Catch My Fall: A Falling Novel

by Jessica Scott

  At least not without a hello first.

  "What's your name?" My dance partner’s voice is rough in my ear.

  "What do you want it to be?"

  His laugh vibrates down my spine. "I've seen that movie a thousand times."

  I spin then, and study him with narrow eyes. "You've seen Pretty Woman a thousand times?"

  He presses in, rubbing his thigh between mine, trying to coax me back into the rhythm.

  The moment is gone, now that I'm reasonably certain we're playing for the same team. I pat his cheek. "You should try to hook up somewhere else. I'd hate for you to be alone tonight because you got cock blocked by the bartender." I point to a broad-shouldered guy wearing a green T-shirt and Ranger panties. "He looks cute. And single."

  Hands lifts one eyebrow but doesn't even blink at being called out. "Thanks."

  And just like that, I'm alone again. Time to make my way to the bar and try to find the owner.

  Deacon still looks like he wants to stab something when I slide up to the bar where he’s loading the glasses into the dishwasher. He stops and watches me. The silence isn’t hostile, not exactly. It’s…wary. Tense.

  And then he looks up at me and smiles in a way that lights up the dark. As if he wasn't just looking like he was contemplating murder.

  "You should get that looked at," I mumble by way of greeting.

  "What's that?"

  "Your wild mood swings." I hope he takes the joke. I don't want to fight with him tonight.

  I can't. Not tonight.

  He slides a shot of vodka across the bar toward me. It stirs something warm and fuzzy inside me that he’s remembered what I like to drink when I’m drinking.

  I toss back the shot of vodka, feeling the burn all the way down to the pit of my stomach. I wish I could feel the slow slide of a buzz spread through my veins but I've been drinking way too long for that to happen anymore. It takes enough alcohol to kill an elephant before I even start to feel the effects.

  I've either got a super liver or one that refuses to accept defeat. Either way, sometimes, I just wish I could get drunk.

  "So, what brings you into our humble establishment?”

  The question is informal, the kind of question you ask to get someone to open up.

  “I heard the owner tends to hire veterans. I’m looking for work.”

  His throat moves as he swallows and it’s hard not to notice everything that’s changed about him. He’s thicker now, his shoulders wider. His skin is darker than I remember, the color of a deep smoky whiskey. It might be the shadows or from the low lighting.

  But it’s his mouth that captures my attention, just like always. The way his lips curl at one side still drives me wild. And his too-full bottom lip is perfect for nibbling on. I remember that all too well.

  “He’s in the back.” He leans on the bar, slinging his bar towel over one shoulder. "What are you drinking tonight?"

  I grin. I know this game. And tonight, I’m willing to pretend we're just two strangers at a bar instead of two people with a fucked-up history that we both ran from, in our own fucked-up ways.

  It's a comfortable game. Far easier than the alternative, where I ask him what he’s been up to the last three years.

  I lean forward against the bar, offering a half-smile. "You buying?"

  His eyes are dark and cast in shadows, his mouth set in that cocky half-grin I used to love. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the bite of lemon and whiskey on his lips. "If you're drinking, I'm buying."

  "Make it a seven and seven."

  "On the rocks?"

  I lean closer. "Yeah, that sounds good."

  This is a game I've played all too often from the other side of the bar. Tonight, with Deacon, it's a safe one. One that will end with me alone and him most likely pissed off at me again, but for now I'll play along. It's a nice distraction from the looming silence of my apartment that I don't want to face.

  He pours the Seagram’s Seven and splashes the Seven-Up into the glass, then slides it over to me.

  "What are you drinking?" I ask.

  "Same as you."

  I lift my glass in a mock salute. "Bottoms up."

  It's just me and Deacon and a whole lot of memories.

  He clinks his drink against mine.

  The Seven and Seven is smooth against my lips, sparkling a good time down my throat. He’s made it strong. "This is really good."

  "If you're going to do something, do it well." He takes a sip and my eyes are drawn to the movement of the muscles of his arms. I don't want to remember the way it felt to press my lips against that dead tree tattooed on his skin.

  Not all of our memories are bad. But the good ones…the good ones are too fucking good. Too filled with temptation.

  And I know where temptation leads.

  I've been to that hell before. But I need a goddamned job and I feel in my bones that this is the place I’m supposed to be.

  In spite of or because of Deacon, I have no idea.

  "You used to say that a lot."

  "Lots of things I used to say."

  If I close my eyes, I can see him, younger. Less cynical. Less hair.

  He's grown his hair out since he left the Army. I don't wear my hair up much anymore. I've gotten used to wearing it down.

  Except I still can't wear it down when I work out. It feels weird running and having it sweep along my neck. I twist it into a bun for doing yoga.

  He slips the glass from my hand and takes a sip from it, then gives it back. "So how far we going tonight?"

  "How far do you want to go?" My voice is thick, laced with need and something else. Something I don't have the name for.

  He looks hard at me, his expression shifting to something akin to stone. "I gave up playing games with you a long time ago, Kels."

  I suck in a sharp breath. No one has called me Kels since the last time I saw him.

  Some nights, it's easier to pretend we don't share a past coated in blood.

  "Then I guess we’ve found our line."

  I managed not to argue with him.

  This is a good sign. A fresh start.

  I wonder how long it will last.

  Probably until I do something else to screw up with the one guy who knows everything about how fucked up I am, and all the reasons why I will never be able to leave the war behind.

  1

  Present

  Kelsey

  There are times I miss the Army.

  And other times, I hate with everything that I am what it did to me.

  Most of the time, though, I try to just get through the soul-crushing days at school without stabbing someone.

  Which is why I do yoga. Lots of it.

  And doing yoga is after I count to one hundred, do some deep ujjayi breathing, and remind myself that I am working on non-violence these days.

  Today might be a breaking point, though.

  "You're serious?" I'm breathing. I promise I'm breathing. "What the hell can I teach a bunch of brainiac cadets about being an officer? I was enlisted, remember?"

  Professor Blake leans back behind her wide mahogany desk and steeples her hands in front of her. There is something serene about this woman that drew me to her the first day we met.

  Granted, I was in full-blown crisis mode that day, trying to get all my paperwork sorted out so I could start classes and not have to mortgage my firstborn child as payment. Still.

  She’s one of those people who are just naturally calming, polished and poised in a way I will never be. I’ve been surrounding myself with those people these days. Trying to chain up the chaos Muppet in my head.

  "I think you have a tremendous amount to offer the cadets in our program. After all, NCOs train lieutenants. And this is about more than just the cadets. This is a deliberate effort to span the civil military divide.”

  I twist my fingers into a calming mudra and breathe. Just breathe. “Why me?”

  “Nalini King can't do it this semester because she�
��s finalizing a program to get her yoga studio certified by the campus wellness center.”

  “She’d be perfect for the cadets.” Nalini is a West Point grad-turned-yogini businesswoman. I swear she’s got to be ADHD with as much shit as she gets done on an everyday basis. She makes us mere mortals look rather mundane.

  “She has been. And she recommended you as a replacement for her this semester.”

  “I’m probably not the best fit for this.” I can’t get up in front of cadets, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and blow smoke up their asses about how great the Army is.

  Even if I miss it every fucking day.

  Professor Blake slides a sheet of paper toward me. “You get teaching credit out of it. Which will make your application to grad school that much more competitive."

  "I'm not sure I'm the best person for this.” I can barely get myself out of bed some days. Don’t make me tell the cadets that the Army will do this to them. That it will ask them to give up everything, then cast them aside when it’s over. But I say none of those things. “There are a bunch of guys out at The Pint; why don't you hit them up?"

  She arches one perfect brow. "What makes you think I haven't?"

  That catches my attention. "Who else signed on?" My stomach is tight because I'm willing to bet I already know the answer.

  "Deacon Hunter."

  I clear my throat. "It's definitely not a good idea for us to work together on this. We have a history together." On a tour to Iraq that marked the beginning of the end of any semblance of normality in my life, but no one needs to see me pick those scabs in public.

  She motions toward the sheet of paper that I tried to ignore. "You're already approved by the university. And you get a stipend."

  “‘Stipend’ sounds like beer money,” I say, leaning forward. "Visiting Assistant Professor of Military Science? I don't even have a master's degree." It’s hard not to be impressed with that fancy-sounding title. I’ve certainly come a long way from sweeping up spilled diesel in the motor pool.

  "Yet," she says. "This is an excellent opportunity for you. The cadets need your experience and they need to hear from women veterans just as much as they need to hear from men. They need to know what they're getting into when they get out into the force." She pauses. "I wish my son had had an opportunity like this."

  My throat tightens at her words. Her son Mike died in Iraq a few years ago. His death is part of why she's so active with the student vets on campus.

  "Well, when you put it that way," I finally say. I don’t want to work with Deacon. We’ve had a strange truce the last few months since I got here and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s only worked because we’re so busy at The Pint that he hasn’t had time to rip the bandage off the still raw wound between us. “Guess I’m going to have to watch my swearing, huh?”

  “Just be yourself. Be the amazing Sergeant Ryder that you’ve always been.” She smiles and it’s hard to ignore the quiet pride I see looking back at me from her eyes. I’ve done nothing to earn it. And if she knew everything, she wouldn’t let me within ten feet of the cadets. When I don’t argue further, she takes my silence for agreement. "Thank you. I think you're underestimating how valuable what you have to offer them really is."

  "Yeah, well, let's hope I don't scar them for life first, okay?" But I could use the money and the teaching experience.

  “I’m not worried about that in the least,” she says in a way that seems to suggest everything will work out. I head out, a little disjointed from our meeting. I don't know how she can be so damn calm all the time. I've never even seen her do more than lift that one eyebrow in reaction to whatever else is going on around her.

  I'm envious of her serenity.

  I head out of the old Wilson building and cross the quad toward the library and my own personal lord and savior The Grind, where one can find the strongest coffee on campus. Whoever decided to put a cool, hipster coffee shop in the middle of the main library should get a speed pass to sainthood.

  And given that I’m used to some pretty strong stuff, that’s saying something. I order my coffee and then weave my way through the tables to take one near the door where I can keep an eye on who is coming and going while I try to wrap my head around the proposed syllabus that Professor Blake sent me.

  "Hey you."

  I glance up at the familiar voice as Nalini claims the chair across from me. "You don’t look very happy."

  She was also in the Army once upon a time, and now she's a small business owner who’s dedicated her life to yoga and her fellow fucked-up vets like me.

  If I believed in reincarnation, I would think that I must have been kind to animals in a previous life to be as fortunate as I am to have her in my current one. It's amazing how having someone around who speaks the same language as you can be so reassuring. It’s like a physical reminder that your experience wasn’t just a figment of your imagination.

  "Nah. I just found out I have to teach your cadets this semester."

  "And you're not happy about it because…?"

  "Because…" Why? I don't have a reason. It's just that something about it makes me uncomfortable. But I’m not ready to go there. "Because I haven't had enough coffee yet."

  Nalini grins and flips open her iPad. "Yeah, well, I can't help you, unfortunately. I’m fighting with the wellness center bureaucracy this semester, otherwise I would." She frowns a little and looks up at me. "Why are you so hesitant to do this?"

  I narrow my eyes at my friend’s apparent mind-reading skill. I'm reasonably certain she's probing for a specific answer or that she already knows the answer. But I'm not going to call her out. Because I'm working on not being an asshole.

  "Because I really don’t think my war stories are the ones the cadets need to hear.” I sip my coffee. “I think Professor Blake likes doing this. I'm not the only one she's made take on classes that push our boundaries."

  Nalini laughs. "Oh yeah, I heard about Josh's incident. He almost got arrested after the Violence and Society class, didn't he?"

  "That's the rumor." I stretch my arms over my head. Being around Nalini reminds me I need to go to yoga, seeing how it’s her studio that I attend regularly. Haven't been to a session in a couple of days, for no really good reason. "What’s going on with the wellness center?"

  "Well, they’re claiming that I need a certification from a specific yoga certification organization in order for them to allow me to officially teach classes there. Every time I explain to them that the certification they want is the equivalent of a diploma mill, they send me to another person. It’s rather frustrating. This is taking up an extraordinary amount of time."

  "Why do you get to do the fun stuff?"

  She beams and I am jealous of her smooth, amber skin. "Because I'm not a student, I just work here. Trust me, it is more than enough to keep me up at night."

  "Completely not fair." I wouldn't mind taking that class. Teaching the cadets… I'm sure I'll figure out in about thirty minutes what's bothering me about it but until I actually set foot inside that classroom, all I can do is quietly panic.

  "Yeah, well, life's not fair. And speaking of not fair, here comes a tall drink of water with your name on it. Someday you’re going to tell me the rest of the story about why you avoid Deacon Hunter so completely." Her lips twitch. “Otherwise, I might start thinking it’s a case of ‘the lady doth protest’ and all that.”

  She motions with her head toward the archway that leads into the library but I’ve already seen him.

  Deacon Hunter is walking up.

  Not really walking, though.

  Strolling, his eyes always searching, looking as if he’s scanning the horizon.

  It's hard not to appreciate how he owns the room as he walks in. He doesn't stand out because of how he's dressed or what he's carrying.

  He stands out from the raw power that radiates off him. There's something about the stiffness in his spine, the strength in his shoulders, that draws people to him. It’s a
quiet power. The kind of power that’s confident in its own skin.

  It’s what drew me to him when we were deployed, even if neither of us had our shit together in any meaningful way back then.

  It drew me, once upon a time. But those days are long gone. No matter how much I’ve suddenly realized there may be a party starting in my panties, begging him to come over and play.

  Yeah, in the library coffee shop. Because who doesn't have illicit fantasies about doing dirty things on the large tables meant for textbooks and study groups, right?

  I wish I could duck down and hide.

  I don't want to see him. I don't want to talk to him about the cadets.

  I can't.

  It's hard enough being around him at The Pint when we have a shift together. When the music is pulsing and the liquor is flowing and I can almost forget all the bad shit that split my life into Before and After.

  I'm not sure how to deal with him out in broad daylight when I haven't started drinking for the day yet. Especially since I’ve been drinking less these days.

  And I probably should have figured out how to be around him by now but well, no one is perfect, right?

  Unpack one trauma at a time, right?

  Nalini waves at him before I can stop her. She must hate me. "What are you doing up this early?" she asks as he walks up.

  "I’m teaching a class today, oddly enough. Pretending I’m an adult." I slouch down in my chair as he walks up. His gaze flicks over me briefly. I don’t look away from the challenge in his eyes because I refuse to cede the territory to him.

  I wish I didn’t notice everything about him in the brilliant fall sunlight slashing through the library windows.

  He hasn't shaved. There's a line of stubble along his jaw, edging the rim of his bottom lip. Gah, I wish I didn't know how he felt when he touched those lips to my skin.

  He looks back at Nalini, but the heat from his dark blue gaze has settled over my skin like heat from a fire. Making me wish for things I cannot have.

  Things I should not still want.

  "Coffee. Pep talk," my traitorous friend says, then nods in my direction. "Then work."