Break My Fall (Falling #2) Page 5

  I just need some space. Some air. Some fucking perspective on why I can't ever seem to control my fucking temper.

  I am at one of the top schools in the country. I am surrounded by expensive cars and old money and I have never felt more out of place in my life. And yes, that includes when I was in Iraq.

  I look down at my hands as I step outside into the cool North Carolina night, lean against the damp brick wall and try to catch my breath.

  All I can see is the blood beneath my nails. The red painting my skin again. The burning shame as the memory of the excitement mixes with the pure horror of what I’ve done.

  I can't see the stars, but the moon is bright enough that it penetrates the illumination from the streetlights.

  I start walking. Down the silent, dark street illuminated by flickering overhead lamps.

  The voice in my head is silent now. Leaving me alone in the darkness as I walk toward my tiny loft.

  Except that I don't end up at my place.

  I end up in the glittering, polished foyer of the Baywater. I have no business here. I shouldn’t have come.

  But I'm here now, standing in the middle of so much wealth and class I feel like I am a speck of dirt dragged in from the outside on the bottom of someone's five hundred-dollar shoes.

  I’m tainting this place with my very presence. And still, I cannot leave.

  There is a dinner party in one of the rooms. Which has its own name, apparently: The Winston Bonaparte room. I watch them for a while, trying to figure out what to say, what to do, why I'm here.

  It is a long moment before I see her.

  Abby.

  She doesn't notice me. I can stand there, silently, and just watch her move. There is a fluidity in how she moves with an easy grace and class that I will never have. She smiles at a man wearing an expensive suit and tie. He's clean shaven, and I'd be willing to bet he doesn't have any tattoos or scars from a war he never even thought about fighting in.

  I need to go before Abby notices me. I don't belong here.

  Not like she does.

  But if I’m honest with myself, she is the reason I am here. She’s a beacon in the darkness, drawing me closer to something I have given up wanting.

  She stops short when she sees me.

  There is no smile in her eyes. No warmth. I don't have the words to explain to her why I'm here.

  But as much as I can't explain why I'm here, I also can't walk away. I have no business here. I have no business talking to her.

  I can't protect her from me. I can't even protect myself.

  But I cannot walk away.

  Abby

  My shift has been extra magical tonight, and by extra magical I mean slammed busy. Which is fine. I'm one of those weird people who doesn't actually know how to sit still. I'm always moving. I thrive on being busy, which is strange considering I'm in the South and things tend to move a bit slower around here.

  I'm waiting on a table of the dean of the business school and his polished and manicured guest. The woman on the guest’s arm looks like she could be his daughter but I learned early on not to make assumptions about those sorts of things here. I make small talk and smile, not really hearing what the dean or his guest are saying.

  The moment I see Josh, though, everything else falls away. Their noise, their needs. Everything I am is focused on Josh.

  He is darkness and shadows near the edge of the dim light. He doesn't even pretend he's not watching me. It does something to my insides as I meet his eyes and refuse to look away.

  In the shadows, his eyes look almost black. His face is sharper, more angled, the stubble on his jaw darker.

  He stands out. I think he always will, no matter where he is. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up, exposing his thick forearms. There is writing on his forearms. Big, black letters that blend into the shadows so I cannot read them.

  The men who frequent this place do not get tattoos. At least not visible ones. No, these men have polished hands and pressed shirts and impeccable manners.

  They don’t stand in the doorway, staring.

  No, Josh is none of those things. He's not polished and he's not pressed.

  Graham slides up beside me and, of course, he has noticed exactly who I’m watching. "Oh, look who’s back," Graham murmurs. “Do you have any condoms?”

  I lift one brow and try to pretend that I don't actually know who we're talking about. "Are you serious?"

  "Don't even try it," Graham says, patting my cheek. "What did you call him the other morning? Mr. Tall, Dark & Depressed?"

  "I thought it was Tall, Dark and Psychotic? And didn’t we also agreed that he was bad news?”

  Graham is a good egg. The kind of guy friend that every girl needs. When Robert the Douche ripped my heart out, it was Graham who sat up with me, throwing darts at a picture of Robert and eating coffee ice cream and making me laugh until my sides hurt.

  Until I was no longer sad and hurt.

  "You talked about him being bad news. I, however, chatted him up after you left and I think you should spend some more time on the dark side of life. Oh, and Mr. Sexy and Brooding over there looks like he could rock your world in a shake-the-dust-off kind of way."

  I roll my eyes at Graham's reference. He's more concerned about my girl parts getting appropriate amounts of attention than I am these days.

  Smiling despite myself, I shake my head and walk away. Graham doesn't understand the way I'm wired. He's always been so sure of who he is.

  He’s never doubted that the people in his life love him for who he is, not despite of it. And that’s saying something considering he came out to his evangelical parents when he was sixteen.

  Because I cannot stay away, I make my way to where Josh is still cloaked in shadows. "What can I get for you?"

  All business. That's the only way through this interaction. I have to keep some distance between us. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to risk screwing it up over a guy. Again.

  He looks at me silently, letting the quiet wrap around us until I'm sure we're the only two people in the world. Now that I'm closer, his eyes change from dark and hidden in shadows to light, light green. So light they're almost clear. I've never seen a man's eyes change color before. It's fascinating. They stand out even in the dim lighting of the Baywater. And he's got ridiculously dark lashes. He probably doesn't even realize what that does to the ladies.

  I take that back. He probably does. Guys like him always end up with girls like Parker throwing themselves at him. They’re both lucky enough to have those options. And yeah, I’m a little jealous over the carefree way I imagine him having sex. With Parker.

  His penis probably never lacks for company.

  I almost smile at the decidedly not business train of thought. But then I realize that he is watching me, silent and unmoving.

  "Are you going to speak?" I finally ask. "Or are we going to stare at each other until one of us blinks?"

  His lips twitch, and I really don't need to focus on his bottom lip again.

  "You never stand at the bar and bullshit with the other waiters. You're always busy." His voice is warm and smooth, not rough and slurring like that night at the bar. Nor is he fierce and solid like he was in class. No, he is something different now.

  "Aren't you the observant one?" I brace my hip against the solid wood door. The cut above his eye is almost healed. "No bar fights tonight?"

  “Almost.” He tips his chin. "Tried getting a drink, but the company at my usual watering hole isn’t very appealing this evening."

  "Sounds like you were avoiding unpleasant company."

  His mouth curves into a smile then and it's kind of overwhelming how it transforms him. The hard edges melt away and his eyes crinkle at the edges.

  "Pretty perceptive, aren’t you," he says.

  I frown but I'm smiling when I shake my head. "It goes with the territory."

  He lifts one broad shoulder and I can't help but not
ice the way his neck moves. I've always been attracted to strong men. Which is part of the problem, because guys who spend too much time in the gym are generally overcompensating for either an underdeveloped sense of self or a small penis. Sometimes both. It’s hard to decouple which way the causal arrow goes.

  But I should not be letting the butterflies in my stomach entertain ideas about Josh Douglas. He's trouble. He might be dark and compelling and incredibly sexy, but he's trouble nonetheless.

  And wow, can I think about something that is not tangentially related to my lack of a sex life? Graham would be so proud.

  Josh swallows but says nothing. Again his neck moves, and all my attention zeroes in on the way his skin slides over the muscles.

  Down, girl.

  He shifts and folds his arms over his chest.

  I reach out.

  It’s a stupid thing. But my curiosity has gotten the best of me. I urge his arm over so I can see the letters those thick black lines form. Both of his forearms are extended now, allowing me to read the stark black letters.

  “For I am my brother’s keeper,” I whisper, reading the words spelled out across the inside of his arms. He shivers beneath my touch. “You didn’t strike me as particularly religious.”

  “I’m not.”

  “This is a line from the Bible. The book of Genesis, I think.”

  His eyes have darkened but he hasn’t pulled away, leaving his arm resting in my palm.

  “The verse references when God asks Cain about his brother Abel.” He grinds his teeth, the muscles in his jaw pulsing, his shoulders tense. “I modified it a little bit.”

  I trace my nail over the word “keeper.” “Are you?” I whisper. I am terrified by the powerful want drawing me closer to him.

  “Not a very good one.” His words are thick and rough. Laced with something I cannot possibly understand.

  I swallow because the way he's looking at me…no one has ever looked at me like that before. Like I'm needed. Like I matter. Not what I can do for someone else, but just for me.

  It's a stupid craving. A holdover from a time when I was less aware of how the world really works.

  There's a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Only a moment and then it's gone but I've been watching people long enough that I notice. What the hell could he be disappointed about?

  "Do you get a break?"

  "In about a half hour." I glance at my watch. "Are you okay?" I finally ask.

  He looks down at my hands, then back up at me. It is strange to be talking to someone and not being mentally undressed. "I don’t know.”

  I think that is the most honest answer anyone has ever given me. And I have no idea what to do with it.

  I'm no stranger to really bad shit. It's just that it's usually something I can handle. College drama, mostly, since I've been here. But back home? Before Dad died and my mom started on the not-so-brief period that we don’t talk about? Yeah, sometimes those memories creep in, like they're doing right now.

  But Josh is not my nightmare.

  At the very least, he deserves a chance to disappoint me all on his own.

  I meet his gaze and there is an intensity in his eyes that draws me closer to the flame.

  And despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, I am one step closer to the fire.

  Chapter 7

  Josh

  I don’t know why I couldn’t find something funny to say. Something to break up the tension and make her laugh. I used to be good at making people laugh. My buddy Mike used to tell me I could make everyone laugh in the middle of a roadside bomb.

  I'm fiddling with my phone when Abby steps out of the Baywater. I should have left. Should have gone home and slept everything off. Got up and done it all again tomorrow.

  Except that when I’m around her, I feel…alive.

  And as she walks toward me, I feel it again. That slow draw back to the light.

  I like watching her walk. It's a stupid thing to enjoy, but there is a gentle sway of her hips, a confidence in her steps that is at once feminine and strong. I wonder if she realizes how stunningly beautiful she is. She's not some soft-spoken little mouse, asking for permission to be who she is. There's something about how she walks with her head high, her chin lifted. I love the way the light from the streetlamp bathes her skin in a dusky glow. I can't explain it but I'm drawn to her. Have been from the moment I saw her.

  Maybe it was my time in the Army, but I find a woman with confidence sexy as hell, even when I'm wishing that I was crawling back into a bottle instead of losing the faint buzz I’d managed earlier. All these little girls walking around campus in damn near nothing couldn't hold a candle to Abby with her quick smile and sharp mind.

  I wonder what she'd say if I told her that. She'd probably knee me in the balls. And despite them being completely useless, I'm rather partial to them remaining where they are.

  She approaches slowly. Almost like she’s trying to figure out what she’s doing. A tiny silver hoop earring catches the light. I'm not sure why I notice it but I do. It curves around the edge of her earlobe and I'm suddenly tempted to nibble on it.

  Yeah, that's called sexual assault, last time I checked. At least it was according to every mandatory sexual assault prevention class I ever attended. There's something wrong with the world when we need a class to teach soldiers how not to rape each other.

  And how is that for a buzz killing of a train of thought?

  She slows as she approaches. Hesitant now.

  "I have to admit, I'm kind of surprised." Her voice is husky and dark. She looks tired and beautiful.

  “At what?”

  “That you’re here.”

  "I…" I rub the back of my neck. "I can't really think of anything cool or insightful to say that isn't going to make me look like a stalker."

  That's mostly true. I don't know why I'm here. Why I'm drawn to her like I am.

  I should be honest with her. I should tell her that I'm damaged goods. That I'm unfixable and unfuckable. Maybe I'll see if she wants to cuddle and offer to draw her a puppy or something.

  The reality of my world squeezes my throat and makes it difficult to breathe.

  "Hey?" There's caution in her voice now. A wariness that I never expected from her. She is too strong, too confident. The hesitation in her voice is at odds with everything I like about her.

  I swallow and find my courage. Because I've come all the way here and I'm not going to surrender to the past and slink away like a fucking coward.

  "So I just…I guess I just wanted to see if you wanted someone to walk home with you." I didn’t plan on asking her that. I didn’t actually plan on showing up at all.

  But anything is better than letting the walls of my apartment close in on me in the long hours between midnight and dawn.

  She tips her head and studies me, her eyes curious. Her lips are soft and curved, and I have a stupid desire to touch her there, to feel if they’re as soft as they look. Maybe I’ll make easy conversation by asking her what she uses on them. Because I'm trying to get in touch with my inner-metrosexual.

  "You came all the way here to ask me if I wanted to walk home with you?"

  I lift both eyebrows. That wasn't the response I was looking for, but I suppose it's better than go fuck yourself. "Um, yes?" She's laughing at me. I'm almost certain she's laughing at me. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

  "You're a healthy, red blooded American male in an eligible dating market, and instead of being out looking for the future Mrs. Douglas, you're here to see if I want to walk home? Like there's no ulterior motive of trying to get me into bed?"

  "Well, stalking is always a course of action for the try-to-get-you-into-bed thing." I honestly can't believe I just said that, but she laughs so maybe it wasn't a disaster. "But it's generally frowned upon, so hopefully I won't have to resort to that."

  Her eyes sparkle a little and her lips are quirked at the edges. "That's really not funny."

  "Not even a little bit?
"

  She cocks her head at me, and yes, that's a cautious smile on her full, dark lips. "Have you ever been stalked?"

  "Yeah, actually I was once. This girl gave me her number, and like the dumb horny jackass that I was, I called her. Little did I know that she had a history of, ah, being a little clingy."

  That's putting it nicely.

  "Clingy?"

  "I found her in my room, stark naked, one morning after I'd gone for a run. The guys on the hall were less than impressed when she ran down the hallway screaming that she couldn't live without me."

  Abby's smiling now, the last trace of uneasiness drifting away. "You're making that up."

  "Do I look like I'm making that up?"

  "Mighty high opinion of yourself if you expect me to believe you have skinny little white girls throwing their naked bodies at you and you're upset by it," she says dryly.

  "What can I say? I'm a great catch."

  She shakes her head but she's smiling. "Did you really come here to walk me home?" Her words are quiet, sliding through the darkness to caress my skin with a promise of pleasures that I can no longer feel.

  "Maybe I just wanted your number and was too afraid to ask for it outright."

  She tips her chin in that way she does. The way that makes me think she sees through all of my bullshit and the lies that I've been hiding behind since I started trying to pretend to be a normal college student.

  She surprises me and takes a single step into my space and cups my cheek. Her palm is warm and smooth against my jaw, her fingertips brush against my skin. "You're not like everyone else around here, are you?" she whispers.

  "I like to think I blend in."

  "You most assuredly do not blend in." Heavy words, laced with potential. I capture her hand beneath mine, holding her there. She's the softest thing I've touched in…I can't remember.

  "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I can barely breathe.

  She's standing a little too close. I want to reach out and pull her against me and feel her softness surround me.

  I want.

  In a way I haven't wanted in a very long time.