Before I Fall Page 3

  Guys like Caleb got people killed because they didn't listen.

  "Don't be a dick."

  This from Josh before I have a chance to say a word. Josh knew LT and helped get me oriented, at least to the business school.

  "What? She's smoking hot. I'd tap that."

  I reach for my water, briefly considering whether or not to smash the glass into Caleb's face. "We're not discussing tapping anything. We're not in Iraq anymore," I say. There's a time and a place for locker room talk, and unless I've misread the entire situation - the middle of a place like this, that drips wealth and privilege - wasn't that place.

  I could be wrong, though. Judging by Josh's reaction, I don’t think I am.

  "So you get settled in?" Josh asks.

  "Yeah. New place is nice. Perfect, actually."

  "You're not living in town?" This from Nathan, who hasn’t said two words since we sat down. Josh told me he was quiet. I hadn't realized how literal he'd been.

  "Nah. I'm about twenty minutes from campus."

  "Not taking the bus?" Nathan is still nursing his beer. Caleb has already finished his first and is now twisting in his chair, looking for Beth.

  Something violent rocks through me. The idea of him thinking about her like she's some kind of fuck toy makes me physically ill.

  "Hell no," I say. "I'm sure it's perfectly fine and safe, but I'll pass on mass transport, thanks."

  "Don't blame you," Josh says. "Sometimes, it kills me what some of these kids think of as a prank. Some freshman threw a soda bottle full of vinegar and baking soda on one of the buses last semester. Damn near gave me a fucking heart attack."

  "Nice," I say. I'm watching for Beth. I can't help it. There's something about seeing her here that makes her seem vulnerable. In class, she was all boarded up and stiff. Professional and sexy and completely off limits.

  Here, she's different. Softer. More approachable. I wonder if it makes her uncomfortable knowing she can't hide behind her stern presence from class.

  I want to know. I want to know why she's working here. Business school isn't generally a place where you find people who have to work their way through college.

  But here she is. Delivering our food and smiling and making small talk.

  My tongue is stuck. I can't think of anything blindingly brilliant to say. Instead, I watch Josh and Nathan and Caleb talk, losing myself in the warmth of her hip near my shoulder.

  It's been a long time since I felt this awareness of another person. Not this kind of intense desire to know more, at any rate.

  A soft touch on my shoulder. I look up to find her staring down at me. "Do you need anything else?"

  Her voice is quiet, but it penetrates the fog in my brain. I shake my head. And isn't that fucking eloquent?

  She walks off, and I try not to stare at the sway of her hips or the small span of her waist. She's not tiny like most of the underclassmen, but she's not an Amazon, either.

  She's somewhere in between. Somewhere close to perfection.

  And I'm a goddamned chump because she's made it abundantly clear that there will be no shenanigans.

  Which is a shame.

  Because for the first time since I've come home from the war, I feel a semblance of life in my veins. So much nicer than the haze I've been walking around in.

  Pretending to live while waiting patiently to die.

  Chapter 4

  Beth

  It's after midnight when my shift ends. I'll have to be up early. The best time to try and get through to the VA is first thing in the morning. I've never had a phone answered by a live person after ten a.m. I have no idea what they do all day, but answering the phone certainly isn't one of those things.

  My feet hurt but nothing like they used to. Professor Blake gave me a gift card to Cole Haan my first year on campus. My soul had ached at the thought of spending that much money on a pair of shoes. But she'd basically ordered me not to argue because I was going to spend a lot of time on my feet. She was right. It was worth it to have a good pair of shoes beneath you.

  I've had them resoled three times since she bought them for me. She was definitely right.

  Still, I'm not walking home in high heels. I slide my worn sneakers on and head out into the darkness.

  I don't mind walking home. I head through campus which is generally pretty safe, despite a few random incidents a few years ago.

  Still, I keep a can of mace in my right hand. It might be illegal. I've never really checked, but I'm not going to be a walking statistic.

  I've got too much to live for to risk it. And besides, if something happened to me, what would happen to my dad?

  Headlights illuminate the dark in front of me. My blood starts pounding in my veins when I realize the car is slowing down to keep pace with me. I tighten the straps on my backpack and start scanning the area to see where I can disappear to. I'm wearing a jacket which covers my white shirt, so I'd be able to hide if I can get away from the road fast enough.

  "Hey."

  My stomach drops to my feet.

  Noah.

  "You know, it's really fucking rude to follow someone in the middle of the night." Now that I'm safe, I'm pissed. He scared the living hell out of me.

  "Sorry. I just actually realized that."

  He sounds genuinely embarrassed. I look down and he's leaning across the passenger's seat. "Do you want a ride?"

  "You guys left hours ago," I say.

  "I was curious how you were getting home."

  I lift one brow. "That's a pretty lame excuse."

  "Yeah well, I'm not really that smooth. What you see is what you get and all that."

  He makes me want to smile, but I can't let that barrier down. Still, it's tempting to take the offered ride. It would get me home sooner. Dad might still be awake, but I doubt it. When he's like this, he sleeps on and off for days until he can walk again.

  "How do I know you're not a serial killer?"

  "I've got people you can call for references." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Look, I was curious, okay?"

  "About what?"

  "You."

  My breath catches in my throat. This is the strangest conversation I've had in ages. I don't have a ton of practice at this whole flirting thing, if that's what this is. I've usually got way too many things on my mind to worry about hormones. "Well, I’m sure the details of my life are incredibly boring and mundane. I think you'd be better off looking at the eligible underclassmen."

  "I wasn't asking you to get married," he says. There's that crook at the corner of his mouth again. It suggests there might be dimples if he smiled. "Do you want a ride home, or are you content to skulk through campus in the dark?"

  I can admit that I'm tempted. There's something rugged about Noah. An edge. There's something about him that doesn't fit into the neat caricatures of business school students.

  I'm hesitating. There is frustration in the lines around his mouth, but I'm not really keen on him knowing where I live. I can't explain it, but I don't want him to see the tiny two-bedroom house that I share with my dad.

  My dad gave up everything for me to go to school here. I shouldn't be ashamed that we're scraping by, but I am.

  "Hello?" He waves his hand to get my attention.

  "No funny business?"

  "Hand to God," he says.

  I get in the car.

  "Nice ride." It seems like a safe conversation piece.

  Another thing about him that doesn't fit the business school stereotype. His car is clean and taken care of, without demonstrating that obsessive cleanliness and shine of people who have way too much identity based on the vehicle they drive. It is also not nice enough to be doubling as an exoskeleton for his penis. For some reason, that makes me relax a little more around him.

  "Thanks. I bought it when I first joined the army. Even managed not to get screwed on the interest rate."

  I look over at him. The pale blue lights from the dashboard cut harsh angles i
nto his cheeks. "That's impressive. I thought all car dealers around military installations were criminal."

  He looks over at me, curiosity in his dark eyes.

  "How do you know about car dealerships around military bases?"

  "My dad used to be in the army," I admit, and I instantly regret mentioning the military bases. I don't want to talk about the army with him.

  "Really? Where was he stationed?"

  "He was at Fort Benning before he got out."

  "I never served at Benning. My first duty station was Fort Hood, in Texas," he says. "I hear Columbus is nice, though."

  "It's certainly better than Fayetteville and Fort Bragg."

  "Bragg was my last duty station. I've got a lot of friends down there."

  "Were you Airborne?" I can't help it. My dad's certificate from Airborne school still hangs on the wall in his room. I thought it would remind him of the good times. I don't think he's ever noticed that it's there. I notice it though. Every time I bring him his medication, the plaques and certificates I hung for him taunt me with the man he used to be. They are a reminder of everything he gave up so I could be where I am.

  Noah

  She is sitting quietly now. No longer Beth the tutor or Beth the waitress. No, this is a new aspect of Beth. So many facets to her. She is fascinating and I’m enjoying the sensation of her getting underneath my skin.

  I honestly didn't think she was going to get in the car and I don’t really have a good excuse for going back to the country club and checking on her. We'd stayed for hours, drinking and reminiscing about our former lives. War stories always felt good when you were with people who understood the life you'd lived.

  It was such a far cry from sitting in classes with kids whose closest experience with war is Call of Duty.

  "Why did you get out?" she asks after a long silence. We’re sitting at a stoplight.

  Such a loaded, simple question. I breathe deeply for a minute, trying to figure out how much to tell her. I don't want to look at her and see pity looking back at me. So many people look at those of us who join the military as a bunch of mouth-breathing idiots who couldn't do anything else with our lives.

  She doesn't strike me as the judgmental type, but I can't know for sure. And I don't want to spoil the moment by letting my own bitterness and stereotypes into the conversation.

  "My contract was up. I served with a buddy who pushed me to apply to the business school and well, here I am."

  "Were you an officer?"

  I shake my head. "No. I was enlisted. Got out as a staff sergeant."

  She frowns at me. "How long were you in?"

  "A little under five years."

  "Wasn't that a little fast?"

  I shrug. She clearly knows more about the military than most military brats. "A little," I admit. "But we were - are - at war. We tend to promote anyone with a pulse to fill the rosters."

  She doesn't think my joke is funny. It's actually a pretty shitty joke, one that usually only other soldiers get, and it usually prompts another round of commiserating on how fucked up the entire mission was and still is.

  "So you ended up here," she says.

  "Yep. Hit the lottery in a lot of ways. It definitely takes some getting used to." I roll to a stop at another light. We’re off campus now. "Where am I taking you?"

  She directs me to her address. We turn down well-lit streets. It's in a nicer part of town close to campus. The houses are neat if small. They look old and well restored. Impressive, really. There's a lot of money at this school.

  Which makes her job at the country club that much more interesting. If she lives in a swanky part of town, what's she doing with a job?

  "So I wanted to say thanks for taking me on with the whole tutoring thing," I say. I want to put her at ease. She looks tense. Awkward. I'm not sure what to do to help her relax.

  "No problem. We'll keep your GPA up."

  I grin. I can't help it. "I'm not worried about how high my GPA is. I'm more concerned with failing."

  "You won't fail." There's an edge to her words, an undercurrent of steel that surprises me.

  "Don't underestimate how much my brain resists math."

  She smiles, and it transforms her. She's exhausted, but her face softens in the low light. "Don't underestimate my ability to teach."

  "I guess I'll have to have faith then, won't I?"

  "Faith, no. Practice, yes. Take the next right then I’m the second house on the left.”

  I turn down the street and stop where she tells me.

  "Thank you for the ride," she says. "I appreciate it."

  “No problem.” I hesitate for a moment. “You don’t have a car?”

  “I like to walk. Gets me outside.”

  She’s not lying, but she’s not telling the entire truth, either. Her story doesn't jive with the neighborhood that she lives in. I'm used to watching my soldiers and figuring out when they're lying to me.

  I'm not going to call her on it. Because nothing says stalker like “I can tell you're lying to me” in the first twenty-four hours of meeting someone.

  "I'll see you in class." She unfolds her long legs out of the car. She's not wearing those glorious heels she had on earlier. It's a shame because she's got amazing legs, and those heels made them go on and on forever.

  I watch her climb the steps for a moment, then pull away before she goes inside. I figure I've been enough of a psycho for one night.

  But my curiosity about Beth hasn't really been satisfied. If anything, I've got more questions. She's so unlike most of the females around here. Hell, she's not like most of the males, either.

  As much as I hate stats, I can't wait for our next class. Stats might just become my favorite subject.

  Chapter 5

  Beth

  I wait until Noah pulls away then jogged off the steps and down the street toward my house. I havn't been too far off with the address I gave him. It belonged to a little old lady who was recently put into a home. I used to stop by and drop off her medications. Another odd job I’d done to earn extra money on the side. I missed Ellie sometimes.

  It’s really amazing how three streets over can go from being in the nice part of town to being in one of the sketchier parts. I don't want to make our neighborhood sound like it’s some violent, trash-ridden dump. It isn’t. Our neighbors are all working class and everyone looks out for each other in the vague way that people who work on different shifts do. We know who belongs and who doesn’t.

  But compared to the street where Noah dropped me off, our neighborhood feels...abused.

  Still, it’s home. It isn’t perfect, but I have my dad and I am going to school and, you know, sometimes being a little hungry isn’t a bad thing.

  I let myself into our house. I really need to remember to pick up some WD-40 the next time Dad's check comes in. The door creaks something terrible.

  The light from the TV casts an eerie glow in the small living room. The threadbare rug is a score I'd found in a dumpster behind one of the houses that are not officially fraternities, but everyone knows exactly what they are. That was before Dad's back had taken a turn for the worse and the VA had demonstrated just how completely fucked up they are. It was right around the same time that I’d gotten a healthy dose of just what “not 100-percent disabled” meant financially.

  My blood pressure rises just thinking about the nightmare of phone calls I will have to contend with again tomorrow. My dad needs an injection in his back but because the powers that be judged them as elective, we’ve either got to get them done at the VA or pay out of pocket. And we can’t afford them out of pocket.

  But right now, I slip into the living room. Dad is laid out on the couch but at least he’s awake. He offers a blurry kind of smile. "Hey, sugar bear."

  I lean down to kiss his cheek. "Hi, Dad. How’s your back?"

  "Been worse, I suppose."

  He’s wearing one shoe. It’s not laced up and it’s half off his heel. "How did you get that on
?" I don’t care that he's gotten up - that is a good thing. But it hurts him to put his shoes on when his back is out.

  "I had to try and see if I was still completely useless." He glances down at the single shoe. "I sneezed when I was bent over and damn near blacked out from the pain."

  "Ah hell, Dad." My heart gets a little tighter in my chest. I lean against the edge of the couch and ease the shoe off his foot. He used to be so active, so alive.

  So different from the man who can barely get off the couch.

  I keep telling myself this is just temporary, that I’ll get a job that has insurance and I’ll claim him as my dependent. I’ll get him the best back doc in the country and he’ll get fixed.

  My eyes burn because it is such a far-off goal. It feels like more of a dream. We barely have enough money for his prescriptions. The idea that someday I’ll have a job where I make enough money to have insurance, too, is...sometimes it feels like a fantasy that people like me live on, just to keep going.

  I pull his one sock off and drop it on the floor by his shoes. "Want some help up?"

  He shakes his head, his eyes closed. "I'm going to sleep out here tonight, I think."

  "I'll get the heating pad. Did you get your evening medicine?"

  His words are blurred together, jumbled. "I doubled up after the sneezing incident. I'm out until the VA can see me again for a refill."

  "Crap. You are supposed to have enough to get you through to Wednesday." My stomach twists. I don’t know what the kind of pain my father lives with feels like, but I know what seeing him in it does to me.

  There is no way he's moving tomorrow.

  I fight back tears as I check the cabinet where we keep the alcohol. I’m not much of a drinker. Dad doesn’t really have a problem with it, despite me being underage. I don’t drink that often, though, because what if I drink and he needs it?

  We have a half-gallon of vodka. It’s going to be close. I don’t know if that will hold him for two days or not but he’ll need it in the morning after his medication wears off.