After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Read online

  After I Fall

  A FALLING NOVEL

  Jessica Scott

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Jessica Scott

  Untitled

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek at CATCH MY FALL

  CATCHY MY FALL

  A Message from Jessica Scott

  About the Author

  AFTER I FALL

  The Falling Series

  Her entire life has been a lie. Being with Eli is the most honest thing she’s ever done.

  * * *

  Parker Hauser lives the perfect life and knows exactly where she's been and where she's going. Parker has to be perfect. Perfect grades, perfect body, perfect life.

  * * *

  Until she meets Eli Winter.

  * * *

  Eli throws her entire life into chaos when he denies her the one thing she wants from him.

  * * *

  One chance encounter stokes her desire for the man who refused to touch her and left her questioning everything.

  * * *

  When Parker tries to help his new business, the spotlight turns on Eli's military record. And the war he's tried to forget may destroy them both.

  * * *

  THE FALLING SERIES

  Before I Fall: Noah & Beth

  Break My Fall: Abby & Josh

  After I Fall: Parker & Eli

  Catch My Fall: Deacon & Kelsey

  * * *

  Note – these books are fiction. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidence

  * * *

  Learn More At…

  http://www.jessicascott.net

  Follow Jessica on Twitter

  Like Jessica on Facebook

  Sign up for Jessica's Newsletter

  Also by Jessica Scott

  HOMEFRONT SERIES

  Come Home to Me

  Homefront

  After the War

  Into The Fire

  FALLING SERIES

  Before I Fall

  Break My Fall

  After I Fall

  Catch My Fall (2017)

  * * *

  NONFICTION

  To Iraq & Back: On War and Writing

  The Long Way Home: One Mom’s Journey Home From War

  COMING HOME SERIES

  Because of You

  I’ll Be Home For Christmas: A Coming Home Novella

  Anything For You: A Coming Home Short Story

  Back to You

  Until There Was You

  All for You

  It’s Always Been You

  Copyright © 2017 by Jessica Scott

  * * *

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission. Please support authors by purchasing only from authorized vendors.

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing 2017

  * * *

  Author photo courtesy of Buzz Covington Photography

  Cover Photo courtesy of Krause Photography

  Cover design by Jessica Scott

  For more information please see www.jessicascott.net

  To Kame & Pat

  For being there from the beginning

  AFTER I FALL

  Chapter 1

  Parker

  * * *

  My day doesn't always start with dicks, but when it does, they are usually unsolicited and where my supposed fiancé can find them. Like it’s my fault they show up, somehow.

  "Stupid dick pic."

  Muttering to myself as I cross campus isn’t really normal behavior for me. But today, well, today has crossed the line into completely abnormal.

  And yes, that means I have seen more than one unsolicited—and often rather sad and pathetic—penis arrive in my inbox. I’m really not sure what makes men think that random women will be impressed by their wildly disappointing penises.

  None of the pics are ever anything to write home about. Not that unsolicited penis is ever something to brag about. But seriously. Do they all have to be so mediocre?

  The latest iteration looks like a plucked baby chickadee that fell out of its nest. If this is what I have to look forward to when I get old, you can cancel that shit.

  Old dicks are gross.

  Which doesn't mean I'm morally opposed to penises. On the contrary. Just not ones attached to men forty years older than I am.

  "Who the hell thinks their dick is so fucking special that they send it to people out of the blue? Like ‘hey, I know you're totally coming to work for me in a couple of weeks and bam, here's my dick. Hope you like it’."

  I have exactly one week to figure out a new plan for me to get a letter for the executive management program here at the business school. Oh, and the company I was supposed to work at this summer that was going to get me an interview…well, thanks to a certain ill-timed penis arrival, that whole plan just got flushed down the toilet and went swirly.

  I'm scrolling through my phone, looking at advertisements on the student website, hoping an internship will magically appear and save me from having to go home and explain this to my father.

  My phone vibrates. Thankfully, it's not a dick. Well, not exactly, anyway.

  Nope; instead it’s my dad.

  Who I also don't really want to talk to. Once upon a time, I would have asked him for help but, well, Dad hasn’t really been all there since my mom died six years ago.

  My dad’s going to ask me about the internship, and I don’t have any answers. At least, not any that he’s prepared to listen to.

  Hey, Dad, there’s this dick I need to talk to you about.

  How's that for a nonstarter for a conversation? My life would be so different if I had a father who didn’t love my fiancé like the son he always wanted more than the daughter who was marrying the future son-in-law.

  I reach beneath my sunglasses and rub my eyes, fighting the burning tears. How did everything get so colossally fucked up?

  "Are you okay?"

  I look up, surprised at the unexpected concern from an unfamiliar voice. The woman in front of me is…sharp. She's athletic and sleek, but it's the roses and thorns twisting up her arms that draw my attention. The red roses stand in stark contrast to the black and grey thorns. Her eyes are liquid gold, lined with sultry brown.

  She looks just as lost as I feel at the moment.

  So why she’s stopped and asked if I’m okay…surprised is putting it mildly.

  I paste on a blinding, well-practiced smile. "I'm fine. Thank you, though, for asking."

  She narrows her eyes at me then tips her chin. "Last time I saw someone arguing with
themselves like that, it didn't end well."

  I pause, not really sure what to do with her standing there in front of me. I don’t normally have conversations with strangers and I certainly don’t introduce my mental health status in the opening interaction.

  But I’m also curious. I toy with the zipper on my purse. "Um, how did it end?"

  She grins and her expression shifts to something wistful, something laced with memory. It has the odd effect of making her look sharper and softer. It’s an odd combination. "With me wrestling his ass to the ground and taking the crazy fuck to the fifth floor."

  I lift both eyebrows, not entirely sure about what she’s just said or if it's even possible for a woman to wrestle a guy to the ground, but I'm not going to be the one to find out if she's telling the truth. "Really? That's kind of badass. Like all Xena: Warrior Princess and stuff."

  "It wasn't nearly as exciting as all that." Her voice is smooth and confident. Man, I wish I had her poise. She'd probably rip someone's dick off through the phone if they sent her an unwanted penis. And she’d know what to do when her fiancé didn’t believe her when she told him where said dick came from. "You don't happen to know where the financial aid office is, do you? I've been wandering around campus for an hour."

  "I think it's over near admissions,” I tell her. “If you follow this road all the way out of the quad, you should walk right to it." I point her in the right direction, then glare down at my phone again.

  “Hey, thanks.” She folds her arms over her chest and cocks her hip. “So what’s so wrong that you’re running around campus bitching to yourself?” Like she expects me to just open up and lay all my problems at her feet.

  I take a deep breath. Part of me, the part that’s shrunk away from the world because the world sends you dick pics, the part of me that wants to run and hide, is actually reaching toward the care in her voice. Reaching out, craving…connection. A sense of belonging, to someone or something.

  "I'm trying to find an internship for the summer. Mine…fell through." I don't usually have a hard time finding words, but there you have it. I can't bring myself to admit that I've been sent the image of an unwelcome sixty-year-old pecker. Davis’s words are an insidious whisper in my head. What did you do to deserve it?

  "Oh, well, you're in luck." She stuffs a sheet of paper in my hand. I look down. In bold black letters, my saving grace may have just been handed to me on a silver platter lined with tattooed roses.

  Wanted: Intern. Learn about small business skills and entrepreneurship. Apply in person only. References must be non-family and from the last year.

  My smile is hesitant. Unsure.

  People just don't do things like this.

  It’s weird and a little…nice. I don’t really know what to do with nice these days. It’s in rather short supply.

  "Wow, thank you so much."

  “No problem.” She grins and suddenly looks much, much younger. “You should come by tonight. I’ll introduce you to the owner. It’s salsa night and I make a mean margarita.”

  “You’re a bartender?”

  She nods and her eyes are glittering in the bright light. “Yep. Over at The Pint. I’ve got a few side gigs to help pay the bills.” She motions toward the paper. “Seriously, come by tonight. It’ll distract you from whatever else is going on. You look like you need a night out, anyway.”

  The paper in my hand has my salvation inscribed on it in smooth black letters. “Thanks. I think I’ve got plans tonight but I’ll swing in tomorrow? Will the owner be there?”

  “Yeah, he’s always around. Like a mother hen, to be honest.” But there’s no venom in those words. Only a disgruntled affection that has me even more curious. I’ve heard people describe their bosses using many terms but mother hen isn’t one of them.

  “Thank you,” I finally say. Because she may have seriously saved me from the most awkward conversation I never want to have.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the first non-frenemy female interaction I've had in years.

  Miracles, it seems, might really exist.

  * * *

  Eli

  * * *

  People always look at me like I've got a dick growing out of my forehead when I tell them I miss the Army. ’Course, I suppose I have to consider my audience these days. I'm not bouncing at Ropers out in Harker Heights anymore or dragging drunk GIs out of that esteemed institution. No, my life at Fort Hood is long gone.

  The dirt parking lot at Ropers was filled with F-150s and Dodge Rams, complete with truck nuts and NRA stickers. The cars here are valet-parked in a lot around the corner and out of sight. They are Mercedes’ and BMWs with the occasional McLaren thrown in.

  It's about as far from Fort Hood as I can possibly get, at least culturally. You wouldn't think I was still even in the South with how different things are here.

  I suppose there are worse problems to have than dealing with rich dicks who buy the top-shelf liquor and run up five-hundred-dollar tabs in a few hours’ worth of drinking.

  They keep my business in the black, so I don't really have any reason to complain. Especially when my other customer base likes to start bar fights as though we were back at Ropers.

  Which is why, at the moment, I have a former West Point officer squared up with a business school escapee and they’re getting ready to start breaking furniture if me or Deacon don’t step in. Like now.

  I'm standing in the shadows, looking out at my bar. My place. My merry band of misfit toys. Every one of us is a refugee from civilian life, desperately reaching out to our small circle of veterans just to feel fucking normal.

  Deacon is behind the counter, doing his thing with a dark-haired girl with perky tits and an ass just made for gripping. And Kelsey Ryder is clueless as ever that he'd drop everything for her. I grin as she slaps him on the ass with a bar towel. The crowd eats it up.

  Out of everyone in my fucked-up little tribe, Deacon is probably the most normal, despite everything he's been through. Or at least he’s the most honest about it. He drinks when the bad times come; he fucks hard when they're gone. His dick is probably going to fall off one of these days, but one thing he's never done is tried to pretend that everything is honky-fucking-dory.

  I scrub my hand over my beard.

  Deacon knows more about the area than I ever will, and I've been using the shit out of him to navigate local politics as I try to grow The Pint's position and stature in the community. It's tricky down here in the South, and even though I'm not exactly unconnected, the connections I do have I don't want to call in.

  He catches me in the shadows and wanders over. “What are you moping about tonight?” Subtle as always.

  "Not moping. Contemplating life choices," I mutter.

  He lifts one eyebrow and continues to wipe down glasses, stacking them on a towel near the ice. "You could have fooled me. It very much looks like you're moping."

  I shrug. Deacon will see what Deacon wants to see, and nothing I say will change that. It's better not to argue with him, especially when he's actually right.

  "Let's just say recent events have got me rethinking what's really important."

  I look out at the bar in time to see Kelsey taking a shot off the bar with just her mouth. "Yeah, we've got a real family element here."

  "It might be more Addams Family than Leave it to Beaver but it's still a family. And maybe I've realized that there are some things more important in life than a good paycheck.”

  I jerk my chin toward Caleb and some guy who is wearing clothes far too expensive for a bar like The Pint.

  "Your turn or mine to deal with Captain Pain in the Balls?"

  “Your turn.”

  Kelsey's rocking it behind the bar tonight. I'm glad. Sometimes, there are too many gaps between her good nights.

  "You really care about your people, don't you? About us," Deacon asks, nodding in Kelsey’s direction. Deacon catches me staring.

  I scrub my hand over my beard once more, wishing
Deacon was a little less perceptive. "What makes you say that?"

  "The way you watch over us. Even someone like Caleb, who you can’t stand, you still stayed at the hospital with him. There's a thousand little things you do every day to take care of people."

  I shrug. "Guess I'm hardwired that way."

  "What about you, though? Who takes care of you?"

  I suck in a deep breath, then let it out with deliberate slowness. "As long as what I do still matters, then I'm okay."

  A simple, uncomplicated truth.

  I slide a bottle of tequila over to Deacon. “Guess it’s my turn to break up the fight tonight?”

  Deacon grins and slaps me on the back. “You know I’m on probation from the last one. I’d prefer not to spend the last week of classes hoping you can hit up a GoFundMe to bail my ass out of jail.”

  I touch the tips of my fingers to my brow in a mock salute. “Touché.”

  Bracing myself, I wade into the argument between Caleb, the resident pain in my ass who has recently refused to attempt sobriety and as a result, has assumed the mantle of the person most likely to get into a bar fight, and my other customer.