All Men Fall Read online

  All Men Fall

  C.M. Lally

  Contents

  All Men Fall

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by C.M. Lally

  © 2016 C.M. Lally

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express consent of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations for the purpose of reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events or incidents are products of the authors imagination and used in a fictitious manger. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental or fictionalized.

  Edited by Larks and Katydids

  Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  Nick

  It’s my age-old internal battle: Why do I keep coming to this place?

  The Beer & Brood Tavern is crowded tonight. I scan the room, and all I can see are elbows bumping and waitresses squeezing through the crowd with their serving trays turned sideways.

  Today’s rain must have made everyone antsy enough to need a few drinks and some social interaction. People in California don’t stay home when it rains, like they might in other places. We don’t see it often enough, so we go out into it just to make sure it’s really raining. I guess everyone had the same thought: Hey, let’s head over to the local dive bar and see what’s shaking.

  But I don’t care what’s shaking. I just want to be left alone. I want to sit here on my stool, drink my beer, listen to some good music, and forget the fucked-up mess that is my life.

  Speaking of which … damn, who chose this music? I shouldn’t come here when the band isn’t playing. This house music is some kind of whiny, can’t-make-a-name-for-myself shit that makes me want to break something. Like the stereo.

  Derek, the bartender, is at the other end of the bar talking to a brunette with breasts the size of melons. They’re pushed up and spilling out of a tight-ass red tank top that reads I’m able: squeez-able, hug-able, kiss-able, touch-able, bend-able. I know Derek really well—we played high school football together—and if you give him an in, he’ll take it. Those breasts are definitely an in, and he’s probably going for it with his entire arsenal of naughty jokes.

  I call down to him. “Hey, Derek.”

  He glances my way and I can see him thinking about ignoring me, but he reluctantly turns away from the brunette and her boobs, and comes down to my end of the bar. “Yeah, Nick?”

  “Can you get me another beer, and change this music?”

  He does his best to hide his eye-roll from me, but I still see it. Grown men should not roll their eyes. “You know I can’t change it, man. I know it sucks, but Frank has the stereo locked up in the office.”

  He continues to stare at me, like he has more to say but doesn’t know how to word it. I keep looking back at him, waiting, but his words don’t come. Finally, he pops the top off my beer bottle and places it on the bar top directly over a permanently etched declaration of undying love from Sherry to a man named Manuel.

  I lift my bottle to them. Here’s to you, Sherry and Manuel. I hope it lasted forever.

  The bar top has as many battle scars as I do, except its scars have been smoothed out and shellacked over to a high-glossy finish. Thank God they can’t do that to humans. Some things are just meant to be beaten down, scarred, and left alone.

  “Did Frank get a discount on this cheap-ass mix tape?” I take a long draw from my bottle and let the icy coolness flow down to my soul. Wherever that may be. “Why can’t he pay the band to be here on busy nights?” I ask. “It’s fucking Thursday night. Everywhere else it’s ‘Ladies Night’ or ‘Jell-O Shot Night’ or some other kind of bullshit marketing theme to bring in more people. What the fuck does Frank have against good music? People actually prefer it, and they might stay longer. And buy more beer.”

  Derek just shakes his head at me, smiling. I keep looking at him—because yes, I am expecting an answer. He knows me well enough. He knows why I come here, besides it being one of the few bars in town.

  “You know that wasn’t a rhetorical question, right?” I ask.

  Derek, as an adult, is apparently a man of very few words, or maybe he’s just pissed at me for taking him away from watermelon tits. He clears the empties off the bar area around me, then looks at me with that shit-eating grin again. “Man, what the fuck is a rhetorical question? You and your fancy-ass college education.” He walks away and heads back over to finish wooing his latest conquest.

  Maybe I am too fancy-ass for this place, but it’s my home away from home. My actual home is so damn quiet I can’t stand it; I swear, it’s so quiet I can hear the electricity buzzing around the appliances.

  I need noise—if only to quiet the thoughts in my head—but I’m used to the deafening roar of a football stadium full of fans. I crave the sound of men smack-talking each other on the field about who’s going down and who isn’t. I need whistles blowing, coded plays being shouted, the unmistakable grunting of a 200+ pound man as he tries to push and pull another to protect me. I’m used to the rumble of the crowd going wild at the release of the ball.

  I need noise to stop the damn mental snap count that I do for each task I perform. Timing. Every fucking thing in this life has to do with timing.

  Speaking of timing, it’s almost time to get out of here. Zeus probably needs to be let out, and he’ll be hungry by now. Zeus is my savior after my fall from grace—man’s best friend. He’s my mental recovery after my surgery—the surgery that almost killed me, and certainly killed my football career.

  My only regret in life is the injury that led to that damn surgery. No, I take that back. I have two regrets in this life: the surgery, and deciding to escape Oakland by coming back to my hometown. Oakland is big enough to get lost in—a major port city and an industrial town full of working class folks, directly across the Bay Bridge from the more glamorous San Francisco. The people of Oakland love their Raiders; in fact, love seems like such a light word for how Raider Nation feels about their team. I don’t think there is a word to describe it.

  Raider Nation is a hard-core football fanbase, and I loved it. I always wanted to be a Raider, going all the way back to pee-wee football. I wanted to be their hometown hero. I had planned it. I set every major career plan towards it, and moved in that direction. My dreams came true. I loved it. I really fucking loved it. Now I hate it. It’s an all-consuming hate that festers at my fucked-up soul. Yes, I’ll drink to that too.

  But anyway, as I was saying, at least in Oakland I could hide from the looks of disappointment. I could avoid the all-out, pissed-off hate that I see in everyone’s eyes when they recognize me, when the realization dawns that I’m the guy that took their win away from them. That I’m the California-kid who was supposed to be their redemption, but instead, I’m the one that ruined their chance at another long-awaited Super bowl title.

  Now I’m back here in my little hometown of Knightsen, California, licking my wounds and running my landscaping company—or trying to run my landscaping company. It’s kind of hard
to do that when the drought has turned the entire state to dust. El Niño, my ass. Before the storms that fired off today, it had barely rained in two months. Now it’s hotter than hell again.

  My beer is empty, and these thoughts are depressing; it’s definitely time to go home. I place my empty on the bar and motion for Derek so that I can pay my tab.

  “You ready to close out?” he asks, walking towards me. I glance behind him and see watermelon tits talking to a guy in a suit. Poor Derek. He doesn’t stand a chance against that damn tie.

  “Yeah,” I say. “6 a.m. comes mighty early.”

  “You know, JEMFire’s playing all weekend. You gonna come back tomorrow to catch her—I mean them,” he says quickly, trying to cover up his teasing mistake. “Frank asked them to start covering on Friday nights, too, since business is picking up for the summer months.”

  “No shit? That cheap motherfucker is going to actually shell out money for real music more often? Maybe I will. We’ll see.” I’ll sure as fuck be here tomorrow night. That girl’s got invisible claws in me, and I don’t wanna shake her off. “Depends on the weather, and how far behind I am after today’s rain blew my schedule up. Thanks for letting me know.”

  I head towards the door just as a crowd is entering. I step to the side and back right into the puny fucking chest of Tom Willis, my parents’ neighbor—or should I say loud-mouth bully?

  He shouts over the music. “Well, look who’s out and about. The hero of this town. Nick ‘the Dick’ Bailey. How’s that shoulder?” he asks, and reaches out to slap his hand on it.

  I move away just in time and flash around to face him full on chest to chest.

  He glares at me, but throws his hands up, like I don’t want to fight. “I’m just checking up on you. Your mom would have wanted me to,” he says.

  “Don’t speak of my mother—especially like you’re doing her a favor.” I push my face into his as I step up closer to him. I’ve dealt with enough alphaholes on the field that I can handle this little fucktard. “You aren’t good enough to even think about her, let alone speak for her.”

  I spin around and storm out the door—Frank doesn’t deserve me causing a scene tonight—then barrel to my truck, ready to slam someone or something down to the ground and stomp it until it’s a massive pile of dust. I’m a red haze of pissed off male ego. I twist the ignition viciously, then stop and try to count to ten. I need to calm down. No sense in breaking one of my favorite possessions.

  As I turn on the headlamps, I see there’s another note under my wiper blades.

  Every time I come to the Beer & Brood, I get a note. They’re handwritten in a beautiful script, and always on a blue index note card. I have a whole collection of them—maybe fifty or so. They usually say something positive: a description of me or my clothes that day, or something I did at the bar that night. Sometimes there’s a positive quote meant to lift my spirits.

  I know whoever is leaving them must be female, because of the writing. I certainly hope it’s not a crazy fan, some stalker that I’m never gonna shake and will eventually have to get a restraining order against. That shit wouldn’t fucking surprise me.

  My thoughts instantly turn to Jenna. She’s the lead singer of JEMFire. I know it isn’t her because she doesn’t even know me, but a man can dream, right?

  Sometimes it unnerves me to know I might really have a stalker, but most times the notes just make me smile. Tonight it’s an inspirational quote: Don’t let someone else determine your self-worth! Well, shit—it’s a little too late for that. I’ve got 56,063 fans that have already determined I’m worthless.

  I toss the note on the passenger seat with my jacket. This one will go front-and-center on display with the others. Maybe someday I won’t feel the need to keep them, but for now? It’s going on the mirror.

  Chapter 2

  Jenna

  I look out into the crowd and flip on the heavy mic, tossing it from my left hand to my right. I rub my thumb over the aluminum head, and tap it a few times to make sure it’s live. All heads turn toward the stage, and I can feel their energy as they wait to hear what I am going to kick off with.

  The house is rockin’ tonight—and it’s certainly full. I like to think it’s because our band has a following and draws an outrageous crowd, but I know it’s just the start of the weekend that pulls them into the best and loudest bar in town.

  Not to mention the only bar in town.

  I hear Billy count me down, and the music pumps through me. The beat pulsing through the soles of my shoes gets me fired up; I start to thump my heel on the stage with the bass drum pumping, and belt out the beginning lyrics of “Confident” by Demi Lovato. By the end of the song, the dance floor is full to overflowing and I know it’s gonna be a good night.

  “Thank you! Ya’ll are too kind to us out there,” I scream over the applause. “We’re JEMFire and we are here for your listening pleasure tonight, and I only mean your listening pleasure. Ladies, I’m sorry, but my handsome boys behind me here are all taken by strong, beautiful women. I will say I don’t think they’d mind if you tried to get in their pants tonight … but their ladies might. Fair warning if you think you are—as the song implied—confident enough. So let’s keep drinking! Get out here on the dance floor, and kiss the work week’s ass good-bye.”

  The music starts for “Blow Me (One Last Kiss)” by P!nk, and the crowd goes wild. I can hear the crowd singing, and I have to admit that I love it. The men are grinding on their partners, and the girls are pushing ’em back to the beat of the music. You just can’t grind on a woman when a good-bye asshole female anthem is playing.

  This crowd is feeling it tonight. We run through the set of fast songs before I wind it down. You have to give ’em a reason to touch and rub against each other with a purpose every now and then.

  The guitar starts for “Move Together” by James Bay, the crowd starts thinning out. Everyone moves to the outer edge of the floor and reclaims the drinks they left sitting on the tables and ledges. Some couples move out onto the floor, but it’s a pretty thin group out there.

  I can see through the crowd now, and I spot him at the bar in his usual place. He has a blue halo of light around him from the neon Vodka sign and it makes his body glow. His arms are crossed and folded across that massive chest, making his biceps bulge under his tight T-shirt, and his beer rests in the crook of his elbow. I can’t make out his eyes from here, but I know they’re green. They meet with mine and I force my head to turn away quickly, losing track of the words to the song.

  Damn it. Thank God we’re almost at the end. I fake it with some humming and a few words thrown in, then back up quickly to the amp and drain the rest of my water quickly, trying to make it less obvious that I just fucked up. Let them think my mouth is dry.

  I never lose my lyrics. What the fuck? But he’s so beautiful—the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

  I bet he knows it too.

  The song ends and I’m just happy I got through it without too much trouble.

  “Thank you!” I bark through the microphone. “We’re gonna take a little break now. We should be back in about forty minutes—plus or minus a beer and piss break!” I leave the stage under a roar of moans. Damn if that doesn’t sound nice, too.

  As I step down into the crowd, Luke gets up in my face, wanting a kiss. I can taste the whiskey and nicotine mixed on his breath, as his tongue licks across my lips.

  I push him away from me. “How about a warning first? You know I don’t like smoke-breath.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he fires back at me. “Why would I need to warn my girlfriend that I want a kiss?”

  “I never said I was your girlfriend, Luke. We would have had a very long conversation before I let you give me that title. We are currently fucking, yes—but girlfriend, I am not. Your jealous rages keep that conversation from happening, and you know it.”

  “Well, my jealous rages, as you like to call them, keep your ass in my bed.” He polish
es off his whiskey neat and slams the glass down on the nearest table.

  I glare at him in silence as I think of how to word my next sentence nicely. “For now, anyway. Even I know you’ll leave eventually.”

  They all do. Every last one of them, I silently admit to myself.

  I push past him and head to the bar, dying of thirst. I’m hungry, too. My day got away from me at the floral shop, and I had to devour a granola bar right before taking the stage.

  The bar area is elbow-to-elbow crowded, without a hole in sight. I’m tall for a woman, I guess—I think 5’8” is rather tall, anyway, and I never have to ask people to get things off tall shelves for me—but the bar is about 4 people deep and I can’t seem to signal to any of the bartenders. I’m just another set of arms in the air snapping my fingers.

  I hope I don’t lose my entire break just waiting on one drink. I try to signal over the crowd again, hoping someone will feel sorry for me, but the bartender can’t even see me. I attempt a whistle, but even that falls on deaf ears.

  Suddenly, I’m pulled to the side, and an ice-cold bottle of water is slammed into my hand.

  “Did you really think that whistle was going to get you a quick drink in this crowd?”

  “Well, a girl’s gotta try, doesn’t she?” I look up to see who owns that voice, and all I can see is a massive wall of chest muscle stretching out a heather-gray shirt that reads No Music = No Life. “Would it be too much to ask if you also have a cheeseburger and fries stashed somewhere?”

  My eyes decide to climb up that wall of muscle and get a look at his face. My breath hitches and gets stuck in my throat, and I hiccup as I stare into the brightest green eyes I have ever seen. They’re almost yellow—no, more like new grass in the spring. Or those Dahlias that we get at the shop around Mother’s Day.

  I hiccup again. Oh, fucking great!