After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Page 6

  My phone vibrates in my purse.

  Your first shift is tonight at six.

  I give in to my mischievous impulse.

  This isn’t exactly good employee communications. You should at least attempt to make employees feel as though they have a choice by asking instead of demanding. Or saying please once in a while.

  The little bubbles appear as he types a response, then fade again. Then they’re back.

  Finally, a single word appears on my screen.

  Please.

  I grin, anticipation sliding through me.

  I'll be there.

  With fucking bells on.

  Chapter 8

  Parker

  * * *

  I'm stuck. I've never actually had this problem before. I should have paid better attention when I was at the bar arguing with Eli for a job.

  But I was too wrapped up in the bruises on my pride to pay attention.

  I'm standing in my closet, and I have no idea what to wear.

  I close my eyes, trying to remember if any of the waiters or waitresses were there when I'd met with Eli. Kelsey had been wearing a light-colored tank top with The Pint’s logo the night before. What was everyone else wearing?

  I can remember what Eli had on, though. Black t-shirt that hugged tight across his chest. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the heat from his body as he pressed against me. I squeeze my thighs together, needing to focus on my future first night at work.

  Instead, my mind takes a fun little sexy detour that is not at all helpful with my current dilemma of what to wear.

  Instead of focusing on clothing, all I can feel is the touch of his fingertips on my cheek. The soft scrape of his beard against my skin. The smoky taste of whiskey on his breath as his tongue slides against mine.

  I've been kissed before but never like that. Like he has nothing but time to explore every aspect of my mouth. My body.

  It really makes me wonder if he'd be as attentive in bed as he was with his mouth.

  Except that he’d said no. What guy says no to no-strings attached sex? Aren't all guys supposed to be wild horn dogs only thinking about getting laid?

  And just like that, the fantasy is over.

  I drag my hands through my hair and focus on the task at hand. Eli seems like a pretty laid-back guy, dressing in jeans and t-shirts. So I assume if I show up dressed in something similar, it should be fine.

  I shimmy into my favorite pair of skinny jeans and comfortable flats, then pull a fitted black v-neck t-shirt over my head. Sliding my hands over my sides and down my hips, I feel like I’m ready to face whatever the night has to offer.

  I roll my eyes and finish straightening my hair. I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard, and at the same time, I don't want to stand out, either.

  I change my bra.

  I'm not stupid—I'm going to work in a bar, and if I want to make any tips I've got to play up my assets. Not that I need the money. I don't. But it's the principle of the thing—I can't not make good tips. It’s a point of pride more than anything.

  I think I'm finally ready to head to The Pint. I pause and take in my reflection. I look good.

  I look like me again. For the first time since things with Davis started feeling off, I feel a glimmer of the real me looking back at me. Before the doubt. Before the whispers that I wasn't good enough started to consume my thoughts.

  I want to capture the feeling, to hold it in my hands and use it to ward off the loneliness that stalks my nights. It's like a fleeting glimpse of light within the surrounding darkness.

  But I can only avoid Davis for so long. Sooner or later, he’s going to get frustrated with me and come back here if I ignore him for too long.

  I wish I were brave enough to stand up to him. Tell him I took a class on feminist theory and I'm refusing to support the patriarchal hegemony of male dominance. Just thinking about his reaction makes me smile.

  He'd explode.

  Feminism doesn't exist for girls like me. Girls like me do what our fathers tell us to do. We smile when we're told to smile. We don't think. We don't argue.

  And we definitely don't get to go slumming when we're supposed to be getting married to a congressman who’s a rising star.

  I suppose I'll get this out of my system then return to my regularly scheduled program of my perfectly scripted life.

  God but that's depressing if I really think about it.

  I can't. I have to push those thoughts aside.

  Because I don’t want to hear the disappointment in my father’s voice that I’m overreacting. That I should be more accommodating to Davis’s needs. That I should be grateful he picked me as his future wife.

  Getting a job at Eli's is a small act of defiance that will end soon enough.

  But I need this. I need this last taste of freedom.

  I leave my phone and grab my keys and my purse.

  I'm finally ready to live.

  Even if it's only for a little while longer.

  * * *

  Eli

  * * *

  Deacon walks behind the bar where I’m updating the register software on the iPad I use to track sales. "So where do you want Sorority Barbie tonight?"

  Deacon is grinning like he’s incredibly proud of that nickname.

  "You come up with that one all by yourself?"

  His expression changes but he still grins. "It was the first thing I thought of when I met her. She's polished and perfect. Hopefully, she's got more under her pretty hair than an actual Barbie does."

  "She might surprise you."

  "I’m just hoping she’s not a pain in the ass to train."

  I lean back and fold my arms over my chest, leaving the iPad to download. "Is it Parker in particular you have a problem with or something more general?"

  He pulls out the lemons and starts chopping them with a little too much emphasis tonight. "I don't trust her. The kind of people she comes from could cause problems for you here."

  For a second, maybe more, my heart stops. There's no way he knows. He couldn't.

  Deacon wasn't on that deployment. I’ve lost touch with most folks. I barely keep up with any of my classmates from West Point anymore.

  Still. I have a healthy dose of paranoia that someday, my time in the Army will catch up with me. There have been high-profile articles written about my bar in national news outlets, and no one has put the pieces together yet. Maybe I’m safe.

  It's not like I'm hiding it. Hell, I wouldn't be very smart if I was trying to hide things by running a bar where all the local vets seem to congregate, now would I?

  I suck in a hard breath and hold it until my lungs burn, then release it. "I don't see how."

  He lifts one brow and leans against the doorframe. "Her father is Bennington Hauser. He’s a big wig at one of the largest defense contractors in D.C."

  “How do you know this?” I hesitate. That is news. And it's also completely irrelevant.

  He shrugs. “Google is your friend.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about his blossoming cyberstalking skills but I table it for now. It’s not a crime to look up future employees. In fact, it’s probably smart. Something I should do.

  But I don’t want to. Glass houses and all that, right? "So you think Daddy is going to come down here and pull rank?"

  Deacon looks at me like I've started masturbating in public. "I’m just pointing out that the rest of us have our own complications but she’s got complications that come with money. And with money comes power. So just be careful with her.”

  I nod, needing to put this to bed. "Tracking. Thanks for the warning.”

  My response is clearly insufficient as Deacon continues to violently slice the lemons. "You're the boss so when the shit starts pegging the fan, don't say I didn't warn you."

  "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is an image I did not need."

  Deacon makes a noise and just like that, we are back on even footing. "My job here is done." He glances down a
t his watch. "Kelsey hasn't shown up yet, either."

  "Anyone check on her?"

  "I texted her a couple of times but she's not responding. Don't forget she left with that Fifty Shades wannabe last night."

  I rub my hand over my beard. "Sadly, I know exactly who you're talking about. Think she's okay?"

  He lifts one shoulder. "She's an adult. She's more than capable of having carefree consensual sex without any of us commenting on who or what she does on her off-duty time."

  He’s being deliberately nonchalant. It’s more than a little obvious. "Careful, or I'll send you to her place to make sure she's okay."

  He makes a sound of disgruntled disbelief. Part of me wants to send him to check on her. Just to be on the safe side.

  "Anyway, where do you want Sorority Barbie tonight? Register? Floor?"

  "How about you use her name, for starters." I can see the leading edge of one of his moods coming on. "I think register is good for Parker's first night. It's Saturday so we’re probably going to be slammed. It'll get her feet wet without pissing off the customers."

  Deacon nods and slides the lemons into a tray, then wipes the knife and heads into the basement for more supplies. His warning hangs in the air long after he’s gone. The iPad is still downloading, leaving me with little else to occupy my hands or my thoughts.

  The war hasn’t followed me home yet. I’ve made choices, surrounded myself with good people. I’ve tried to live a normal life, not one soaked in alcohol or regret. Deacon isn’t wrong, though. Anything could resurrect that memory.

  But that’s not why he’s pushing me on Parker. And that’s not why I hired her. And it’s definitely not the worry of a commander for one of his soldiers that is drawing me to Parker. No, it's something else. Something darker. Something infinitely more possessive. Something I haven't felt since…I can't remember when.

  I really need to let Deacon run interference with her. Because I need to stay away. All the want in the world can't fix what ails me and no woman in the world would put up with my bullshit for more than a single night.

  I finish up the iPad software and head back to my office to make sure it’s synced on the WiFi network.

  And damn near run over the one person I really should be avoiding.

  Chapter 9

  Parker

  * * *

  I had a reason for looking for him. I wanted to ask about his decision to stop the pancake experiment, but the moment he damn near plows into me, I'm mute.

  I'm not prone to not being able to talk. In fact, my ability to think on my feet is one of my strengths.

  But standing there, toe to toe with an awkward situation in the flesh, my voice decides to take a vacation to the Bahamas without me.

  "Can I help you?"

  His voice is deep and rough. He could probably read a cereal box and I'd be content to just stand there and listen to him.

  I swallow and try to find my voice. "So I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had."

  Yeah, so much for that thinking-on-your-feet thing. Christ, I'm a mess.

  He doesn't say anything, which makes things a thousand times more awkward.

  "I wrote up a marketing proposal. I zeroed in on key demographics and purchasing behaviors and recommended the best targeting platforms to reach them." I thrust a blue and gold monogrammed folder at him. "It's all here. You should look into it."

  It’s a long moment before he takes it. "Thanks. I’ll look it over later, when I have some time."

  I'm not sure what I expected but this wasn’t it. It’s oddly deflating. “So what am I doing tonight?”

  "Talk to Deacon. If Kelsey shows up, follow her lead. They'll get you situated for tonight. I hope you’re ready to be busy."

  I offer a hesitant smile, unsure how to talk to a man who turned me down for sex. It’s so utterly demoralizing. "Okay then."

  I turn to go, to escape the narrow hallway with the black and white photos lining the wall, then I stop.

  There, right at eye level, is a picture of five men in military uniforms. It’s next to the poem of the Fiddler’s Green I’d been looking at last night. I’m not sure how I missed this one.

  I barely recognize him in the picture. It's his eyes that I notice first, then the shape of his shoulders, the wide frame of his mouth. He looks completely different without his beard. Younger. Maybe a little more hopeful. Less cynical, maybe.

  They're standing near a giant cement barrier. There's a drawing of a wolf on it—a grey one—howling at the moon beneath the word “Wolfpack” written in gold block letters.

  "This is you?"

  There's a darkness in his eyes when I look back over at him. Not shame, though. No, not shame. Something else. A wariness. Even a subtle pride.

  "Yeah. Me and the guys I commanded with."

  "Where were you?" I'm insanely curious about his life before coming to Durham.

  "Iraq. 2009."

  He's standing close. Close enough that I can catch a quick scent of him, something spicy and warm and drawing me closer.

  But I'm not going to beg.

  I'm not playing games with this man. Or any man, for that matter.

  "How long were you there?"

  "Fifteen months."

  I swallow, hoping I’m not about to ask a stupid question. “Why did you enlist?”

  "I didn’t enlist. I was an officer. I commissioned." His voice rumbles near my ear. I fight to suppress a shiver. I want to lean back, to feel the broad expanse of his chest against me.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Different legal responsibilities, mostly.”

  I lift my finger, tracing the edge of the photograph. Like I expect to feel the sand beneath my fingertip. “So why did you sign up?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m curious. About men like you. I had a classmate last semester in my violence class. He argued for things that I can’t understand.” I lick my bottom lip and try not to look like I want to peel his clothes from his body.

  He leans against the wall, his shoulder just beneath the Wolfpack picture.

  “My dad was in. My whole life, I wanted to be like my dad. Be the kind of man I thought he was.” His voice is low and smooth. Like honey but with some spice thrown in. “I went to West Point because it was free and I thought it would make me into a man like my dad.”

  I get the feeling he’s humoring me but I’m not about to interrupt. “Did you like it?”

  He leans over, straightening one of the pictures. It’s of him—I think—in the back of a helicopter. “There was a lot to like. You’d be amazed how hard you can laugh when you’re freezing your balls off in a flat-ass downpour after you haven’t showered in two weeks.”

  “I cannot fathom ever not showering for two weeks.”

  He smiles faintly. “You get used to it. You get used to a lot. The abnormal becomes normal.”

  “I can’t imagine everything was fun.”

  He swallows and I am enthralled by the movement of his throat. “No. Not all of it.”

  “Is that why you got out?”

  “I left for a lot of reasons.” He brushes his finger over my upper arm, near the bruises. “Why don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you leave?”

  It’s my turn to look away, to focus on something else for a moment. I find the only answer that makes sense. “It’s complicated.”

  When he says nothing, I look up at him. He's watching me, not the picture that he's probably seen a thousand times before.

  "What?" I can barely push the word out of my throat.

  "You surprise me."

  "That doesn't happen often? You work in a bar."

  His eyes crinkle at the edges and he straightens, the moment that passed between us dissipating like smoke. "Bars are amazingly predictable in their patterns."

  "Yeah?"

  "You'll see. We're putting you behind the bar tonight. So you can learn a few of the regulars before
we set you to the wolves."

  I frown at the reference. "Wolves?"

  "You've been to frat parties. You know what happens when you mix drinking with underfucked college students."

  I lift one eyebrow. "I wouldn't know."

  He laughs then and it surprises me. "I'm not entirely sure how to respond to that."

  "Well, I know one way you could have," I mumble under my breath. The disappointment is a tight knot in my chest. What does it say about me that a guy will turn me down?

  I turn away and head back up front, away from the unfuckable shame burning over my skin.

  "Hey."

  He doesn't grab me. Doesn't spin me around and pin me against the wall. Not that I wouldn't mind.

  But oh no, not Eli. No, he's a goddamned Boy Scout.

  His palm is warm on my back through the t-shirt. I want his hand to slide lower over the small of my back and just stroke my skin.

  I want so badly to be touched. Not by anyone. By him.

  But I don't turn back to face him. I can't.

  My life is the perfect lie and I still can't face the reality that maybe, things aren't so perfect and haven’t been for a long time.

  "I don't know who got into your head and told you that you're unfuckable, but you most assuredly are."

  It’s a mystery how he read my thoughts so perfectly. "That is the most backhanded compliment I've ever received."

  I feel him move behind me. "I've got a million of them."

  It's my turn to remain speechless. I don't trust that I won't embarrass myself.

  I slip from beneath the warmth of his touch, away from the craving that threatens to consume me.

  And step from the light into the darkness.

  * * *

  Eli

  * * *

  I watch her walk away and I'm…intrigued.

  But there is something incredibly sad in Parker's words that reveals just how not perfect she really is. And that imperfection is the thing that draws me to her. More than I was before.