After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Read online

  He is naked.

  His body is like nothing I have ever seen in a man before.

  Broad and thick. Tattoos jitter down each of his arms and over each shoulder, until the black lines meld into the hair on his chest.

  He is a warrior from another time. Completely foreign in my world of manicured men and perfectly sculpted haircuts. Whether they were born that way or not is irrelevant.

  Eli is more than how nature intended him—he is what he made himself to be.

  And it hurts—a raw, pulsing ache somewhere near my heart—that I have to walk away. Right now. Because if I don't meet my father, there will be hell to pay.

  And the price…the price is too high.

  I sit up and try to look away from the man standing in front of me. Away from the want, from the ache.

  And then he extends his hand. A simple gesture that forces me to look up at him. At the confusion and worry that are churning like controlled chaos in his eyes.

  I take his hand. Because I would be a coward not to.

  He tugs and I slip into his arms. A gentle embrace, made erotic and intimate by the contact of our skin. He has said nothing. Merely wraps me in his arms, as though he can feel the panic written in my veins.

  It calms me to stand there breathing him in, letting the afterglow of his touch fight for supremacy over the growing pressure of time building in my chest. I can feel him tense beneath my palms, his back tight.

  "I have to go," I whisper finally, breaking the silence between us. "I don't want to."

  "Then don't." His voice rumbles beneath my ear.

  I could lie to him. Tell him I have somewhere else to be than where I'm going. Telling him the truth would only lead to questions, an intrusion of my real life into the fantasy I've escaped into for the moment.

  "I have to meet my father."

  "You say that with all the joy of someone going into the hospital for an appendectomy. Without meds."

  I laugh because his comment is unexpected and laced with an understanding that is oddly comforting. "Let's just say it's not an appointment I can miss."

  The storm outside rumbles overhead, more distant now. "Unless by some act of God the storm prevented him from getting here."

  "Sadly, my life doesn't work that way."

  I can wish all day long that I could stay here, locked in this embrace with this man—our bodies pressed together, breathing in time, standing alone in space and silence.

  He cups my cheek and urges me to look up at him. "You can't go anywhere until I dry your clothes." There is mischief in his eyes, a faint smile teasing around his lips.

  Just like that, the panic that had been lingering expands, blooming into a wild, dark mold spreading inside my chest. I needed to be at the fundraiser. The consequences of not going…I'm not ready to face those.

  "Hey." His fingers are strong and warm against the skin of my throat. There is concern in his eyes now. It's at odds with the sexual caress of his body against mine.

  I don't move. Not to retrieve my still-wet clothing or to retreat from the lure of his touch. I want so badly to stay.

  I brush my lips against his. "Thank you," I whisper. It's all I can manage at the moment.

  He smiles and this time, it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm not quite sure how to read the situation, to be honest. I kind of hope there's a real emergency you're rushing off to, otherwise…"

  I laugh and bury my face against his chest. "There are no complaints on my end," I whisper. "You can bet your sweet, magical fingers that I'd be staying if I didn't have a really important thing to do this afternoon."

  "That's good." He tips my face up. "Because we haven't even gotten to the good stuff yet," he murmurs before crushing me to him, claiming my mouth in a way that leaves me gasping. He slips his hand between us, his fingers skimming over the swell of my breast. My skin tightens, and I'm aching for him all over again.

  "What's the good stuff?" I'm desperately clinging to the sexual pleasure in his touch. Avoiding the darkness stalking closer with every tick of the clock.

  I half expect him to whisper filthy things.

  Instead, he steps away, an evil smirk on his lips. "You'll have to wait and find out."

  I throw a wet sock at him.

  Chapter 18

  Parker

  * * *

  My directive is absolutely clear. Be at the Turner House at exactly five thirty for introductions and cocktails with local big shots who need to have their egos stroked and to be reminded how grateful my father is for their continued support. His contracting company is one of the largest on the east coast. And having a future congressman as a son-in-law is guaranteed to make his life easier, despite nepotism laws.

  Because that's how my father operates. He rewards loyalty so long as everyone remembers where they stand.

  There are few things in life more awkward than meeting your father after you've just had the most mind-blowing afternoon in your entire life.

  And yet, that's exactly what I'm doing. Rushing around my apartment like a madwoman. I need to shower and look presentable in less than an hour.

  I've done it in less time before. But never with the burning distraction of Eli Winter running through my brain like a rabid and well-hung hamster.

  Jesus, I can't believe what I said this morning. Of all the ways I’d imagined finally getting what I wanted, it never dawned on me that I was going to confess that sex hasn't exactly been an enjoyable experience for me.

  And have him basically go, yeah, challenge accepted.

  I smile as I step out of the shower and twist my hair up in a towel.

  How on earth am I supposed to buy myself more time?

  I'm not ready for my fantasy life to end. The one where I work in a bar where people actually give a shit about each other. Hell, where they actually know each other's names. That's nice in and of itself.

  I pretty much manage to create a miracle by the time three o'clock rolls around.

  I toss on a Brooks Brothers skirt and sweater with flats and do my makeup in record time.

  I am presentable, which is how he will expect me to be. I'm not allowed to gain weight or appear without makeup, even if I'm working out. I must always be perfect.

  Which is why my afternoon with Eli was so…extraordinary. No expectations. Nothing beyond what I wanted.

  My phone vibrates, and my stomach tightens into knots. It’s rare that I have that visceral of a reaction for a calendar reminder.

  I also know that what I want is irrelevant at this point. I've got a few more weeks at most before he yanks me back under his authority. My little game will come to an inglorious end, and I will be reminded, under threat of painful humiliation, just whose daughter I am and what that means for the choices I make.

  But every choice comes with a consequence, and my appearance at the posh Chapel Hill address is just another choice in the long line of decisions that I don't really get to make.

  The old house sits at the end of a long drive, lined with vehicle high hedges. Tall white pillars surround the front porch and appear to hold up the world. It's something out of Southern Charm—new money pretending to be old money except that old money doesn't have to look like it's old money. It just is.

  It's something I tried to explain to my roommate my freshman year. She'd been from some ridiculously small town in New Hampshire and she'd worn these oversized sweatshirts and flannel. She'd looked like some tragic refugee from the ’90s Seattle scene, and I tried to bring her into the current decade by telling her that wealthy people did not dress like they didn't have any money. Those were hipsters, trying to be ironic.

  We had a huge fight about her underwear, and well, the relationship never recovered.

  This house is too much like Jaylee’s underwear: trying too hard to be something it's not. You can't just ram cheap cotton up your ass and pretend you're wearing a thong. This house has too many flowers in the wrong places, too many replicas of famous paintings, as opposed to the famous paintings
themselves.

  I hand my keys to the valet and prepare to face my destiny. The one good thing that will come from tonight is that Davis won't be able to cause a scene in front of so many well-heeled donors. I'll pretend to be a good fiancée, and he'll pretend to be a good future husband, and the fiction that we are a model family will survive another day.

  The floor beneath my heels is polished concrete covered in a Persian medallion rug of deep blue and ivory. It contrasts with the natural stone in a way that isn’t, like the rest of the house, trying too hard.

  I search for Davis or my father in the already filled room, wondering briefly what the price per plate of this event is. I'm guessing between five hundred and five thousand dollars. The current room is probably the five-hundred-dollar club. Davis is too smart to ignore the smaller donors for the larger ones.

  "You look like you'd rather be French-kissing a water moccasin."

  I turn at the sound of a familiar voice, not hiding my surprise at seeing Kelsey standing next to me, wearing a crisp button-down white blouse and fitted black slacks. Completely different from the tank top and jeans she wears at The Pint. “What are you doing here?”

  "I'm working," she says mildly.

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m confused. You have two jobs?”

  She frowns at me even as she offers a drink to a passing woman wearing a ten-thousand-dollar diamond ring. “No. Eli’s providing the alcohol service here.”

  All the blood leaves my face. “He’s here?”

  Kelsey turns away, toward a cluster of women I’ve never met before, but nods toward another room off to one side of the great room we’re in. “Tending the bar. As always.”

  I follow the direction she’s pointed toward.

  And through the double French doors, I see him, standing behind the bar, smiling flirtatiously at a woman old enough to be his mother.

  Oh, this whole thing just got really awkward in a sexually charged kind of way.

  * * *

  Eli

  * * *

  The kind of money at this place is the kind of money I need to keep my business both running and growing. The hostess, Kathleen, is a woman who could have walked straight off the set of Real Housewives of Raleigh, if there was such a show. She's wearing cropped white pants that hug her curves and a flowing light blue top that barely conceals whatever she isn't really trying too hard to hide.

  I like Kathleen. She doesn't talk to me like I'm some kind of freak show. She's inspected my tattoos and definitely has given me the vibe that I could partake of her favors if I’m so inclined. It's flattering more than anything.

  At least, that's what Deacon told me before he mentioned that he'd spent an afternoon with her, and it was quite possibly the most interesting afternoon he'd ever had.

  Which for Deacon the Dark and Grumpy was saying something.

  Someday, I'll get him to tell me just what was so interesting about that afternoon, but for now, I need to keep chatting her up to make sure that when I send the bill, it gets paid in a timely manner.

  And since tonight’s bill is starting at ten thousand dollars, I’m going to keep smiling until my face cracks. It's enough to have me taking out all the stops to make sure that Kathleen is exceptionally happy with our service tonight.

  Which is why Deacon is also here. Their afternoon was friendly, so I’m sure having him around can’t hurt. I hope.

  The event tonight is some kind of political party fundraiser, and I've been directed to make the expensive whiskey the centerpiece of the night.

  Easy enough. Except that I about had a heart attack transporting it: there’s nothing like carting around a few thousand dollars in whiskey and praying you don't get into an accident.

  The air is thick from the rain. It clings to my skin, drawing my clothes tight against my body in a way I haven't felt since Iraq. It's one of the reasons I prefer the modern conveniences of air conditioning.

  But when people are hot, they drink. And when they drink…

  A sliver of movement catches my eye, and my attention is drawn to a woman dressed in an amber sweater and soft beige skirt and shimmering in the afternoon heat.

  Parker. Her hair pinned up, revealing the arch of her neck, the smooth curve of her skin. I imagine her pulse against my lips right where her collarbone disappears into the scoop top fabric.

  She is smiling, talking to Kelsey, who is playing the dutiful, polished waitress to absolute perfection.

  I watch her for a moment, feeling like I've caught a glimpse into her unfiltered world. For a moment, she is smiling and open and poised. The Parker I remember from that day in my office when she was demanding I give her a job, all while making me feel like I was doing her a favor.

  I feel like an idiot for not piecing things together. Of course this is where she was supposed to be tonight.

  Apparently she's political royalty, because the man who’s just appeared owns the room. He’s a younger man but that does nothing to negate the power he has as he parts the crowd, sliding toward her. I watch as her smile falters just a little. Tightens at the edges.

  I'd have never noticed if I hadn’t been watching her.

  But I've seen the unfettered smile she offers when she really relaxes.

  And that is not it.

  There is something like rage tight beneath my ribcage as Davis Harcourt, first-term congressman from Virginia, melts out of the crowd and walks toward Parker like he knows her. Which apparently, he does, because he grips her shoulders and leans in for a kiss that Parker deflects easily, leaning in to brush her cheek against his and pat his arm.

  It's meant to be smooth. And it is.

  Unless you're watching for it. Which I was.

  Here is the source of her bruises.

  What the hell kind of life does she have that she has to dodge a man’s touch in public?

  "Calm down." Kelsey's voice is a balm on my skin.

  I turn my attention back to the whiskey I'm pretending to line up neatly on the stainless-steel cart. "I'm calm."

  "You're about as calm as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

  "That's quite the turn of a phrase," I remark, trying to keep my voice light.

  "It's a gift." She lifts one brow and pins me down. "Seriously. Stop glaring. You're the help. You don't get an opinion at events like this."

  I swallow and consider my words carefully. "If my guess is right and Davis Harcourt is her fiancé, she’s in for a world of hurt behind closed doors.”

  “You saw that, too?”

  “In public, when she knows she has to have a hundred cameras on her, capturing every move." I look back over at Parker.

  “Stop,” Kelsey says mildly. “Get your smile on and practice being invisible. That's how you get invited back to events like these. They have to love you but not know you're there."

  Kelsey is right but I can’t stop watching Parker. Across the room, she appears in her groove. She's talking and smiling and blending in with all the right people. She doesn't laugh too loud. Doesn't do anything that isn't perfectly poised and planned.

  It's like watching a facsimile of the Parker I've gotten to know. The Parker who says the first thing on her mind. The Parker who makes me laugh when I'm trying to seduce her.

  No, that Parker is not in front of me. I have to wonder which one is real. Is the Parker I spent the early afternoon with who she really is? Or was she just playing me, determined to win at any cost? Because that Parker—my Parker—is not the woman I see across the room.

  My Parker may not really exist.

  She may have only been playing a part.

  Just like I am tonight.

  Chapter 19

  Parker

  * * *

  There is no way to avoid Davis. But I damn sure didn’t have to antagonize him like I did.

  Why didn't I just let him kiss me on the cheek? I should have. I saw the annoyance flicker in his eyes the moment I shifted away and brushed my lips against his cheek.
/>   But the wave of revulsion I felt when he approached nearly undid my carefully done mask of perfection that I am expected to always present.

  He doesn't like it when the people around him are less than flawless.

  I know all too well the risk of being less than perfect when I'm around him. I won't do it again.

  But the idea of him touching me…my skin physically recoiled from him, taking my body with it.

  I didn't do it on purpose but that doesn’t matter. Away from prying eyes and documenting cameras, I’m going to pay for this later.

  For now, I'll play the dutiful fiancée.

  The hostess, Kathleen, wants a picture of me with my father's third wife, Lainey. Oh the joy. She slips her arm around my waist, her smile as flawless as mine.

  "Have you been hitting the bars? You've gained weight," she says through her smile.

  The hate burns. But it does not shine through. "Lovely to see you, too. I see the cocaine is keeping you thin."

  "You have such a terrible mouth on you. Your father's right. Davis needs to get you in line."

  "I'm not really a fan of spanking." My smile could have cracked glass. "But you know, you do you."

  The photographer moves off and we are alone, surrounded by a sea of people who want to ask Lainey about her latest charity project.

  A charity that I'm ninety-nine percent positive is simply a feel-good cause that directs most of its money to operations—it's a scam, as far too many charities are these days.

  I slip away from Lainey, surrendering the spotlight to a woman born to bask in it.

  I suddenly very much want to dye my hair and move to Tahiti where I can live out my days as a beach bum.

  "Was that as painful as it looked?"

  I smile at the voice that slips over my skin like a caress. It is tempting, so tempting, to lean back into his body, to feel his chest support me, his arms fold around me.