She hands me another drink. “Bottoms up, honey. Sex should never hurt. Unless you want it to. Then, like, game on and all that. Get spanked to your little heart’s content.”
I choke on my drink and valiantly try not to spew it across the bar. It burns a little as I try not to laugh. “That’s a hell of a visual.”
Why am I even having this conversation? “The last time I had to talk about sex was the morning after I lost my virginity. And I didn’t exactly get good advice on how to make the burning stop.”
“Burning? What the fuck? Is your other half like Lucifer or something? Or,” she pauses. “He didn’t give you a—”
“No! No. It just…wasn’t very good. I wasn’t really ready, that’s all.”
Kelsey leans closer. “Here’s the thing. Sex is power. It’s powerful. And we control that power. Men will do anything to get it.” She lifts one eyebrow. “You should try it. There’s nothing better than breakup sex. Someone new. Something to get you back in the game.” She bites her bottom lip and nods. “Try it sometime.”
I smile and shake my head. “I’m not that uninhibited.”
She slides my second drink toward me. “Keep drinking and see where the night takes you.” She winks at me once more. “I won’t even introduce you to Eli until you’re sober. That way you can make a good first impression and all that.”
I drink because I can. Because tonight is about me and what I want.
And I want to stop hurting. To stop feeling trapped.
I want what Kelsey has. The easy smile. The confidence to control everyone at the bar with a flick of her hair or the flash of her eyes.
She’s sharp.
She’s free.
In ways that I will never be.
Eli
* * *
I stop at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my apartment over the bar. There’s a small blonde standing there, staring at the Army photos lining the wall and holding a glass of something peach-colored and fizzy.
My first instinct is to dismiss her as just another rich girl in Durham for her Mrs. Degree.
There’s an expression on her face that I can’t read. Something quiet and laced with curiosity.
She’s reading a small certificate I had framed years ago. After my first tour in First Cav, before I was shipped back east to the 82nd at Fort Bragg. But she wouldn’t know that.
Her eyes are dark and laced with curiosity. "What's the Fiddler's Green?"
I pause next to her in the narrow hallway. There’s no reason for her to be back here. The bathrooms are on the other side of the bar.
I’m not sure how I feel about her standing here, looking at the history that is meant for me and mine.
It’s personal.
“It’s where cavalrymen go when they die.”
She looks up at me. “Cavalrymen?”
“The guys who used to ride horses in the Army but now drive around in tanks.”
A small line knits between her brows. “Is everyone at this bar in the Army?”
I almost smile at the incredulity in her question. “Not currently. They tend to frown on facial hair. But once upon a time, yes.”
A lifetime ago.
She looks like every other sorority girl in this damn town. Perfect golden hair, perfect lips in the perfect glossy pout, perfect body that's tight enough to make a blind man weep.
She's got “trouble” written on every curve attempting to break free of her clothing.
But there's something in her eyes that catches my attention. It's not curiosity, exactly. It's something more. Something…hungry and searching. At least a little bit.
I have a rule about fucking the customers, especially ones who look like her. She’s got a rich daddy somewhere who’s probably connected enough to make my life a living hell for touching his daughter.
Granted, it's a recent rule that started off as a lack of interest, but it's still a rule.
My bartenders can do what they want. They're grown-ass adults, and one of the perks of working at a bar is getting laid any time they want.
But lately…lately it's just not fun. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the hospital as Caleb tried not to drop dead on us, and the futility of it all hit me like an Abrams tank. The Pint. The trying to build a space for us. It’s stupid. I’m not a company commander anymore. The guys who hang out in my bar are not my soldiers.
And I need to stop acting like they are. My Army life is behind me, and it’s not coming back.
The very thoughts feel blasphemous, like Gary Owen himself is going to reach out from the grave and rip my heart out of my chest.
I study Trouble for a moment, weighing whether to answer any more questions. “I don’t like talking about my time in the Army,” I admit quietly.
“Isn’t that a little ironic?” She motions toward the wall lined with pictures.
“My life is a study in contradictions.”
She lifts one brow, letting the silence hang for a long moment. “I took a class on violence this semester,” she finally says. “I don’t understand why anyone would sign up for the Army. Why you would sign up to go to war.” She narrows her eyes at me, studying me quietly. “Why did you go? Why did you sign up?”
It’s a bold question, I’ll give her that. And thank god it’s not “was it like Call of Duty”, my personal favorite conversation ender. My cock is definitely interested in answering her question but maybe later. He's not really a fan of my new rule or guideline or whatever it is.
But my heart and my head have different ideas. Ones that start and end with oh hell no. She might be slumming in my bar tonight, but she's definitely not my type. And her questions about violence hit a little too close to home. Questions I’m not interested in entertaining from a complete stranger. “It’s complicated,” is all I say instead, opting to let the conversation slide into something less raw, something more carnal.
She shifts then to turn a little more toward me. I catch a glimpse of a shadow on her arm beneath the edge of her top.
I don’t ask permission. I nudge the lace edge of her top higher, revealing what looks suspiciously like where fingers might rest if they were grabbing someone.
I brush my fingers over her skin and my fingers are dusted with concealer. Just a hint, careful not to cross any lines. "Where'd you get these?"
She's tried to hide the damage, but she's not doing a very good job. Or maybe she is, and I just can't miss these things.
I'm like a magnet for the walking fucking wounded.
I can't help myself, but I can't turn away when someone is hurting. It's been ingrained in my DNA since I was eighteen years old.
Even a complete stranger.
I'm going to regret this. Of that much I'm sure. But the question is already hanging in the air between us.
She shifts then, folding her arms over her chest, angling her bruised arm away. The movement has the effect of physically blocking me. I'd have to be a dead man to not react to that much perfection as the motion presses her breasts against the edge of her low-cut top.
I’m a little annoyed at how easily distracted my dick is these days.
"That's a long story," she says. Her voice is thick and low. Sultry. Perfect for a late-night rendezvous in a bar. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours?"
I shake my head. "Sorry. Some stories aren't meant for telling."
I'm not a eunuch, and I'm damn sure not a warrior monk, but it's been a long time since someone at my bar caught my attention.
Her eyes flicker with disappointment then drop down to my beard, then down my arms and slowly, slowly back up, her gaze licking my senses as much as if she were actually touching me. Slowly. I've been mentally undressed before, but there is something completely erotic in the way she's eye-fucking me.
And the more she watches me, the more I realize I am in just the right frame of mind to let her do what she wants.
Because tonight, I don't want to remember my rules or my fucking honor or my purpose fo
r being here. I want to get lost in sensation and touch and hot gasps and tight, wet bodies. Forget the hurt, forget the loss, forget every dark nightmare and twisted daydream.
What better way to forget than to lose myself in mindless sex for an hour or two?
Chapter 4
Parker
* * *
I needed to get out of my apartment and away from the creeping sadness that threatened to drown me if I stayed alone one more minute.
Tomorrow, I will find the owner of The Pint. Tomorrow I will figure out how to unfuck my life.
But right now, I’m standing in a closed-in space with a man who looks like a real-life rendition of Jason Momoa, and my panties are currently hosting their own episode of Celebration at the idea of standing just a little bit closer. I should be at the Baywater Country Club drinking top-shelf martinis and celebrating with Kylie and Bethany. But I can't see them tonight. For more than the obvious reasons.
I was planning on drinking myself stupid and forgetting everything about the last twenty-four hours in the human garbage fire that my life has become. It hurts and goddamn it, I'm tired of it hurting. I'm tired of being there for everyone else while I have to smile and look pretty.
Tonight? I thought I wanted the raw pulsing music and the bodies crushed together. I thought I wanted the contact. The distraction.
Don't make a fuss, Parker. Don't say anything to embarrass me, Parker.
What did you do to deserve it, Parker? Why didn’t you just do what he asked? Why do you always have to argue?
Anger crawls up my spine and squeezes my throat once more.
For once in my fucking life, I want someone to look at me and see me. Not my father's car, or my not-allowed-to-be-ex-boyfriend's tailored suits.
I want someone to see me. All of me.
I don’t know what I wanted when I left the apartment, but I think I may have just found it.
And the man standing next to me with the dark beard and dark eyes and terrifying tattoos seems like just the guy to take care of everything for a night.
Except that he might be a little too perceptive. I didn't plan on him seeing the bruises on my arm. Guess I need to rethink that career as a makeup artist if my graduate school plans don’t work out.
He's still watching me, a dark intensity in his eyes. An intensity that feels like a brushstroke over my skin.
I wonder what it would feel like to wake up wrapped in those massive arms, to feel those hands run over my skin while I sleep. What it feels like to be really touched instead of just positioned to receive.
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly. I didn’t set out to solve anything tonight. I came out to escape. To try and find some release from the trapped air in my apartment.
Instead I think I’ve found a solution in search of a problem.
The solution is a big man. Rough, too. The kind of man I would expect my father would call to lead the construction on a new project.
It’s his hands, though, that capture my attention. Big and flat and broad. They're a working man’s hands. Not polished. Not cupped in anger.
Just matter-of-fact hands. Hands that would be honest.
Hands that would feel like heaven on my skin.
I look up to find him watching me. I've never physically felt a look before this moment, this lazy caress of a man's gaze moving inch by inch over my skin.
I part my lips. Just enough that he notices. His nostrils flare.
"Careful, little girl." His voice is thick and deep and smooth. Like the gaze still trailing over my body.
"Or what?" I whisper. Kelsey’s voice slides through my brain.
This is foolish. Utterly stupid.
This is power.
And it is exactly what I need tonight. I need to feel needed. Wanted.
Tonight isn't about rational thought. It's about the opposite. About going in blind, completely on instinct.
"I'm not sure you want to find out."
But he has not moved away. He hasn't turned his back on me, and he hasn't dismissed me as some childish twat playing grownup.
God, but those words burn in my ears.
"Maybe I do."
The muscles in his neck bunch beneath the thick beard. "Do you always hit on random men at bars?"
I press my lips together and dare to take a single step closer. "Nope. You'd be my first."
He lifts one brow. "Oh yeah? What's the occasion?" He jerks his chin toward me. "It doesn't have to do with the bruises, does it?"
I lift my glass to my lips. Slowly I part them, letting the ice cube bounce off the tip of my tongue. When I lower it, his eyes are locked on my mouth. "No," I whisper. "It's got nothing to do with them."
Nothing and everything. But he doesn't need to know that. He only needs to take me someplace and touch me.
Me. I need him to see me.
He moves in then with a quickness that catches me off guard. In an instant, he is right there, right in my space. I can smell the faint, smoky scent of him. Something woodsy and spicy and smoky.
It's all I can do to stay still. To not back down from the challenge he presents in that single breath of space.
"What do you want?" A murmured question that feels like a demand.
The single word I need is lodged in my throat. It’s thick and heavy, filled with potential and promise.
"You," I finally say.
"Why?"
Such a complicated question. I search his face, looking for an answer, a lie, something simple to fill the space left by his question.
I lift my hand, afraid he'll see it tremble. It takes every ounce of willpower I've got to slide my fingers over his forearm. I'm surprised by the raw power beneath my touch. I expected the tattoos to be physical manifestations of the violence on his flesh.
His skin is hot and smooth. My hand looks pale and small against it.
"You seem…" I lift my eyes to his, never removing my hand. "You seem like a straightforward kind of guy."
A man with rough hands and dark ink carved into his skin. A man so unlike the men I'm used to, it's not even funny.
I lift my hand to his cheek, just above the edge of his beard. I've never touched a man with facial hair before.
He is still beneath my touch. A moment before I'm about to press my palm to his cheek, he grips my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but he definitely gets my attention.
"Not here."
I swallow. My mouth is suddenly dry. "Where?"
He jerks his chin toward the dark hallway behind us.
I follow him silently, wishing he was already touching me, making me feel, letting me pretend I matter, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
He leads me through the maze of small tables and patrons at various stages of intoxication. Away from the noise and the smell of fries and smoke and cologne and all the good things that bars have.
We step out of the noise and into shadows and silence. He doesn't pounce, doesn't push me against the wall and run those rough hands over my skin.
Instead, he leans against it—a casual, arrogant male.
Waiting.
I know for what.
For me to make the first move.
For me to step into the space between us. For me to touch him first.
I want to.
But I am paralyzed. Rooted to the damp concrete beneath my feet. The cool night air might as well be chains, holding me, restraining any thought or movement.
He doesn't move. His arms are folded over his broad, heavy chest, his t-shirt straining against his body.
The silence hangs on, stretching and thick and tight.
"Scared?" he finally whispers. A dare. A terrible, wicked promise in that single word.
"Should I be?" My throat is tight and dry.
His answer is nothing I expect.
And everything I want.
Chapter 5
Eli
* * *
I don't take advantage of people. My tactical officer at West Point tried to m
ake me into a leader who could squeeze the most out of his people with the minimum amount of effort.
I was supposed to get shit done. Not ask how it got that way.
And why in the fuck am I thinking about that forty-seven month experience at Castle Grayskull right now?
The woman in front of me…there's more to this story than a sorority sister out for a casual fuck. That might have been what I thought she was after back in the bar, but now, out in the open, I'm no longer certain.
She's not being coy or shy. There is genuine uncertainty in her eyes. As though she just realized she’s stepped into a secluded alley with a dude twice her size, sporting a beard and enough ink to make her mother drag her back to church.
And damn it, I don't want this. I thought…I thought she would be a nice distraction from the memories tonight.
But it won’t be what either of us want. Or need. I honestly think she might shatter if I touch her, and not in the good kind of way.
No matter how much she might try to pretend otherwise.
I push off the wall and step into her space. Slowly, giving her time to back away. I lift my hand again, making sure she sees it coming. Someone hurt her and the bruises are recent enough that it might have been earlier today, maybe last night.
A spike of violence hits my blood, causing my fingers to tremble. I release my breath through clenched teeth as I gently trace the edge of her tender flesh. "Whoever did this doesn't deserve you," I whisper.
I want my words to matter. I want them to sink in. I want her to walk away and be okay.
I know it is infinitely more complicated than that.
She closes her eyes as I slip my fingers down the smooth line of her throat. She trembles, a subtle movement I wouldn't have noticed had I not been completely engrossed in the moment.
In the simple act of touching her.
Her skin is soft, her pulse a scattered race beneath my fingertips. I cup her face. Gently, so gently. She presses against my palm, exposing her neck just a little.
After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Page 3
