Catch My Fall: A Falling Novel Page 14

  It takes everything I have not to lift her, to urge her legs around my hips and grind against her. I'm hard as a fucking stone. I know she can feel me, solid and hard against her.

  She's my addiction. The one woman I dream about when I'm with someone else.

  And she knows it. She has to know it.

  Her barriers hurt us both.

  "We spent four weeks together when we got home and I don't remember any of them. Except the nightmares." She cups my face, brushing her lips against mine. "I can't do that again. I can't get lost in the alcohol and the sex. Because it doesn't help me forget. It only makes it worse."

  I lower my forehead to hers, her quiet admission gutting me, ripping through me. That’s why she’s kept us apart. That’s why she’s walked away and pretended there was nothing between us.

  Her words hurt; they slice at me, reminding me of how fucking self-centered I was when I first got home, wanting to do nothing more than drink and fuck, then drink some more.

  I had no idea how much she was hurting. Because I didn’t bother to look.

  "I didn’t know." It’s a pitiful confession. So insufficient. I step back then, releasing her from the wall.

  Letting her go when it's the last thing I want. She disappears up the stairs, quiet as a ghost.

  I lower my forehead to the wooden shelf holding parts of Eli's extensive and very expensive whiskey collection. We're a long fucking way from that bloodstained container where Kelsey used to live.

  But we might as well never have left.

  A piece of my soul stayed back there, mixed in with the sand and the bullets and the blood.

  Forever entwined with hers.

  16

  Kelsey

  I wish he hadn't done that.

  I could practically taste him. The warmth of his breath against my mouth. It would have been so easy to slip my hands into his pants pockets and pull his hips toward me. To let him draw me into one of the dark corners of the cellar and do what we used to do under the stars in Iraq. Sometimes the nights were utterly quiet except for the hard sounds of our breathing.

  Sometimes there were distant gun battles echoing across the desert, but the war had seemed so far away when Deacon had been touching me. Hard and rough. God, there was nothing like it. Not before and definitely not since.

  It's been so long since I've had such a raw, human connection…tangled with so much alcohol and sex and history.

  My body burns. I can almost feel the cool sand beneath my palms as I braced and offered myself to him. The feel of his fingers digging into my hips as he pushed inside of me in one of those bunkers that no one was supposed to be in unless we were taking indirect fire.

  They had been perfect for forbidden trysts like ours. "Fuck me," I mutter. I slip back behind the bar, needing a drink or three to put out the goddamned fire between my thighs. Because if I don't, I know what happens next.

  The memories from Iraq were good.

  Until they weren’t.

  But for a moment in the dark, cool basement of The Pint, surrounded by thousands of dollars in whiskey, I was able to remember the feel of his cock inside me, the feel of his hands on mine. All without thinking about blood dripping onto the sand. Even if it was just this once, I could practically feel his cock filling me, his hands dragging my hips closer.

  I toss back a drink as more customers wander in off the streets. The upcoming whiskey festival is drawing a lot of foot traffic earlier than we're used to, but these are good problems to have.

  Parker has vanished back to Eli's office. That's probably a good thing. I don't think I'm going to be fit company tonight, despite working on my girl friendships.

  Maybe I should get on social media or something. See if any of the guys from our old unit are still around. I swallow another shot.

  "Girl, you keep drinking like that and we'll be carrying you out."

  I lower the shot glass and look at the owner of the voice. "Been a long time since anyone called me ‘girl.’"

  The man in front of me might be a god. A fallen one with a smile as dark as sin that promises all sorts of wickedness. I’d noticed him earlier talking to Caleb and Deacon. Now that he’s talking to me, he seems to have swallowed all the light in the room, consuming my attention. "Does the girl have a name?"

  "Isn't it a little early for a Game of Thrones reference?"

  "It's never too early for a Game of Thrones reference." He leans on the bar.

  I nod toward where Caleb is sitting at the end of the bar. “You know Deacon and Caleb?” I ask.

  "Yeah, we were in the Army together. I'm Sam. Sam Rossi."

  His hand crosses the space between us. I'm used to being hit on. Used to being flirted with, but his direct approach is a little…unusual. There's a casual arrogance. Like he's not used to people turning him down.

  I wait a little too long. He lifts one brow, then lowers his hand. "I promise I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

  "You are quite the forward one, aren't you?" I fold my arms over my chest and lean back against the counter behind me. Putting space between us just in case he turns out to be a serial killer or a werewolf.

  "My mom raised me to introduce myself. I was attempting to be polite."

  I can't help but smile. He's quite the distraction. He's a big man, bigger than Deacon. And the kind of well-built that just screams a lot of time in the outdoors and a penchant for grilled meat. Pounds of it.

  Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? I should be jumping all over the opportunity this guy presents.

  "I'm Kelsey."

  "Nice to meet you. You always drink that hard?"

  I lift one shoulder. "Doesn't really phase me."

  I brace for a lecture about the first step to recovery is recognizing that you've got a problem but it doesn't come. I motion toward the bar. "What can I get you?"

  "How about a glass of Jack Daniel’s Monogram?"

  Jesus; moneybags. No matter how long I spend around The Pint, I can't get used to the levels of wealth around me. "Sure thing. Got a firstborn to put up for a down payment?"

  He grins. "It's expensed."

  "Of course it is." I snatch the key from near the register and open the locked cabinet beneath the bar, pulling out the leather-bound bottle. Eli's gamble on the high-end stuff is paying off.

  I pour his drink, put away the bottle, lock the cabinet, then slide the glass toward him. "Starting a tab?"

  He hands over a black card. Someone is working a little too hard to ensure I notice the wealth he wields like a weapon.

  I suppose he's used to it causing panties to drop.

  And I'll be honest: Mine might have, except that they were already set on fire a while ago by another man who all the money in the world could not replace.

  "Are you new in town?" I ask. It's part of my job to be chatty, even on nights that I don't feel like it.

  "Yeah. I’m opening up a new business. And possibly renovating a property I inherited out at Jordan Lake.”

  I lift both eyebrows. "You have carpentry skills for that?"

  "My dad's a contractor, so yeah. Well, sort of. I figure there's a lot I can figure out and hire out the help I need otherwise. I got my degree in engineering at West Point, so I know a little bit about building things.”

  I feel like I missed an inside baseball joke somewhere but I don’t ask him about it. "Did you like the Army? Or West Point?"

  "I liked the building and blowing shit up more than the officer part. It's one of the biggest reasons why I'm a civilian now."

  "Makes sense. Excuse me, I’ve got to take another order." I drift off to help another customer, amazed that Eli's bar continues to act like a magnet for veterans around North Carolina.

  No matter how much this guy drinks or talks shit with that whiskey-smooth voice, I'm not interested. At least not in what he could be offering.

  I've got bigger problems waiting for me at the end of my shift tonight, problems that involve a lack of sleep and clear decision-m
aking ability. Problems that could be solved with a little shot of Deacon.

  But that’s the problem with addiction. One shot is all it takes to draw you back in.

  Deacon

  "You always carry around a bottle of whiskey with you when you're skulking around in dark corners?"

  I lift said bottle of whiskey in mock salute at Eli. He’s sitting on the small couch in his office, feet kicked up, reading a report Parker’s prepared. Or at least I'm going to assume she prepared it, based on how smugly she's looking at his expression.

  I am not going to think about all the things done on that couch since she became a part of his life. Nope. Not going to do it.

  "When you work at this place, yes."

  Parker pats his shoulder and stands. "I've got to run upstairs for a few minutes. I'll be back."

  She slips by me, her palm brushing my shoulder as she passes, then melts into the dark hallway, heading toward the stairs that lead up to his loft. She hasn't moved in. Not completely. But she's there often enough that I'm pretty sure she's got at least a toothbrush up there. And maybe some clean underwear.

  And Jesus, I need to redirect my thoughts somewhere other than underwear because tonight everything is leading me down the path to temptation, with Kelsey waiting at the end of it.

  Because it's not Parker's panties I'm thinking about. Not in the least.

  Eli drops his feet from the table in front of the couch and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. I wish I had something to do with my hands but the whiskey seems to be the last thing I have to hold on to. I breathe out hard. "You ever…had someone you care about a whole lot but you can't be around each other because of the fucked-up things that happen when you're together?"

  Eli picks up his pen, tapping it end over end against his palm. "Kelsey?" He frowns. "This has to do with your first tour, doesn't it? The tour when you were downrange with her?"

  "Yeah." The word is a brick, lodged in my throat. I look down the hall toward the bar, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who fucking haunts my sleep. When I sleep, that is. "She's got me in a box. And I'm not enough of an asshole to force my way out of it."

  "Force doesn't really strike me as something that would go over well with someone like Kelsey anyway."

  I scoff quietly. "You don't know the half of it. Her platoon sergeant tried a little quid pro quo with her when she was a private. She kneed him in the balls and told him that if he touched her again, he'd be mailing his balls home to his wife in a baggie."

  Eli lifts one skeptical brow. "How did she not get court-martialed? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing a private could do with impunity."

  "She was her company commander's driver and he'd tried the same thing with her."

  Eli drags his hand over his beard. "What the hell kind of unit was she in that a senior NCO was trying that shit with anyone, let alone a company commander?"

  "A screwed-up one, at least until we got First Sarn't Sorren in. He cleaned that shit up quick. But to your point, Kelsey isn't one to take threats or force lightly."

  "Have you tried just being alone with her and talking with her?"

  My mind detours back to the basement. To the feel of her body, soft and smooth against mine. "Yeah."

  "Well then, you are well and truly fucked, my friend." He reaches for a glass on the low table in front of him. "Look, you're obviously not ready to talk about whatever it is that's going on with you and her. Go drink a beer. But get whatever is eating at you out of your system before it rips you apart. I'm not up for any more visits to the emergency room, if it's all the same to you."

  And with that, our conversation is over. Mostly because he's hit a sore spot that he doesn't know he's hit. I touch the tip of my index finger to my forehead and duck out of his office.

  It's so simple in my head: Kels, we need to talk. About Iraq. About everything. And I'm not leaving until you do. Such simple statements.

  And I can practically hear her response. Which part? The blood-covered walls? The indirect fire that shook those same walls?

  I stop at the edge of the hallway, watching her flirt with Sam. I am suddenly feeling quite peevish about my dark and far too sexy friend.

  I want him about as far away from Kelsey as I can get him.

  But Sam isn’t the problem.

  I swallow a hard lump. "Or how about we talk about the fucked-up night that we both keep pretending never happened?"

  The words disappear into the din of the music and the noise and lights of the bar, unheard and unanswered by an uncaring universe.

  17

  Deacon

  I'm alone in the bar, long after last call. Kelsey dipped out a couple of hours ago and the only reason I’m not raging with jealousy, worried whether she went home with Sam, is that I saw him staggering out with Caleb. Which was odd because usually, people don’t like drinking with Caleb.

  We didn't speak the rest of the night. No flirting for an audience. No teasing touches that could go too far, too fast.

  It's my turn to shut things down tonight. I don’t mind being alone and closing things up. My phone vibrates on the counter.

  I can't sleep.

  I stare at my phone for a while; I guess I’m surprised that my pen pal is still talking to me. This is by far the strangest thing I’ve ever done, but right now, it’s comforting. Like talking to an old friend.

  Me either. Nights like this can get really long, really quick.

  Do you want to meet?

  This could be an elaborate scam to steal my money or milk me for sperm to sell to a fertility bank. Or maybe my pen pal wants my kidney. Those are in high demand these days, aren't they?

  To hell with my kidneys. I'm curious now.

  Shouldn't we meet somewhere public and well lit, first?

  She sends me the place: 42 North, an all-night café a few blocks from here.

  What if I get there and we decide that meeting in real life is super awkward?

  The email response is back almost before I can blink. There's a desperation in the speed of the reply, and with everything else that happened tonight it's got my Spidey senses tingling.

  We'll have to figure it out, won't we? Do you like to play games? Like Monopoly or something?

  That response I don't have to think about: Not particularly.

  The response is delayed this time. As if she's thinking.

  I'm assuming the person on the other end is a she. Could be a dude. Which would be awkward because I don't hit for the same team.

  No games. No sex. I just…I don't want to be alone.

  The worst part is being alone, isn't it? But I don't text that to her. Because that would mean I'm going to admit there are things I don't like about being single. Or that I'm still not used to being a civilian. That there are unfulfilling aspects to civilian life that I never thought I'd hate.

  I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

  She doesn't respond. I suppose this could be a catfishing scheme. There are a thousand other things that could go horribly wrong.

  I close up The Pint and start walking. There are a few bars that stay open later than The Pint, and I know Eli has toyed with the idea of staying open later, but given we’re a little short on staff he can’t swing it right now.

  The warehouse district is just a few blocks from The Pint. It’s busier than normal from the Summer in the Streets festival that’ll be gearing up over the next week. The festival's our small North Carolina town's attempt at a smaller version of South by Southwest.

  It has raised the hipster and starving artist population density in our town by six hundred percent. I may have to start drinking in the mornings again if it gets much bigger.

  I turn toward the old warehouse district behind the tobacco building district that has been reclaimed and fully gentrified into loft apartments.

  I stop before I step inside the café, which has a pretty busy crowd inside for three in the morning.

  I'm not afraid, just uncertain about how this is
going to go.

  I don't really know what I'm dealing with. The person on the other side of this email chain could have massive issues that I'm not equipped to handle.

  But there's something so unbreakably human in her request to just have someone hold her in the dark. It’s so terribly sad that she doesn't feel like she can get that from any normal interactions, only from a stranger on the Internet. I lean back against the cold brick wall outside the café, looking up at the overhead streetlights. Wishing there was some way to fix the world. Wishing there was some way to stop the hurt that I'm avoiding just as much as the person I'm about to meet is.

  Okay, fine. I’ll admit that I’m afraid. Afraid of this connection. Afraid of crawling into bed with someone and holding them. I've never fully spent the night with anyone. Not since Iraq, when I would sneak out of Kelsey's trailer before dawn to get back to my own.

  I take a deep breath. I can do this, right? It's something simple. Something human.

  It's a single night. If it doesn't work, I can sneak out and delete the emails and pretend I never crossed the line from Are-You-Fucking-Kidding-Me to Today-in-Shit-That-Only-Happens-in-Movies.

  What's the worst that could happen?

  42 North is a small café tucked in between a head shop and a New Age bookstore that’s been around since before the tobacco district was the cool place to be. The walls are covered in black chalkboard paint, the menu written in bright pastel chalk behind the register.

  There's a group of college bros sitting in a booth near the bathroom. They're flirting harmlessly with the waitress, who appears to be flirting back. The cook is behind the counter, flipping what's probably some exotic grained pancakes with goji berries or the random-ass super food of the week.

  And of all the people who could be sitting in a small booth near the door, is the dead last person I expected.

  She doesn't notice me at first. She's tapping out something on her phone.