After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL

by Jessica Scott

  "Those don’t look any better in the full light of day." His voice is soft. There is an edge to his voice now, a latent energy that hadn't been there a moment before.

  "Yeah, well, I suck at makeup." Bad attempt at a joke. He doesn't even crack a half-smile.

  He scrubs his hand over his mouth and makes a noise deep in his chest. "Are you safe? Are you away from whoever did this?"

  The simplicity of that question strikes me, hard, in the chest. My lungs tighten and I suddenly can't take a full breath.

  All because he just asked a question that was one hundred percent about me, just me.

  And he doesn’t even know me.

  "I am." A statement that is mostly true. "Look, last night I was hurting. And I wanted you to…distract me from that hurt. I'm not sure I wouldn't have woken up with a fist full of regrets this morning. So thank you. For being one of the good ones."

  "I'm no saint," he says quietly. Again—simple words laced with layers of meaning. There is so much more to this man than the beard and the tattoos.

  "I don't think you are. But every single guy I know would have fucked me six ways from Sunday last night and left me with the regrets." I breathe out hard, because this is a terrible conversation to have when you’re sober. It would be so much better if I were having this conversation with one of Kelsey’s drinks in hand. What did she call them? Breakup Sex. And just like that, I’m thinking about the man sitting at his desk, looking like a pagan god playing at businessman, doing terrible things to my body.

  I clear my throat, wishing the images away. Or, at least, tucked away where I can enjoy them later.

  "But you didn't. So, thank you."

  He surprises me then. In a single move, he is around the desk. I don't remember him being this tall, this overwhelming last night. His shoulders block out the light, the solid wall of his chest consuming everything I can see.

  He smells the same, though. Something smoky and warm that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in.

  He is utterly gentle when he reaches up, cupping my cheek softly. His thumb rasps over my cheek. "There are plenty of things in this life to regret. Sex should never be one of those things," he murmurs.

  He doesn't move for a long moment. I don't think I want him to. I want to stay right there, forever, and draw on his strength. Use it to hold myself upright. To gather my strength to face the world.

  I'd touched myself last night, imagining his fingers, his mouth.

  But I never thought to put a name to that touch.

  What does that say about me and the life I've lived up until now?

  I swallow. "I'm Parker."

  He takes a step back then, leaning on his desk, his forearms corded and braced against the edge. "Eli."

  I resent the space between us. The ease with which he backs away and acts like the world didn't just tip beneath his feet. "So what did you need to see me about?"

  "I'm here about the internship."

  He arches one dark brow and the move is nothing but pure male arrogance. "The Mercedes in my parking spot does not suggest starving college student." And just like that, we are back to where we started. He folds his arms over his chest, and I cannot miss the way the corded tendons press against his skin.

  "Yeah, well, the Mercedes in your parking spot doesn't buy me a passing grade for my honors project or help me with my application for the executive management program at the business school."

  He frowns. "I didn't post an internship ad."

  I pull out the flyer from my purse. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Deacon”, but I can't be sure. I wonder if that's Mr. Attitude out front.

  But I'm more concerned about Mr. Tattoo and Beard standing in front of me. Heat radiates from his body, drawing me closer, like a dying woman craving just one taste of salvation.

  Eli. His name is Eli.

  "You're going to have to work a little harder than that to convince me why you're here instead of asking Daddy for help. Doesn't he have the right connections to get you a job at a consulting firm or something?"

  I run my tongue over my top lip at the disdain dripping from his words. "Pretty judgmental to make all these assumptions about me, isn't it?"

  "Am I wrong?"

  Heat flashes across my skin. Damn it. It's everything I can do not to stomp my foot and start making demands.

  "Not exactly," I finally admit. I push out a hard breath. "Look, I don't want to ask my dad to get one of his friends to help me with this project."

  "Which doesn't tell me why you're here and not somewhere else more suitable."

  "Maybe I want to learn how the bar business works. There's tremendous growth opportunity in this market segment. I specialized in marketing. I could really use the stuff I've learned to help you work your branding and market placement."

  He frowns, and I can't help but miss the slight downturn of his lips at the edge of his beard. "It's actually incredibly crowded."

  "Not the way you're doing it. Who the hell thinks up a place that does pancakes and beer?"

  "Anyone who has ever been out drinking at three a.m. and decided they needed pancakes but they weren't ready to call it a night yet." He is scowling at me. “Besides, that was a failed experiment. No one who actually runs a bar wants to pull the graveyard shift and be part of the pancake crowd at four in the morning.”

  I should probably be at least a little nervous. Or maybe feel a hint of embarrassment. But he hasn't asked me to leave yet, so that's a good thing, right?

  "Why are you really here?"

  Damn it, why did I have to pick the one guy who can see right through me? "I told you already." But the words feel dishonest at best. Nothing in my life is that simple.

  He steps into my space again. "You're not a very good liar."

  "Actually, I am usually much better at this sort of thing."

  "What, lying?" There goes that dark brow again, rising into the air with an arrogance that’s starting to get annoying.

  "Negotiating." I shift my purse, suddenly highly conscious about how everything I am wearing—from my top to my purse to my shoes—screams that I am out of my environment.

  "So let me get this straight. Last night, you came here for a revenge fuck to piss off Daddy or the ex or whoever. Today, you're here looking for a job when you could pick up the phone and ask Daddy for help with this." He’s still studying me, still standing far too close. "I don't want anything to do with you and your daddy issues, honey. They have counselors for that kind of shit."

  There is hurt in those words. It's subtle but there, blazing for the world to see if only it would look closely enough. I’m not sure I dare to step this close to the fire. But I can’t leave, either. Because leaving would be a retreat. It would make me a coward. "I know this looks bad but I'm asking for a chance."

  "Why should I hire you?" He straightens, consuming the space in front of me again. “What can you possibly bring to this assignment other than being a pain in my ass?”

  Chapter 7

  Eli

  * * *

  She's slumming. It's been written in red in everything she's done from the minute she set foot in my bar last night.

  And I am perfectly aware that girls like her do exactly this kind of thing before they settle down into their Ralph Lauren photoshoot kind of life. The kind of life where the whole family gets dressed in white button-down shirts and sits on the beach at sunset. She isn't the first girl who’s come into my bar looking for a wild time, and she won't be the last.

  But she is the first one to make me feel all twisted up and…just twisted up. There’s nothing else. Just dark arousal and deep, abiding curiosity about why she’s really standing here. Who put the bruises on her. And why the fuck I give enough of a shit to want to know more.

  This girl, though. There's something about the way she moves through the world that reminds me of where I came from—and where I steadily avoid returning to. At the same time, there's something about her th
at pulls at me just as if she were one of the guys I've managed to round up. It's not just the bruises on her arm, either. Those are surprisingly common around here, too.

  Funny how people think the only folks who get abused are poor women.

  She doesn't answer my question for an impossible length of time. She shifts her weight from side to side, biting her lip as she searches for an answer. Finally, she takes a subtle, deep breath. “Last night I asked you why you joined the Army. Why you signed up to go to war.” She hesitates, trying hard not to look like she’s hesitating.

  "One of the things we can't explain in economics is why people make decisions that aren't in their best interests. Why people work hard when there’s no financial incentive. Why people volunteer for war. Your bar is like that. This place charges premium prices in a crowded niche of businesses that all charge premium prices, and yet you're standing out in the local economy." She pauses. "I want to know why."

  "And this is why you won't ask your father for help?"

  "I love how you keep assuming my father is wealthy and has all the right connections. What if it's my mom?"

  "Is it?"

  She shoots me a dirty look. "No," she grumbles. And it's fucking cute. Jesus, I need to get laid. She shifts again.

  "What if I'm not hiring?"

  It's completely irrational. I've built this business with my own two hands. I’m proud as hell of it and what it means to all of us who work here. There’s no logical reason for me not to hire her. And yet, I’m resisting.

  "Okay, but if you start taking on interns from the business school it'll get you tied into the institution and could potentially create some lucrative catering opportunities, among other things."

  I lift one eyebrow. "How did you know I wanted to expand into catering?"

  "I did some homework this morning. The write up in the local paper on your bar last summer is one example. It’s a case study on how your business model doesn't fit into the right mold but is still doing exceedingly well when it shouldn’t be. And now that you’ve expanded into whiskey, you’re poised to really break out. It’s a perfect complement to your existing niche, but you need to exploit it and figure out how to make room for higher-end clients among your current clients who are more grounded in daily life."

  She's sharp, I'll give her that; and she knows what she’s talking about. I move back around my desk, primarily to put some space between us before I do anything stupid. Again.

  Everything is in its place. I'm hyper-organized—it's a sickness burned into my brain from my time at West Point. It didn't do anything to help me as a commander, though. No, I screwed that up big time.

  "You really want to work here?"

  She hasn’t moved. She didn’t move when I crowded into her space and she’s not moving now. It’s odd how I’m so used to movement and her stillness is both unsettling and grounding.

  Every one of my employees is a veteran of some flavor or another. I’ve done that deliberately. It means there’s a whole slew of underlying assumptions about how we work together that doesn’t require extensive training or orientation.

  Bringing her on is going to change the dynamics here.

  But there is something about her that says she's one of us. There's no way a girl like her has been through the war, but she's been through something more serious than the perfect life that she’s presenting to the world suggests.

  "I really do."

  I say nothing. Then after a moment, I nod.

  "I need you to fill out employment paperwork," I finally say. I pull out the state forms from a drawer and hand them to her.

  This girl is complicated. Very much so. And I don't need any more complications in my life. But as usual, common sense doesn’t really apply when it comes to me gathering more people for my little island of misfit toys. There is something about her that calls to me.

  If my dick could whimper, it would. By bringing her on board as my employee, it makes her one hundred percent off-limits. Which is good.

  She extends her hand toward me, her face lighting up in a brilliant smile. "Thank you. I won't disappoint you."

  Electricity snaps between us as I take her hand. Small and slender, she's clearly never lifted a shovel or fired a weapon in her life. She's not weak, though. Her grip is strong and solid, if small.

  She looks down at our hands. For a moment, she is stiff, then she relaxes, her fingers curling around the base of my palm. It's a subtle shift but it's there.

  And just like that, the tension eases away from her.

  "This isn’t the country club,” I tell her. “There are fights here.”

  She tucks the paperwork into her oversized purse. “You’ve clearly not spent time at the Baywater. You should see how peckish old Southern women get over their favorite bar stool. Just last week, I saw a vicious slap fight between a Martha Stewart wannabe and Paula Dean's anorexic twin before the bartenders escorted them both to opposite sides of the bar."

  Her response is not what I expected. I lean against my desk, feeling off-kilter yet oddly at ease, now that she’s loosened up a little. "That is a seriously fucked-up visual."

  “I’ve got a million of them.” She pauses, then gives me a look that I can't read. "So can you move your car?"

  * * *

  Parker

  * * *

  I've never felt self-conscious about my car before. But as Eli moves his truck, I am suddenly and painfully aware of how different my life is from his.

  He is standing in my rearview mirror as I pull away. He's a mystery that has only gotten more complicated in the last twenty-four hours.

  I drum my fingers on the leather of my steering wheel as I head toward my apartment, my mind spinning over the abrupt shift in my life since meeting Eli.

  My dash lights up as my phone rings.

  Davis has a lot of nerve to call me. It's the third time he's tried calling me since yesterday.

  Yeah, picking up his call is not going to happen. I need some space from him and all of his anxiety and stress. I don’t want or need to be a doormat. My father isn’t here to pressure me to be more supportive to Davis so I press “ignore” on my steering wheel—only for the dash to light up again, this time with my father's name.

  Speak of the Devil and all that.

  Once upon a time, I would have lit up to see his number on my phone. But he never calls to check on me. It’s always about Davis.

  But I’m still that pathetic little girl who needs Daddy’s affection any way I can get it, so I answer the phone, knowing what his first words will be and knowing how much they will hurt, and doing it anyway.

  "Hi, Daddy."

  "What happened with Davis? Why aren't you taking his calls?"

  Tap, tap tap. My nails drum a soothing rhythm into the leather and I suck in a deep breath, holding it for a long moment like I’ve learned to do in yoga. Trying to find the calm inside the storm of my emotions. "We’re disagreeing about what to do this summer."

  He sighs audibly. “It’s that bad that you won’t talk to him?” My father might as well have just mentioned the weather for all the emotion he puts into that sentence.

  For a moment, I’m surprised at how much it doesn’t hurt that he doesn’t even say hi to me. I frown, unable to figure out where that hurt went.

  Later. I’ll unpack that later. Right now, I have to navigate this phone call.

  "I’m working on getting over it. I’ll call him. Later." After a whole lot of therapeutic drinking.

  But I don’t tell my father that.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m lying to my father. It doesn’t feel good. But it’s not crushing the air from my lungs like it normally does.

  "I wish you wouldn’t argue as much as you do. Davis is a good man."

  I press my lips together and say nothing. Because clearly there is nothing I can say that will penetrate my father's views on the world and my place in it. I am a means to a son for him. Little more.

  I wasn’t always cyni
cal about my relationship with Davis. Except that now, he feels less like a fiancé and more like a way to keep my relationship with my dad.

  I haven't figured out a way out of that dilemma yet, which is why I'm having this conversation with my father instead of ignoring him.

  I can practically hear the disappointment in his voice. "You’re just having pre-wedding jitters. The engagement has already been posted in the society section of the New York Times. I’m sure you’ll figure it out."

  That is the most optimistic thing he can say right now.

  I pull into my numbered parking spot in the parking garage and disconnect my phone from my car's Bluetooth. "I really have to go."

  "Call Davis. Get things sorted out. He really loves you."

  Our definitions of love have dramatically diverged since my mom died. Instead I make a noise in my throat and mumble something polite just to get off the phone, waiting for the familiar hurt that doesn’t come.

  I climb the stairs into my apartment and sink into my couch. My letter of intent for grad school is open on my computer. It’s got all the relevant letterhead information but it’s otherwise blank. I can’t really come up with a reason why I want to go into the executive management program, other than that my dad wants me to get my MBA. It will help me be a good partner for Davis, helping me organize his personal affairs so he can focus on being a congressman.

  Except that the longer my engagement with Davis goes on, the less it feels…right. It did, once upon a time. Was that only last summer when we started dating? It’s hard to believe things have changed that much.

  I haven’t told anyone about how things have changed. I just smile and make polite noises when my friends gush over how lucky I am that Davis picked me. Like I’m a prize pony or something.

  I take out my MacBook and start typing notes about my conversation with Eli. The terms of the agreement. The nuts and bolts of what he said, what I did. I don’t know how much of this will end up in my final statement of purpose for the executive program but it can’t hurt to jot things down.