here, and I can kind of see why since I’m about to use the men’s room to pull satin out of my butt, and please tell me we get to be friends, because any chick who rambles like you do and puts my rambling to shame is someone I want keep knowing.”

  “If I don’t pee my pretty dress, I’d love to be friends. Otherwise the shame is going to totally overtake me and we’ll never see each other again.”

  “Deal,” I say. “So, bathroom.” The elevator doors open, and I dart out and to the right where the men’s room door appears totally unattended and breathe a sigh of relief. The foul thong twists again, and I slow my pace. The last thing I need is some kind of medical intervention from this event.

  We make it to the bathroom and inside without issue. Royal—and what the hell kind of name is that?—leads the way. She doesn’t slow down to ensure that an attendant isn’t on site, but really, it wouldn’t matter anyway. This chick is my kind of people, and I highly doubt she gives a crap if she has to plow over some dude to take care of business or not. I follow behind and offer to take charge of keeping watch as she uses the facilities first.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cries out from the first stall as she relieves herself. I’m tucked in between the partially open bathroom door and the frame in order to make sure no one enters but still able to keep talking to my new bestie. Because that’s what she is—girls who pee together bond in a way dudes just never seem to understand. I look over my shoulder to see that she didn’t even bother to close the stall door. Thankfully there’s no visibility into the stall, because while we’re bonding, I’m not sure we’re at that level yet.

  When I look back through the doorway, I see a man coming toward me, and he’s so gorgeous that before I fall asleep tonight, I’m going to be coming to the image of him in my mind. Did I mention that he’s gorgeous? I flush from the thoughts running through my head. Him, naked. Me, underneath him. Him, doing devilish things as his large, muscular arms hold him above me, and he totally has muscular arms. I can see that even through his dress blues, which means he’s one of New York’s bravest.

  Score.

  I let my imagination run wild with thoughts of being underneath him—panting and unfolding with every passing moment as he touches me. Large hands—check. Long legs—check. I’d like to say I’m never like this, but that’s a lie. I still have a few celeb crushes that turn me into a panting ho. But this guy isn’t a celeb crush. He’s a real person, so that kind of makes this a bit unprecedented.

  “Run a marathon, did ya?” he asks. He’s got to be around six feet tall, and he’s got these sexy gray-blue eyes with light brown hair and a complexion that’s almost a light peach color.

  “No,” I stutter. Why he would think I’d been running a marathon, God only knows. I place a hand to the base of my neck only to find that I’m perspiring. Shit. I really need to get myself under control. It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone, and it’s showing. I’ve always been that woman who sees what she likes and goes for it. Not that such tactics have worked out well for me in the past.

  “Why?” I try to cover up the mess I’m making of myself. I just… like him. I like the way he’s standing here in the doorway and the way he’s studying me. His eyes linger as he drags them up my body, spending more time than appropriate on my breasts that peek out the top of my dark red dress, and finally rest on my face. I just hope my makeup isn’t fucked-up. I made sure that both my dress and the makeup met with my mom’s approval before we arrived. Classy not trashy, that’s the motto. These things matter to her—so, that means they matter to me even if I don’t want them to.

  He opens his mouth to respond but clamps it shut almost immediately. There’s a silence for a long moment before he rubs the back of his neck and looks back at the landing behind him. A smile forms that overtakes his entire gorgeously chiseled face. He can’t be too much older than me, though he’s definitely more mature than the guys I go to school with. His features have lost that youthful boyish look that’s common to those in their early twenties, but they have yet to acquire any gray from what I can tell, and he doesn’t look seasoned just yet. He’s practically perfect in every way I can see. Oh, screw practically. All I can see is perfection, which means he must be a serial killer or he collects parakeets or has some kind of strange fetish with corn, because perfect never means perfect. It means I’m in trouble because this guy is going to crush me. Hopefully naked as I come apart around him.

  “Nothing,” he finally says. His mouth is tight, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his thick neck. I should really get some self-control, but I’ve gone a whole twenty years without any, so part of me reasons that it’s too late to try to be a respectful lady now and all those etiquette lessons my mom shelled out for didn’t do crap. Taking a deep breath and fixing his attention back on my face, he smiles awkwardly before using one of his large—able to cup my ass—hands to steady himself as he leans forward. His breath washes across my cheek as he whispers into my ear, “You’re the most beautiful door-blocking woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of being held up by.”

  The most beautiful?

  Yes, baby Jesus, please!

  Door-blocking . . .

  “Oh, crap,” I say loudly. He jumps back and rubs his palm over the ear I’ve just shouted into. “I’m sorry.”

  My hormones are making me more than just awkward. They’re turning me into a rude door-blocker.

  But a beautiful door-blocker . . .

  I don’t move. I know I should. He specifically pointed out that I’m beautiful, even if he did it while simultaneously mentioning the whole door-blocking thing. I’ve already made an ass out of myself, so why not go big? In my best attempt to look sexy, I casually lean against the same doorjamb that he’s propped himself up on, and I
let a blush come to my cheeks. In a flirty voice, I ask, “Beautiful, huh?”

  He smirks.

  He fucking smirks.

  And it’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. If I can think up ways to see this man smirk repeatedly for the rest of my life, it won’t be enough. I want him, and I’m not going to be shy about it. Not that I was being shy before.

  “Gorgeous,” he says with conviction. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who says things he doesn’t mean, so I go with it and let myself feel the compliment right down to my bones. “Sexy, confident . . . and still blocking the door.”

  “Keep talking.” My words come out all breathy and wanton. It takes me a moment to realize he’s mentioned trying to get through the door. Again. For the third time, I think.

  “You want to go inside, don’t you?” I ask, dropping the crazy slutty thing I had going on.

  “Well, I didn’t come down here to just . . . stand in the doorway.” He raises an eyebrow and stares at me with wide eyes like I’m the stupidest person alive. I might be. He hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “Would you rather I piss in the ficus?”

  Chapter 2

  Melanie

  “Um, no. But you are going to have to wait. You see, my girl’s in there, and I’m not going to do her dirty and let some strange dude in while she’s taking care of business.”

  He nods his head and leans in close again.

  “Good people. Confused, because this is the men’s room, but good.”

  “Not confused,” I say breathily, going right back to the slutty voice. I lean in and smile through the discomfort of my thong rubbing in exactly the wrong spot. “You seen how long the lines are for the ladies’ room?”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, and his blue-gray eyes sparkle. I get lost in them for a long moment—too long—because I don’t hear the toilet flushing, or the sink running, or Royal’s heels clicking behind me until she’s on me and elbowing me in my side.