The Harder You Fall. Gena Showalter
Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, had ever experienced claimed its first victim. Jessica Kay Dillon’s pride. With a moan, the former beauty queen picked up her now-aching butt off the icy sidewalk, balanced her basket in her hands and, as bitter gusts of wind nipped at her, scanned nearby shop windows. No prying eyes watched her. Thank God!
If no one witnessed your epic fall, had it ever really happened?
Jessie Kay inched forward—careful, steady—but as she turned the corner her feet slipped and her arms flailed to no avail. Down she tumbled, landing with a hard smack. Dang it! She banged her fist into the ice-glazed concrete. She was going to die out here, and it was totally his fault. Lincoln West. One of the three owners of WOH Industries.
Stupid West and his stupid sandwich order!
She wouldn’t say she hated him, but she would maybe probably definitely unplug his life support to charge her phone. In only six months, he’d become the bane of her existence.
She should have listened to her sister and canceled today’s deliveries. Brook Lynn, the owner of You’ve Got It Coming—Busy life? Let us feed you!—believed safety came before commerce. But nooo, oh, no, Jessie Kay had insisted she could do the job, even though jumping from an airplane without a parachute would have been smarter. And yeah, okay, there was a perk to venturing out: the awe-inspiring winter wonderland. The hodgepodge design of shops—plantation-style buildings, metal warehouses and whitewashed bungalows—looked as if they’d been painted with diamond dust. But honestly? Awe-inspiring sucked buckets of ass right now.
Teeth chattering, she lumbered to her feet and carried on like a good little frozen soldier. At this point, giving up and returning to her car would be a blemish on YGIC’s sterling rep. Great start, deplorable finish. No, thanks. What it wouldn’t do? Melt the ice in Jessie Kay’s veins. The heater had been busted for years, the window scraper a necessary tool for survival. And it wasn’t like going home would do any good, either. The heater there basically operated on fumes and prayers.
In a perfect world, she’d fix both today. But this was a crap world and she needed more than the usual TLC—tears, lamentations and cursing. She needed cold, hard cash. Another reason she’d opted to brave the storm.
Brook Lynn, the sweetheart, paid her a hundred dollars a week to help prepare orders and make deliveries. Money she felt guilty for taking. I owe her, not the other way around. But take it she did. She had to. Pride, the whore, never made even a token offer to pay for anything.
The funds were just enough to cover utilities and the mortgage she acquired soon after Mom died. Tips covered essentials, like three squares a day. And to be quite blunt about the matter, she’d expected people to fork over more than the usual buck or two for today’s troubles. But had they? No! She’d gotten the usual, plus a few propositions from the sleazier men.
Wanna take a break, Jessie Kay? My wife’s stuck at her sister’s and my couch is real comfy...
Come on in and have a beer, Jessie Kay. I’ll warm you up with a little body heat...
Once a bad girl, always a bad girl.
If her parents still lived—God bless their precious souls—they would have wept fat tears of disappointment over her jezebel rep. They’d loved her and had only wanted the best for her even though they’d both had legit reasons to hate her before they died.
She would be the first to admit she sometimes tried to forget those reasons in not-so-healthy ways.
Well, used to try to forget in not-so-healthy ways.
A few months ago, Brook Lynn—the world’s greatest everything—had almost died, and Jessie Kay—the world’s worst—had been too busy partying like a rock star to help. Talk about a wake-up call! From that day forward, she’d sworn to walk the straight and narrow. If ever her sister needed her again, she’d be there. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Amen.
Every storm begins with a single drop of rain, Momma once said. Don’t despise small beginnings.
The good-girl thing, well, no one anywhere ever had ever had such a small beginning.
She slowly snaked around the next corner, relieved when she remained on her feet, and finally she reached the WOH offices. Despite the cold, she paused at the front window to prepare for the battle to come. And there would be a battle. There always was.
In the foyer, elementary-school-teacher-turned-receptionist Cora Higal manned her desk with military precision. There was no sign of West. Gorgeous, successful, too-smart-for-his-own-good West.
He possessed a charming wit and kind smile. For everyone but Jessie Kay.
In July, he and his two best buds slash business partners had left the big, bad city to move to her hometown. She’d drooled over the magnetic West at first sight, but when he’d shown no interest in her, she’d moved on to the suave Beck Ockley, who had.
What she hadn’t known at the time? Beck was the king of the hit and run. Well, he used to be, until he met Harlow Glass. Now he was the king of commitment. Anyway. His majesty’s “relationship” with Jessie Kay had ended after a single night.
That was fun, honey. I’ll see you around.
The rejection had stung, and she’d thrown a good old-fashioned pity party, getting drunk off her booty and sleeping with Jase, the trio’s designated hulk. But their “relationship” hadn’t gone anywhere, either. In fact, Jase hadn’t even waited until morning to get rid of her. He’d jumped ship an hour after the deed was done.
He later ended up engaged to Brook Lynn.
Apparently, all a guy had to do to find his soul mate was screw Jessie Kay.
West had to consider her sloppy thirds. A man-eater. A good-time girl. Fruit from the poisonous tree.
Well, he could suck it! Had she always made the smartest choices? No. She’d chased a sense of happiness with men rather than finding it within herself—and just how the heck was she supposed to be happy with herself? She’d also made mistakes so abysmal they belonged in record books. Just ask her dead parents! But what right did West have to judge her?
According to Brook Lynn, who had the inside scoop, West used to dabble with self-medication, too, drinking and getting high. And his track record with women? Deplorable. He only dated one gal a year for two months, no more, no less, then dumped her for some made-up reason when the clock zeroed out...and crap, it was too cold to stall any longer.
A bell tinkled as Jessie Kay entered the building, and much-needed warmth enveloped her.
Cora glanced up from the papers she was stacking, her black bob swaying at her shoulders. “Miss Dillon.”
“Ms. Higal.” She stomped her boots to dislodge clumps of snow as she studied an eclectic mix of boring and spectacular. The standard beige walls were decorated with stunningly detailed pictures of the video game characters West had designed. Tables she could have picked up at a local garage sale for less than five bucks were littered with shiny computer parts and what looked to be robotic limbs.
How cool was that? Her inner child, probably the most mature part of her, suddenly longed to play.
Cora said, “Mr. West is—”
“Not surprised you’re late.” The rugged male voice came from the back of the room, where West leaned a shoulder against the entrance to his office. “Tell me, Miss Dillon. Is making people worry a sport to you?”
Their eyes locked, and hated tingles spilled over her. For a moment, a single heartbeat, tension so intractable she couldn’t breathe thrummed between them. He was the sun she orbited, the vortex she couldn’t escape. Then he turned, revealing his back, and she was able to suck in a mouthful of air, but his image remained burned in her mind.
He stood well over six feet tall and had the lean, sexy muscle mass of a man who’d spent quality time in a gym. A fact perfectly complemented by the pin-striped suit he wore. He had dark hair and even darker eyes, the depths fathomless, mysterious and