Descent: After the Storm Series
a sneak peek (pre-publication draft!)
Chapter One: Rocco
Three days.
My sobriety lasted three days this time.
I can taste my failure in the back of my throat, filling up my parched mouth with whiskey and smoke.
Jesus.
I feel like hell.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face to block out the harsh sunlight. My head’s pounding, eyes are desert-dry. My ass sinks into the soft mattress as I breathe in the smell of expensive Egyptian cotton sheets and lavender sachets.
This definitely isn’t my bed. It probably belongs to the man stretched out next to me, but I can’t even be sure about that.
Memories of last night trickle like raindrops, each a fisheye picture that slowly pools together to create a framework of what the fuck happened. The bar was packed for a pre-World Cup celebration. Lowball glasses kept appearing in front of me. A blond-haired guy bought them. And later, the taste of vodka and lemon on his tongue as he shoved me against a brick wall outside the bar.
Things get even fuzzier after that.
Failure. Sharp, stinging and painfully familiar from every time that I take that damn first drink. Like a pendulum that keeps swinging back and forth—upswing for a few days, but then there’s always a downswing. Always.
“Fuck,” I mumble as I roll onto my side. My head is pounding, stomach queasy—but do you know what my brain does? It tells me I’m still thirsty. That taking a drink would wash this hangover away.
My phone rings, a high pitch that drills straight into my temple from somewhere across the room. The thing’s more like an assault than a ringtone, but it carries with it a quivering spark of hope. I need to get out of here. Not just this room, but this mindset. The ringtone belongs to a person who can help me do just that.
I toss the pillow aside and swing my feet down to a tomato-red shaggy rug that tickles between my toes. I don’t remember it from last night. Seems like I’d remember a rug like this one. Especially if I was down on my knees.
I haul myself up to unsteady legs and scan the surroundings—some ultra-modern style room—trying to zero in on where my phone’s hiding. The rug gives way to a gray wooden floor, and I toe aside a button-down shirt that’s as unfamiliar as everything else.
I don’t see my jeans. Also, no t-shirt. No sandals. Just two small mountains of Corona bottles and a mostly empty fifth of whiskey that’s got something green stuffed into it. A chili pepper?
After a minute, I’m able to focus on where the ring’s coming from: a tomato-red fluffy chair that matches the tomato-red shag rug.
“Shut it off,” a deep voice from the bed grumbles. The guy from last night is buried under a pillow—just like I was—his lower half wrapped in a dark gray sheet, only his calves and feet sticking out. Nice calves. Muscular and tanned.
“Shut it off,” he groans louder.
“Good morning to you too, sleeping beauty.” My voice is little more than a dry rasp. I clear my throat as my eyes trace over the mountains and valleys of him under that gray sheet. “Now don’t go scrambling out of bed to make me coffee and bacon.”
He peeks out from under the pillow, and I get my first good—or sober—look at him. Sky blue eyes, cleft chin.
“Turn that shit off.” He fists the top of the pillow like he’s debating throwing it at me. “And Anna can make you coffee if you really need it. Just quiet the fuck down.”
I huff out a low laugh. “Is that your wife?”
“You think I have a wife after what we did last night?” The phone falls silent as he squints at me. “And if I did, she would make you bacon?”
“Who would I be to question your marriage?”
Who am I to question anyone?
I scrub a hand over my face, my scruff scraping against my palm. “Did we fuck?”
I don’t see condoms anywhere. Also my dick doesn’t feel sticky from one.
“No. We both passed out.” He’s studying me as if his memory is as hazy as mine. We don’t even bother with the charade of pretending like we know each other’s names. No point, really.
His eyes darken as he watches me, and he lets out a deep sigh. Maybe I’m not the only one swimming in mistakes. Not the only one who feels like he’s barely hanging onto the pendulum.
He shoves the pillow back over his head, ending the conversation, and I circle the bed and tip up one side of the fluffy chair to toe out my jeans. When I kneel to grab them, my head swims like I’m rolling on the ocean waves visible from the long beachview window to my right.
It’s a ritzy place. Above my head is crown molding and some kind of modern chandelier. Sleeping Beauty’s also got a thick wallet on the side table that he was pulling hundreds out of last night. I do remember that.
Not that I care what he’s got stuffed into his wallet. The only thing I was thinking about last night was what he had stuffed in his pants.
I scrub a hand over my face and finally find my shirt under a small table. It’s torn right down the middle, like it was ripped off me.
Well, we might not have fucked, but it must have been an interesting night.
I dig my phone out of my pocket to find that the screen’s got a new crack across it. Six missed calls. One unknown number, two from my brother, and three from Vivian.
Thank Christ. Hopefully Viv’s got a job for me.
Before calling her back, I load up a map to find out exactly where I am.
San Clemente? How did I get all the way out here? It’s more than an hour drive from LA. It’ll be a trek back without a car.
I dial Viv, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can tug on my jeans. Thankfully, my wallet’s still in my back pocket.
“Hey, Rocco,” Viv’s bright voice makes me smile, despite my headache.
Before Sleeping Beauty yells again, I head towards an open door to what’s hopefully the master bath.
“Morning, Viv.” I flick on the light, scanning the gold fixtures and white marble cut with black veins. I cross to the double sink and flip on the water. “How’s the romancin’ going?”
“Deep in a threesome,” she says cheerfully. When Viv’s not working as a flight attendant, she moonlights as an erotica writer. She writes the filthiest books you can imagine—things that even make a man like me blush.
And, yeah, I’ve read all of them.
“Callum, Jaz and Lewis finally got down and dirty.” She bubbles happily, telling me about her latest.
“No shit? About time.” I put her on speaker before setting the phone down to splash some water on my face and then sucking down a few handfuls cupped in my palms. As if water will quench my thirst. It doesn’t even clome close.
“Lewis needed to get over his hang-ups,” I continue, rubbing some water on the back of my neck. “Never fails to amaze me how that man can constantly fuck up his own life.”
Like I’m one to talk.
She laughs. “He’s just a character, Rocco. He’s not actually real.”
“He feels pretty real to me.”
“Awww, that’s about the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me. Do you want to read it? It’s the last one.”
“Hell, yes, I do.” In the mirror, my bloodshot eyes stare back at me. Saying I look ragged is an understatement. I run a hand through my hair, but it doesn’t help. I need a shower. And then a trip to the gym to hit the bag and clear my head. “I can’t wait for those three to get their freak on. But until then, please tell me you’ve got a flight for us, love.”
“We leave from Van Nuys in twelve hours.”
I close my eyes and drag in a slow breath of relief through my nose. “Sweeter words were never spoken.”
I work as a standby pilot for a private jet company. They use me for a variety of reasons. Maybe a regularly scheduled pilot gets sick. Or maybe it’s a client who needs a last-minute flight. Or, more often, it’s someone—usually someone wealthy as the devil and twice as shady—who needs to get somewhere fast and doesn’t want anyone asking questions.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t do security checks. I don’t flinch at any of the crazy stuff I’ve seen.
I just fly.
It’s the only time my life has a speck of purpose. Twelve hours is enough time to make sure I’m stone cold sober, get a work out in, and be ready for wheels up.
“Wait until you hear who we’re flying.” A big, fat smile resonates in her voice.
“Santa Claus?” I open some drawers until I find toothpaste and squeeze it out on my finger. The mint wakes me up, gets my blood moving. Also hides that lingering taste of mistake—for a few minutes at least. “Tinker Bell? I’ll fly anyone, love. Just get the fuck me outta here.”
“That bad?” she asks softly.
“I’ll be fine once we’re up in the air.” I pull open a door on the right to discover a walk-in closet that’s almost bigger than the bedroom. I step inside and rifle through the button-downs. Apparently that’s all he’s got, so I grab a solid black one and settle it over my shoulders, buttoning the lower few buttons.
Stiff cotton with a carefully pressed collar. I never wear shirts like this.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“LA to Sydney,” Viv says. “It’s a red-eye.”
“World Cup’s in Sydney right now,” I muse.
“Exactly!” Viv squeals, way too loud for my headache.
News of the upcoming World Cup was on the television behind the bar last night. The US Men’s team has a lot of promise this year—that is until Issac Rohan, the team captain, was arrested two weeks ago for doping.
Fucker. I respected him before that. Maybe a bit hypocritical considering that I’m just as much of a fuck up, but at least I stick to just hurting myself. Dopers bring the whole damn sport down.
I itch my jaw, curiosity getting the best of me. “Alright, Viv. Who are we flying?”
Better not be Rohan.
There’s at least twenty-two players on the US World Cup team. There can’t be many of them who live around LA. Rohan did. So does--
“Tobais Cain,” she blurts out, her excitement practically vibrating through the phone.
Yeah, that’s the name which came to mind.
All six-foot-one, one-hundred-ninety-two pounds of sleek muscle. I know because his stats ran across the television last night when they replayed that rebounded goal he sank to get into the quarters last World Cup.
I’ve never seen a man play soccer the way he does. Quick. Determined. Elegant. Not a word I use often, but for Cain, it encapsulates him.
Like Rohan, he’s also had some legal troubles recently. They were talking about it on the recap last night, but I was too busy stumbling into the back alley with my sleeping beauty to follow what was going on.
I should have just watched the sports recap. Should have gone to the gym instead of the bar. Should have cut myself off and blundered home, jacked off in the shower while picturing a man like Tobias Cain, and passed out half-way toweled off on my own freaking bed.
But when’s the last time I did what I should?
“Can you believe it?” she bubbles on. “I’m so excited we got this flight! You’ll be in the co-pilot seat, though. Dahlia’s first time in the captain’s chair.”
I step back into the master bath. “She deserves it.”
Dahlia’s young, but she’s a good kid and a determined pilot. She’s earned her chance to sit on the left. I honestly don’t care where I’m sitting as long as my ass gets off the ground. Just the thought of being up there loosens the tightness across my chest and edges away my headache. I know what I’m supposed to do up in the air. Everywhere else? Not so much.
I pull open the door to the bedroom to find Sleeping Beauty is still splayed out on the bed.
He peeks at me. “Is that my shirt?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Fine, take it.” He rolls over, curling up so he’s just a lump of sheets. “Just let me sleep.”
“Your guy sounds grumpy,” Viv says.
“Not my guy.” I dig around until I find my sandals in a little seating area where the almost empty bottle of Jack still lingers. “I’d tell you his name, but I don’t remember it.”
“You should be in one of my romance novels.”
“That’d be a good joke.” I slip my feet into my sandals, tucking the phone against my ear as I button the guy’s shirt.
The whiskey bottle sits not three inches from my big toe. Mostly empty, with that pepper stuffed inside, like a ship in a bottle. I kick it lightly, and the last of the amber liquid sways inside the glass.
The smell. It floods up towards me—biting and sharp. And so reassuring. My mouth waters, my brain short-circuits.
And just like that, I’m holding the bottle. I don’t remember stooping to pick it up. There’s just suddenly cool glass against my palm. Like my body has a mind of its own. I’m a ghost along for the ride.
“Rocco?” Viv asks.
“I’m here.” I swallow hard, my heart thumping so hard that I’d bet Viv can hear it. I shouldn’t drink this. Not if I’m going to fly in twelve hours. I don’t fly drunk.
I take a deep breath and then reach out to set the bottle upright on the table. Before I can think too hard, I head out of the bedroom to the front door.
“Sorry, love,” I say to Viv as I step outside. “I’ve gotta go. See you in LA. Take care of you.”
“You too.”
“I’ll try.” That’s a tall order.
I hang up, and take a deep breath of ocean air. A pristine beach stretches out to blue ocean. The sun reflects off the slow roll of the water. The scent of late summer flowers is sweet and crisp, the complete opposite of that bottle back there, and a long inhalation helps clear my head.
It’s a short walk down the path that dead-ends at the beach. My sandals sink into deep, cool sand not yet warmed by the sun.
I order an Uber and stare at the cerulean blue sky while I wait. There’s a slight haze in the distance—a growing humidity. Rain brewing.
Doesn’t matter. Humidity, clouds, rain. Nothing can keep me grounded.
I’ll be up there soon.
Three days.
My sobriety lasted three days this time.
I can taste my failure in the back of my throat, filling up my parched mouth with whiskey and smoke.
Jesus.
I feel like hell.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face to block out the harsh sunlight. My head’s pounding, eyes are desert-dry. My ass sinks into the soft mattress as I breathe in the smell of expensive Egyptian cotton sheets and lavender sachets.
This definitely isn’t my bed. It probably belongs to the man stretched out next to me, but I can’t even be sure about that.
Memories of last night trickle like raindrops, each a fisheye picture that slowly pools together to create a framework of what the fuck happened. The bar was packed for a pre-World Cup celebration. Lowball glasses kept appearing in front of me. A blond-haired guy bought them. And later, the taste of vodka and lemon on his tongue as he shoved me against a brick wall outside the bar.
Things get even fuzzier after that.
Failure. Sharp, stinging and painfully familiar from every time that I take that damn first drink. Like a pendulum that keeps swinging back and forth—upswing for a few days, but then there’s always a downswing. Always.
“Fuck,” I mumble as I roll onto my side. My head is pounding, stomach queasy—but do you know what my brain does? It tells me I’m still thirsty. That taking a drink would wash this hangover away.
My phone rings, a high pitch that drills straight into my temple from somewhere across the room. The thing’s more like an assault than a ringtone, but it carries with it a quivering spark of hope. I need to get out of here. Not just this room, but this mindset. The ringtone belongs to a person who can help me do just that.
I toss the pillow aside and swing my feet down to a tomato-red shaggy rug that tickles between my toes. I don’t remember it from last night. Seems like I’d remember a rug like this one. Especially if I was down on my knees.
I haul myself up to unsteady legs and scan the surroundings—some ultra-modern style room—trying to zero in on where my phone’s hiding. The rug gives way to a gray wooden floor, and I toe aside a button-down shirt that’s as unfamiliar as everything else.
I don’t see my jeans. Also, no t-shirt. No sandals. Just two small mountains of Corona bottles and a mostly empty fifth of whiskey that’s got something green stuffed into it. A chili pepper?
After a minute, I’m able to focus on where the ring’s coming from: a tomato-red fluffy chair that matches the tomato-red shag rug.
“Shut it off,” a deep voice from the bed grumbles. The guy from last night is buried under a pillow—just like I was—his lower half wrapped in a dark gray sheet, only his calves and feet sticking out. Nice calves. Muscular and tanned.
“Shut it off,” he groans louder.
“Good morning to you too, sleeping beauty.” My voice is little more than a dry rasp. I clear my throat as my eyes trace over the mountains and valleys of him under that gray sheet. “Now don’t go scrambling out of bed to make me coffee and bacon.”
He peeks out from under the pillow, and I get my first good—or sober—look at him. Sky blue eyes, cleft chin.
“Turn that shit off.” He fists the top of the pillow like he’s debating throwing it at me. “And Anna can make you coffee if you really need it. Just quiet the fuck down.”
I huff out a low laugh. “Is that your wife?”
“You think I have a wife after what we did last night?” The phone falls silent as he squints at me. “And if I did, she would make you bacon?”
“Who would I be to question your marriage?”
Who am I to question anyone?
I scrub a hand over my face, my scruff scraping against my palm. “Did we fuck?”
I don’t see condoms anywhere. Also my dick doesn’t feel sticky from one.
“No. We both passed out.” He’s studying me as if his memory is as hazy as mine. We don’t even bother with the charade of pretending like we know each other’s names. No point, really.
His eyes darken as he watches me, and he lets out a deep sigh. Maybe I’m not the only one swimming in mistakes. Not the only one who feels like he’s barely hanging onto the pendulum.
He shoves the pillow back over his head, ending the conversation, and I circle the bed and tip up one side of the fluffy chair to toe out my jeans. When I kneel to grab them, my head swims like I’m rolling on the ocean waves visible from the long beachview window to my right.
It’s a ritzy place. Above my head is crown molding and some kind of modern chandelier. Sleeping Beauty’s also got a thick wallet on the side table that he was pulling hundreds out of last night. I do remember that.
Not that I care what he’s got stuffed into his wallet. The only thing I was thinking about last night was what he had stuffed in his pants.
I scrub a hand over my face and finally find my shirt under a small table. It’s torn right down the middle, like it was ripped off me.
Well, we might not have fucked, but it must have been an interesting night.
I dig my phone out of my pocket to find that the screen’s got a new crack across it. Six missed calls. One unknown number, two from my brother, and three from Vivian.
Thank Christ. Hopefully Viv’s got a job for me.
Before calling her back, I load up a map to find out exactly where I am.
San Clemente? How did I get all the way out here? It’s more than an hour drive from LA. It’ll be a trek back without a car.
I dial Viv, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can tug on my jeans. Thankfully, my wallet’s still in my back pocket.
“Hey, Rocco,” Viv’s bright voice makes me smile, despite my headache.
Before Sleeping Beauty yells again, I head towards an open door to what’s hopefully the master bath.
“Morning, Viv.” I flick on the light, scanning the gold fixtures and white marble cut with black veins. I cross to the double sink and flip on the water. “How’s the romancin’ going?”
“Deep in a threesome,” she says cheerfully. When Viv’s not working as a flight attendant, she moonlights as an erotica writer. She writes the filthiest books you can imagine—things that even make a man like me blush.
And, yeah, I’ve read all of them.
“Callum, Jaz and Lewis finally got down and dirty.” She bubbles happily, telling me about her latest.
“No shit? About time.” I put her on speaker before setting the phone down to splash some water on my face and then sucking down a few handfuls cupped in my palms. As if water will quench my thirst. It doesn’t even clome close.
“Lewis needed to get over his hang-ups,” I continue, rubbing some water on the back of my neck. “Never fails to amaze me how that man can constantly fuck up his own life.”
Like I’m one to talk.
She laughs. “He’s just a character, Rocco. He’s not actually real.”
“He feels pretty real to me.”
“Awww, that’s about the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me. Do you want to read it? It’s the last one.”
“Hell, yes, I do.” In the mirror, my bloodshot eyes stare back at me. Saying I look ragged is an understatement. I run a hand through my hair, but it doesn’t help. I need a shower. And then a trip to the gym to hit the bag and clear my head. “I can’t wait for those three to get their freak on. But until then, please tell me you’ve got a flight for us, love.”
“We leave from Van Nuys in twelve hours.”
I close my eyes and drag in a slow breath of relief through my nose. “Sweeter words were never spoken.”
I work as a standby pilot for a private jet company. They use me for a variety of reasons. Maybe a regularly scheduled pilot gets sick. Or maybe it’s a client who needs a last-minute flight. Or, more often, it’s someone—usually someone wealthy as the devil and twice as shady—who needs to get somewhere fast and doesn’t want anyone asking questions.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t do security checks. I don’t flinch at any of the crazy stuff I’ve seen.
I just fly.
It’s the only time my life has a speck of purpose. Twelve hours is enough time to make sure I’m stone cold sober, get a work out in, and be ready for wheels up.
“Wait until you hear who we’re flying.” A big, fat smile resonates in her voice.
“Santa Claus?” I open some drawers until I find toothpaste and squeeze it out on my finger. The mint wakes me up, gets my blood moving. Also hides that lingering taste of mistake—for a few minutes at least. “Tinker Bell? I’ll fly anyone, love. Just get the fuck me outta here.”
“That bad?” she asks softly.
“I’ll be fine once we’re up in the air.” I pull open a door on the right to discover a walk-in closet that’s almost bigger than the bedroom. I step inside and rifle through the button-downs. Apparently that’s all he’s got, so I grab a solid black one and settle it over my shoulders, buttoning the lower few buttons.
Stiff cotton with a carefully pressed collar. I never wear shirts like this.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“LA to Sydney,” Viv says. “It’s a red-eye.”
“World Cup’s in Sydney right now,” I muse.
“Exactly!” Viv squeals, way too loud for my headache.
News of the upcoming World Cup was on the television behind the bar last night. The US Men’s team has a lot of promise this year—that is until Issac Rohan, the team captain, was arrested two weeks ago for doping.
Fucker. I respected him before that. Maybe a bit hypocritical considering that I’m just as much of a fuck up, but at least I stick to just hurting myself. Dopers bring the whole damn sport down.
I itch my jaw, curiosity getting the best of me. “Alright, Viv. Who are we flying?”
Better not be Rohan.
There’s at least twenty-two players on the US World Cup team. There can’t be many of them who live around LA. Rohan did. So does--
“Tobais Cain,” she blurts out, her excitement practically vibrating through the phone.
Yeah, that’s the name which came to mind.
All six-foot-one, one-hundred-ninety-two pounds of sleek muscle. I know because his stats ran across the television last night when they replayed that rebounded goal he sank to get into the quarters last World Cup.
I’ve never seen a man play soccer the way he does. Quick. Determined. Elegant. Not a word I use often, but for Cain, it encapsulates him.
Like Rohan, he’s also had some legal troubles recently. They were talking about it on the recap last night, but I was too busy stumbling into the back alley with my sleeping beauty to follow what was going on.
I should have just watched the sports recap. Should have gone to the gym instead of the bar. Should have cut myself off and blundered home, jacked off in the shower while picturing a man like Tobias Cain, and passed out half-way toweled off on my own freaking bed.
But when’s the last time I did what I should?
“Can you believe it?” she bubbles on. “I’m so excited we got this flight! You’ll be in the co-pilot seat, though. Dahlia’s first time in the captain’s chair.”
I step back into the master bath. “She deserves it.”
Dahlia’s young, but she’s a good kid and a determined pilot. She’s earned her chance to sit on the left. I honestly don’t care where I’m sitting as long as my ass gets off the ground. Just the thought of being up there loosens the tightness across my chest and edges away my headache. I know what I’m supposed to do up in the air. Everywhere else? Not so much.
I pull open the door to the bedroom to find Sleeping Beauty is still splayed out on the bed.
He peeks at me. “Is that my shirt?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Fine, take it.” He rolls over, curling up so he’s just a lump of sheets. “Just let me sleep.”
“Your guy sounds grumpy,” Viv says.
“Not my guy.” I dig around until I find my sandals in a little seating area where the almost empty bottle of Jack still lingers. “I’d tell you his name, but I don’t remember it.”
“You should be in one of my romance novels.”
“That’d be a good joke.” I slip my feet into my sandals, tucking the phone against my ear as I button the guy’s shirt.
The whiskey bottle sits not three inches from my big toe. Mostly empty, with that pepper stuffed inside, like a ship in a bottle. I kick it lightly, and the last of the amber liquid sways inside the glass.
The smell. It floods up towards me—biting and sharp. And so reassuring. My mouth waters, my brain short-circuits.
And just like that, I’m holding the bottle. I don’t remember stooping to pick it up. There’s just suddenly cool glass against my palm. Like my body has a mind of its own. I’m a ghost along for the ride.
“Rocco?” Viv asks.
“I’m here.” I swallow hard, my heart thumping so hard that I’d bet Viv can hear it. I shouldn’t drink this. Not if I’m going to fly in twelve hours. I don’t fly drunk.
I take a deep breath and then reach out to set the bottle upright on the table. Before I can think too hard, I head out of the bedroom to the front door.
“Sorry, love,” I say to Viv as I step outside. “I’ve gotta go. See you in LA. Take care of you.”
“You too.”
“I’ll try.” That’s a tall order.
I hang up, and take a deep breath of ocean air. A pristine beach stretches out to blue ocean. The sun reflects off the slow roll of the water. The scent of late summer flowers is sweet and crisp, the complete opposite of that bottle back there, and a long inhalation helps clear my head.
It’s a short walk down the path that dead-ends at the beach. My sandals sink into deep, cool sand not yet warmed by the sun.
I order an Uber and stare at the cerulean blue sky while I wait. There’s a slight haze in the distance—a growing humidity. Rain brewing.
Doesn’t matter. Humidity, clouds, rain. Nothing can keep me grounded.
I’ll be up there soon.