Page 19 of Never Say Yes To Your Brother's Best Friend

My adrenaline is flowing pretty well now, and it only takes me a few seconds to compute the angle from here to the stairs beside the ladder. There’s a free strip between it and the railing. If I just swing to the side a little and let go, I’ll have enough momentum to carry me down. The landing might be awkward. It might sting, and I might lose some skin here and there, but I’ll be fine.

I swing. I swing again. Then, I let go.

I don’t know what went wrong. Sometimes, shit goes wrong, but this isn’t one of those times when it should have or when there’s much room for it. And as I’m flying through the air, I realize I’ve fucked up. Big time.

I catch myself on the top of the railing, just above the glass. It’s set into a metal frame, thank freaking goodness, or I’ll be fucked to the tune of smashing glass and going straight through. As it is, I almost flip over. Almost. My hand grasps metal. Unfortunately, my body has enough momentum that I’m carried straight over the top, but it’s alright because I got myself.

Well, actually, no, I don’t have myself.

My hand slips.

I’m now facing a freefall down a good fifteen feet, headfirst.

I can get my hands up. I can get them up and break my fall. Even if I break my arms, I won’t break my neck. I’ll survive. I—

Don’t fall.

The floor doesn’t come rushing up at me. The bones in my hands, wrists, and arms don’t meet unforgiving hardwood. There’s no blood, no crunch, no pain.

Instead, I’m hanging headfirst over the railing, but I’m also suspended. I curl up just enough to realize my jeans got caught in the metal. I’ve been saved by my jeans.

I let out a huge breath of relief.

But it’s too much for my jeans.

“Fuck!” I yelp as my jeans start to give way to gravity. They slip an inch. And then another. The sound of ripping denim is a horror. I feel the air as they give way. Cool air tickling my overheated skin, my back, and the top of my butt cheeks.

Riiipppppppp.

This is it. I get my hands out fast and square them. I have fast reflexes, and all my self-preservation training roars to life.

My jeans give way another inch.

“I’ve got you!” a voice says as warm, small hands clasp my bottom. Small fingers get a firm hold on my bare ass and hips.

I’ve been saved again. Even if it is in the most humiliating way.

“What the hell happened?” Aspen pants. Her fingers are like claws in my flesh. On my butt. And I feel like it’s going to tear clean off as she throws her weight backward.

I’m a lot to lift up. I’m at least twice her weight, and I’ve got gravity on my side.

“You’re going to tear my arse clean off my body!” I exclaim.

“That’s your main worry right now?” she grunts.

“Can you grab my jeans?”

“Oh! Oh, shit!” She does, but she keeps one hand on my hip and ass—her fingers are like steel grappling hooks in my skin—in case I pop clean out of my pants.

She hauls back with all her weight, and the momentum jerks me up an inch. My pelvis digs into glass and metal, and I grit my teeth against the pain. But pain is all mental. It’s easily blocked out.

“Were you trying to kill yourself? Because this is not the way!” she adds.

“No! It was clearly an accident.”

“How could something like this be an accident?”

“I was trying to get the painting down,” I say.

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