After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Page 9

  Josh and Noah are two of the guys I met through The Pint. They haven’t been coming in as regularly anymore, but they will always be mine to watch over. The shit we carry doesn’t magically disappear when you get a girlfriend. But they’re both trending positive these days, unlike Caleb, who hasn’t really learned anything from his latest brush with alcohol poisoning.

  "Pick her up tomorrow." He rubs the back of his neck. "I still can't believe she landed this consulting gig."

  Parker catches my eye, and I watch her hand Mr. Blowjob his receipt. I don't miss the way she's careful not to touch him. She's exhausted, but she's too stubborn to quit.

  And I really need her to clock out for the night. To give me space from the need that seems to be overwhelming my rational thought process capabilities.

  "You hired Parker Hauser?"

  “You know her?” I don't like the tone in Noah's voice.

  “Yeah, she’s been in a bunch of my classes.”

  It’s amazing how defensive his comment made me, almost instantly. "She needed a summer internship. She's doing fine, too. She made it through the first night."

  He grins and it’s the first genuine smile I've seen on his face since he got sober. "Okay, I’ll admit I’m a little impressed. She didn’t strike me as the hard-working waitress type."

  I say nothing, watching her work.

  Deacon rings the bell for last call and Noah heads out. Mr. Blowjob hands Parker something. I hope it's a tip and not his phone number.

  She turns away and starts picking up glasses on a nearby table. She looks dead on her feet.

  "You don't make it a habit of staying up this late?"

  She offers me a tired grin. "There's a world of difference between staying up partying and staying up working. I have newfound respect for you people."

  I don't flinch at her use of you people. I might have, that first night I met her. When I was convinced she was royalty out to play with the commoners. Now? The more time I spend around her, the more I feel like she's…like me.

  Just looking for a place to belong.

  "You get used to it."

  She tips her chin and looks up at me. "How?"

  I shrug. "Got used to not sleeping well on deployment. Never really readjusted."

  A shadow flitters across her eyes. Lightning fast and then it's gone, leaving only the shadow of fatigue. "I'm not sure what to say to that."

  "Just don't say ‘thank you for your service’."

  "I've heard that some vets don't like that." She finishes stacking glasses on her tray and straightens. "Why don't you?"

  “You and all your questions.” I brush the tip of her nose with my index finger. "It's a long story, best shared over copious amounts of alcohol."

  "I'll take a rain check." She frowns then, and pauses. "Oh, so Mr. Blowjob? He's a reporter. Wants to do a story on this place."

  I am instantly still. The ice that shelters my heart from the world spreads through my guts. "What did you tell him?" My words are thick. Lodged somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.

  Hoping her next words don’t carry betrayal.

  She hands me his business card. "I told him that was up to you."

  Relief is hot and cold all at once, flashing across my skin. "Thank you. For checking with me first." I drop the card into a small box near the register where I put the rest of the cards people leave.

  She shrugs. "It's no biggie. I learned a long time ago that the media aren't your friends."

  There's more there in those quiet, tired words. But tonight isn't the time. And the bar isn't the place. "Are you going to be all right to get home?"

  "I'm tired, not drunk."

  "You didn't answer the question."

  She lifts her chin and studies me quietly for a moment. All I can think about is how she tasted earlier. How she felt beneath my fingertips.

  How much I want to touch her again.

  "I'll be okay. I don't live that far from here."

  It would be so easy to ask her to come upstairs with me after the bar closes. To draw her close to me and just feel her body against mine.

  It's such a basic fantasy. Nothing sexual. Nothing twisted. Just the feeling of two bodies, skin to skin, breathing together in the darkness.

  And sweet baby Jesus, when did I turn into a fucking warrior poet who wants to snuggle? Keeping track of everyone has turned me into an old man.

  "Where'd you go just then?" she asks.

  "Sorry. Thinking about the close-out report I have to do before I can crash."

  "You don't have someone that does that for you?"

  I shake my head. "Nah. It's easier this way."

  "Except when you want to sleep or do other things after the bar closes."

  I don't resist the easy smile that slides across my mouth. "I don't really have a good response for that."

  She sets the final empty glass on her tray and straightens. "That actually raises an interesting point. Can I swing in after the bar closes and ask you some questions about who you hire and why?"

  "Tonight probably isn't good. Five minutes ago, you were dead on your feet." The reporter's card is a lead weight in my hand. I hate that the suspicions are there, dancing at the edge of my thoughts. Taunting me with what-ifs that are anything but good.

  She makes a warm sound in the back of her throat. I am almost lost in what that sound does to me.

  "Good point. I'll write some things up so they're more coherent."

  She turns back to the bar, bringing Deacon the rest of the glasses.

  It's a good thing it's closing time. I need some goddamned distance from this woman in tight jeans who is playing hell on my imagination.

  I let my thoughts wander, thinking about the feel of her skin. The taste of her lips and the warm slide of her breath across my tongue.

  Because if I don't, the insidious fear that the reporter's card has raised in the back of my mind will consume me. And I know what that feels like already.

  I left the war and its demons behind in Iraq.

  There's no reason to resurrect them now that I'm home.

  Chapter 13

  Parker

  * * *

  My phone drags me out of what is quite possibly the best sleep I've ever had. I've been completely dead to the world, judging by my alarm clock, for six hours.

  Which means the sun is up and I'm late for…oh wait, the semester is over.

  No class. No appointments.

  I stretch until my spine pops.

  Then my phone angrily reminds me that whoever is calling needs my attention.

  Is it too much to hope that it's Eli? That maybe he needs some early morning help at the bar that could get me out of my apartment and alone with him?

  Being alone with Eli is pretty high up on my priorities list. Right up there with avoiding Davis for a little longer. I should ask Kelsey for advice. She’d probably just tell me how to stab him, though. I’m mostly convinced she’s joking.

  The possibility of being alone with Eli today…

  Dear lord the man can kiss.

  I roll toward the phone and drop my head to the mattress. It's my father.

  And he's already called three times this morning. He’s often disappointed in me but rarely does he blow my phone up like this. Which means I'm standing on ice that has already spider-webbed beneath my feet.

  And damn it, I had been in the middle of a really, really great dream.

  "Hi, Dad."

  "Do you have a drug problem that I should know about?"

  I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. "Yes, Daddy. I was passed out in an alley getting fucked by a homeless person when you called."

  I slap my hand over my mouth. The silence on the other end lets me know that those words actually slipped free instead of me just thinking them.

  I brace for the storm of his disappointment. I've heard everything before. All spoken quietly. How my mother would be ashamed of me. How Davis isn’t going to want me if I’m a liability with t
he press. I have to learn to keep my mouth shut or I’ll hurt his reelection chances.

  The way he talks about Mom isn’t the way I remember her. He paints her to be so stoic and calm. I remember us sneaking ice cream at midnight when I couldn’t sleep and telling jokes only we got.

  Losing my mom changed him. I don't even lie to myself that he loves me anymore. He loves the idea of me. And I think he hates that I remind him of my mom.

  I’ve become a trophy for him. And marrying Davis is a huge cache for him to add to his prestige among his peers.

  The silence continues. He must really be pissed if he's not yelling.

  "I’m not amused,” he says quietly. “Davis needs you at the fundraiser this afternoon and since you won’t answer his calls…"

  He doesn’t have to threaten me. His request is enough that I’ll comply. I have to. Because he’s asked me to.

  "Is there any chance he could do this without me? I really don’t feel well."

  “No. This is a very big deal with a wealthy campaign contributor. She wants the family values front and center. Any hint of issues between you and Davis puts things at risk."

  I press my lips together to bite back the hurt that returns with all the force of a category five storm. God, how I want to break free of all of the pressure of being the future wife to the heir to a political dynasty on par with the Bushes and the Clintons and the Kennedys.

  Poor little rich girl, right?

  "Did you hear me?" His voice is jarring, grating against my ear.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll see you this afternoon.” Just like that, his tone changes. Softens. I remember he used to talk to me like that before my mom died.

  I hang up as soon as I can without saying anything else. I miss her terribly. I roll into one of my pillows, wondering if everything would be different if she hadn't died and left me completely alone.

  My phone vibrates. I dread looking at it.

  I flip it over.

  Despite the weight from my father’s order, my heart skips a little bit in my chest when I see Eli’s text.

  I'm at the office doing reports if you want to come in.

  For research, of course.

  I have a reason to get up. To get dressed. And to step out into the light.

  I text him back. I have to shower first.

  I see the little bubbles indicating he's responding. Want me to wash your back?

  My throat is instantly dry. I press my thighs together. Tightly. I wouldn't say no to that.

  I see the little bubbles again. Then they disappear. Then they're back.

  Then gone again.

  Come to the office. We'll be more productive there.

  Coward. Followed by a smiley face emoji. Because I can't help myself, and teasing him feels so much better than wallowing in my own self-pity.

  I'll see you when you get here.

  I can't figure out why he's backing down but I suddenly very much want to be in the office. With him.

  And please dear lord let him be alone. I close my eyes for a moment, remembering his mouth on mine last night. His gentleness surprised me. So had the heat that had spiked through my body the moment his lips touched mine.

  My hand resting on my belly drifts lower, pressing between my legs, hoping to ease the ache that thinking about him brings to a fierce intensity. I want his hand between my thighs. His fingers spreading the moisture over my slick flesh. His mouth sucking on me as his fingers slip inside me, stroking me. Petting me. Oh god I want this. I want him.

  I don't want to move. I don't want to face the reality of my life.

  I want the fantasy.

  I'd give it all up to stay in the fantasy. Everything. My car. My father's name. My life.

  But that's not how life works for girls like me. My father would never let me go. And Davis? His pride would never survive the tabloid scandals of his being jilted.

  It's better to just enjoy my temporary escape.

  I finally crawl out of bed. An evil thought races through my brain as I reach for my phone.

  I send Eli a final text.

  Heading to the gym for yoga. Be at the office in two hours or so.

  I shower quickly and head out, smiling to myself. Wondering if the seed I've planted is taking root.

  God, I hope so.

  * * *

  Eli

  * * *

  Parker's text has left me annoyed and aroused. Which is an unusual combination for me.

  And thanks to Parker’s yoga pants visual, my brain is no longer focused on anything even remotely professional. Thank god the office door is already closed because my cock is pushing against my jeans in a painfully erect way.

  There’s something illicit about slipping my cock out of my pants beneath my desk, squeezing it, pretending that it’s Parker touching me, Parker stroking me.

  Fuck, I need this. I close my eyes, pulling gently on my cock, imagining Parker’s warm, sweet mouth sucking gently on the tip. My balls tighten as I stroke myself harder, tighter, needing it to be Parker that’s riding me to release.

  My release is violent and sudden. My stomach clenches and I double over, the cotton of my t-shirt capturing everything.

  Talk about a good time to live upstairs. And an even better time for keeping a clean change of clothes in your office.

  I clean everything up and run my laundry upstairs, still utterly distracted by Parker’s text.

  Back in my office I stare at my computer screen a long time, not really noticing anything but the blinking cursor on my financial reports.

  I spot the folder Parker handed me in my inbox. Curious, I open it, wondering just what she recommends for brand awareness and expansion.

  I’m impressed inside of the first page. She’s got detailed analytics of whiskey drinkers broken down by brand, mind you, in the Triangle and surrounding area. She ran an analysis of everyone connected to our social media page. Even more, she’s highlighted ways to convert online interactions into real-world sales.

  She highlights how to use event targeting—like the private event I’m serving at tonight—to generate an audience in the local area. I’m amazed she did all this and this was without even knowing that I’m scheduled at three local events. When the hell did she have time to do this?

  I’m beyond impressed by the detailed plan. And it’s a nice distraction from my cock’s growing obsession with her.

  Who the hell am I kidding? It’s not the baser part of my anatomy that’s interested in her.

  I try to focus on the drink list for the private party over in Chapel Hill that I need to be set up at in six hours. One of the presidents of the university is having some fundraiser or something or other. He wants to highlight local businesses and I managed to secure the opportunity.

  Except that I keep circling back to Parker. And not just to the idea of her naked and slippery and wet. I want to know what she's running from. Who’s hurt her.

  I want her to trust me with that information. Trust me enough to let me walk with her in the darkness of whatever she's running from.

  "Now that doesn't look like it's a very good time."

  I must have fallen into a time warp for the time to have flown by that quickly, but Parker's voice is a welcome distraction. The sight of her is even more welcome. She's standing in the doorway, her body wrapped in a pair of yoga tights and a plum wrap over a thin tank.

  I want to thank whatever powers there might be for those tight little yoga pants. I think I might have to pick up the activity if it involves getting to see Parker in those pants more often. I'd love nothing more than to draw my hands over her smooth, rounded hips and feel her soften beneath my touch.

  I'd definitely downward dog for a chance at that. Jesus, how does any man go to yoga classes and not walk out with a raging hard-on after every session?

  "I was reading over your analytics," I say, needing the distraction away from my business, which might not exist in another six months if I can't turn this shit around. />
  "And?"

  "You did an amazing job with this. How did you do all this without having access to my social media accounts?" I try to play it cool, but I'm off-kilter right now.

  I'm blaming her yoga pants because it's easier to fall into the distraction of her luscious little body.

  "I created a similar business page and used its insights to develop potential markets for you." She sits. “It wasn’t very hard. Anyone with a basic understanding of Google analytics can figure this stuff out.”

  “And you did it for free? Do you know how much you could charge people for this information?”

  She nods. “I wanted to get better at analytics so I’ve got a better chance at being accepted into an executive management program.”

  My dick is all too happy to have me stare, even though I'm genuinely trying to be a responsible adult in this interaction.

  I'm failing. But at least I'm trying, right? "You mean there are more of you who know how to do this stuff?"

  She surprises me by leaning against my desk. Close enough that if I don't move my arm, I'll be brushing up against her ass.

  Which I really, really want to do.

  She's looking down at me, and all I can think about is dragging her into my lap. I can't decide if she's being deliberately provocative or is honestly that clueless about what she's doing.

  If I go for provocative, does that mean I can touch her? Give in to her demands?

  I’m ready to fucking beg. Goddamn it, why didn’t I take what she offered that first night?

  Parker is a lot of things but clueless isn't one of them. What would she do if I slide my hand over her hip and tug her, just a little, to see if she'd crawl into my lap?

  Instead, I clear my throat. Adulting, right? "So what else do you recommend?"

  That's an adult-type question to ask, isn't it? I'm honestly not sure at this point because all of my blood has focused on one area of my anatomy that's begging her with every beat of my heart to touch me.

  She takes out a notebook and an expensive-looking pen. "I think you need to do social media better but you also need to capitalize on your traffic here. You can fill out this form with Google and have your business listed. Then you can re-target special events at people who come here regularly and people who are like people who come here regularly. It could increase your foot traffic by fifteen percent a week, depending on your marketing budget."