Wouldn't it be a perfect introduction to the class for me to lose my shit on some pretentious asshole for bitching about his parking spot or how Whole Foods was out of his favorite quinoa?
I take another sip of coffee, trying to keep myself amused as I step into the classroom.
It's a super human effort not to stop, stunned and rooted to the spot. Holy shit, it's her.
I cannot look away. Across the distance and the noise, she is a beacon. A center of calm in the frenetic motion of the classroom.
The girl from the bar. Alone, off to one side. Like the rest of the class doesn’t know what to do with her because her skin is darker than theirs. Or maybe Daddy doesn’t have the right pedigree.
If she notices the way her classmates move around her like she’s not there, she’s playing it cool. Texting someone.
I imagine it’s very alienating.
I know all about that.
I swallow and summon up the courage I need to approach her. ’Cause it’s a whole new ball game talking to a girl when I haven’t been drinking.
Especially one as stunning as she is.
“Mind if I join you?”
She looks up sharply, her eyes wide, as though she’s completely surprised by my question. Which I suppose says enough about the quality of interactions on campus.
I have the distinct impression that she sees me, the real me. Not the hunched-over-the-bar-and-one-sad-story-away-from-eating-a-fucking-bullet-for-breakfast me. No, not that me. The me beneath the scars and the ink and the scruff.
“Sure.” She’s watching me carefully. I’m definitely being inspected. For what failings, I’m not sure.
I sit. Not right next to her, because that would be kind of strange in a room that has as many empty seats as it does. I leave a single seat between us and try to do the mindless prep for class rituals my classmates appear to be doing.
I’m getting ready to summon up the courage to ask her what her name is when I get a second unpleasant surprise. Two in one week. Well, I only need one more for the shit show trifecta to be complete.
Parker Hauser breezes into class like a force of nature. It’s a certain way that women like her carry themselves around here but Parker, Parker has perfected it and it’s annoying as fuck. She was in one of my classes last semester and she annoyed me to no end talking about personal responsibility and rational choice theory. Before I remembered that I was a founding member of the fucking nuts club, I'd tried to engage with her arguments. Now? Now if she starts in on her rational choice theory bullshit, I might just completely lose my shit. Again.
“Oh great,” I mumble.
“Friend of yours?” I am very much drawn to the sound of her voice. I wish we were alone. So I could do something daring and bold. Like talk to her while being cold sober.
“Not really.” The anxiety catches in my throat, squeezing tight. I take another sip of my coffee and watch my cellmates—I mean classmates—filter in, trying not to feel awkward and weird that I don’t know what to say to the girl I’m not quite sitting next to.
Maybe if I had a drink or two in me, I’d finally find something witty to say. Maybe I’d be able to ask her why she was in this particular class without choking on the nervousness. Maybe I’d finally feel something around a girl.
Except I haven't felt that kind of excitement in a long, long time. And it’s not likely to change any time soon.
And holy hell, I am not confronting that unpleasant memory today. I mean, what in the world is wrong with this week? It’s like my psyche is deliberately fucking with me.
And honestly, I don’t need any damn help in that department.
The professor walks in. I suppose it’s strange that I’m relieved and disappointed all at once.
It’s actually a good thing he showed up. Because a thought had taken hold – this idea that maybe, I could actually have a conversation that didn’t involve alcohol. That maybe I could flirt and pretend that I'm just another guy in the dating pool.
I'm meant to be alone. If I wasn't sure about that before the war, I damn sure am now.
Professor Quinn finally starts class, ending any chance I have to talk to her.
Which means she'll be safe.
At least from me.
Abby
I am struck silent the moment he walks into the classroom.
Even more so when he scans the room briefly then his gaze settles on me. Only me. I am poignantly aware of my skin fitting too tightly over my bones.
I can't explain my reaction to seeing him here, in my space. There is a sense of anticipation, a warmth flowing through me.
If I really investigate what I am feeling, it is…that anticipation just before hope turns into something else. There is no reason why I should react this way to a man I've spoken to exactly twice.
He seems darker here. More threatening and out of place. Here I can clearly see the hard lines of his face beneath the stubble. The penetrating green of his eyes is focused one hundred percent on me.
He is still as the world moves around him. The motionless energy of a predator watching his prey.
Which would be me.
And I am not afraid.
No, it's definitely not fear coursing through my veins at the moment.
It's something decidedly different when he approaches and asks if he can sit next to me.
Just like that, I am no longer alone on the edge of the classroom.
I am used to sitting by myself. I barely even notice it anymore.
In that single span of time when the space close to me goes from empty to filled, something shifts inside me.
I release a hard breath. It should not be a big deal that maybe a guy wants to actually talk to me. It shouldn’t be and yet, it is.
Maybe Graham is right and I do need to knock the dust off.
For once I am not alone and I have no idea what to do with that feeling. Maybe I can assume risk this once and allow myself the pleasure of a fantasy daydream.
If I close my eyes, I can let myself imagine his fingers on my neck. A simple gesture that is both erotic and comforting all at once.
Something no lover has ever done to me publicly.
Something I need to give myself permission to want. To let myself crave. Today, I want to imagine his fingers on my skin. His breath mingling with mine, the woodsy taste of scotch on his tongue.
The fantasy comes to a screeching halt. Wow, my life is a real beacon of hope for strong women everywhere. The only guy who seems to get me hot and bothered was drinking before noon yesterday.
I want to know his name. I've decided that already. I should text Graham and ask him if he knows it. But that would clue Graham in that I was interested, and while I love Graham like a brother, he has far too much invested in my love life or lack thereof. He'd give the guy my number, home address, and blood type if he thought it would get me laid.
I might make jokes about it, but I'm not that open when it comes to sex. It's not that I'm morally opposed to it. But it hasn't been exactly…earth shattering for me. Robert was…more concerned with his own pleasure than mine.
And wow, do I need to think about something else. Something other than the man next to me with the haunted eyes and thick, blunt fingers that are currently toying with a pencil.
Down, girl.
I'm better than this. I'm not boy crazy. I don’t let myself get distracted from why I’m here and guys definitely fall into the distraction category these days. I know who I am and what I want in life. And while the fantasy of having a guy stroke my neck and whisper things to make me laugh might be appealing, it's nothing more than a fantasy for girls like me in a place like this.
Fantasies are safe.
Fantasies don't ruin your life and crush your soul and try to change who you are. They don’t pretend to love you.
And in my fantasies is where he'll stay. In the dark and the shadows, where I can take out the idea of him and play with it for a little while, then put it safely away where it
can wait until next time.
Because fantasies can’t hurt you.
And as interested as I am in the man who did such a simple thing by sitting next to me, I am far too cynical to pretend that this is anything more than it is—a kind gesture.
Nothing more.
Chapter 4
Josh
I really should say something. Introduce myself. It feels really stalker-esque to think of her as her.
And when class doesn’t start because the projector isn’t working, I realize I have another opportunity to not be a fucking coward and actually talk to her.
I'm curious. Despite all my good intentions of keeping my distance, I want to know what on earth compelled her to approach me yesterday at the bar. I want to know what inspired her to stand and fight instead of try to downplay the situation on the street outside The Pint last week.
I worked with a female soldier back in my unit. She wasn’t officially assigned to us, which was why she was the only one around. She was badass on a weapons system but she never would have stood her ground like the girl next to me did the other night. She always traded cheap shots with the NCOs until they stopped hassling her. Deflection and de-escalation through dick jokes.
But the confrontation isn’t what has me intrigued. At least not completely.
I want to know why she approached me. Why she talked to me at the bar. Why she pretended to care.
Women don’t do that. And women who work in bars damn sure don’t do that. Not if they’re smart.
I know what she said. But people never tell the truth about stuff like that. They always have ulterior motives.
Funny, I can’t figure out what hers might be. I’m usually better at reading people but she’s got me stumped.
There's something about her that draws my attention. Maybe it's the tight curls that frame her face, drifting around her neck. Maybe it's the way she observed the entire room with her golden eyes that give you the impression she doesn't miss the smallest detail.
I steal a glance over at her, trying to be smooth and not completely fucking obvious.
She is focused on her paper, her right hand furiously scratching notes out in scrawling, neat penmanship. But her left hand is resting at the base of her throat. Her fingers sliding gently over her smooth skin, almost absently. Almost as though she wasn’t paying attention to the lecture but instead, lost in a fantasy.
For a moment, I'm enthralled by the movement. The slide of a single finger over soft, soft skin. The feel of your lover’s pulse racing beneath your caress. The power of a touch that says you are mine.
I haven't been touched like that in a long, long time.
I look away, seized by a sense of loss almost as powerful as the panic from yesterday.
I have to admit, I'm mildly relieved when Professor Quinn pulls up the PowerPoint for his lecture.
Death by PowerPoint even in college. But sometimes, it’s the familiar that offers comfort.
Except that now I’m paying for the privilege of being lulled to sleep by slides.
Quinn is a short, skinny guy who looks like a fifty-year-old version of the aging hipster. Maybe he's the original hipster. With his thick glasses and greying goatee, he looks like what I imagine Colonel Sanders of the KFC variety would look like as a college professor.
He finally starts his lecture. There's no good morning. No here's what we're going to talk about today. No lesson objectives.
Guess I'm not in Kansas anymore. An Army slide would have been carefully scripted with lesson objectives, key concepts and a course guide.
Looks like I'm supposed to think for myself here, too.
Which is kind of terrifying in a lot of ways.
"So let's talk about ISIS today. From your readings, you see they're in the news this week because of their beheading of another American citizen. What do you think motivates these people to do such a horrific act?"
From the front left, a hand shoots up into the air. Spoiler alert, it’s Parker. Here we go. She's what we call a spring butt in the Army. The first person to raise their hand and always has something they think is brilliant to say.
Her voice is pitch perfect in a super-annoying Elle Woods kind of way. Except that she doesn't have the dorky charm of Elle Woods. And no, I'm not embarrassed for having watched Legally Blonde on my last deployment.
Parker is confident in a way that suggests prep school and a mother with a ruler and a strong look of disappointment if she so much as looked at something the wrong way or dared to have her own opinion about anything.
"They're completely insane," she says.
I look down at my paper. I do not want to talk about this shit today. Or ever, for that matter. This class is a massive fucking mistake. It needs a fucking trigger warning.
My advisor and I are going to have a serious discussion about why she thinks this class is necessary for my degree. I want to do Homeland Security consulting. I know more than enough about violence and conflict management.
I wonder when the drop deadline is. Or if I can change majors. Maybe I can bribe my advisor to let me take something else. I’ll claim psychological distress or something.
But then they might ask for a mental health evaluation and god forbid should the veteran have mental health issues. And I’m most certainly not doing one of those. They might discover my other problem.
Parker continues. "They're using horrific violence as shock value, nothing more. If they were better integrated in society, they wouldn't have run off to join this band of murdering psychopaths."
She's so wrong it's not even funny. Guess a lack of cultural understanding isn't unique to the Army.
"Mr. Douglas, you disagree."
Fuck.
I look up to find the entire class has turned around, waiting for my answer.
I grind my teeth, wondering how the hell I managed to draw attention to myself.
Guess it's my fucking super power.
I wonder what they'd do if I ran screaming from the room, yelling for everyone to take cover. It's how I feel right now. Like they're waiting for me to grow a second head.
But those are my issues, not theirs; because none of them know I’m a soldier. It’s all in my head. Most of them probably have no idea that I should have a blazing neon sign over my head that says Warning: Angry Veteran. May snap if provoked.
The only war they know about is the one they see on TV. Or the one that could happen if Starbucks runs out of their favorite espresso.
"They're not psychopaths." I keep my voice calm and level and speak extra slowly. I need to keep my emotion out of this entire exchange and that is getting more and more difficult by the moment. "Just because someone is willing to engage in violence does not make them crazy."
Parker launches into her defense before I barely finish talking.
"No, I'm not willing to acknowledge that. Studies have consistently demonstrated that people who engage in this level of violence are severely mentally disturbed."
I smile at her and it is as cold and dead as I feel inside. She has no idea what life outside the smooth stone walls of this campus and her gated community is like.
"So explain all of human history," I say. "We used to gather in the town square for stoning as Saturday night entertainment."
I made that up. I think. But she's wrong.
She's fucking wrong.
The girl next to me shakes her head and lifts her hand. "Whether or not members of ISIS are mentally ill is irrelevant, isn't it? I mean, we're not going to assess their mental health before we launch drones at them."
Professor Quinn motions to her, not dismissing her remarks like he’s done to mine.
She is rapidly becoming my obsession. "Go further with that, Ms. Hilliard. What do you mean?"
Hilliard.
At least now I have her name.
Abby
I have a rule about talking in class. If I wouldn’t say it to the whole room, I don’t say anything. And now, I’m diving into a conversat
ion that is incredibly uncomfortable. Well, that's what I get for opening my mouth in class.
Here goes nothing.
"We're engaged in a drone war across half the Middle East and those are the countries we publicly know about. We know ISIS are cutting people's heads off. We're not going to capture them and put them on trial; we're going to bomb them. So what does it matter why they're doing what they're doing?" I shift in my seat so I can see Mr. Douglas—because thanks to Professor Quinn I actually know his name now—and Parker at the same time.
I am shocked by the transformation in him. Before where he'd been dark and brooding, he's…different now. Something energized. Something…else. The veins in his neck are standing out and the muscles are visibly pulsing. He looks worse—if that is actually possible—than he did at the bar yesterday.
And just like yesterday, I have a striking urge to ask him if he's okay.
Instead, Parker draws my attention from him. "I have to agree with Abby. I don't think it matters. But I think they're cray."
I roll my eyes but he speaks up.
"I think calling them ‘cray’"—and he practically sneers the word—"discounts what they're doing and what they're capable of."
Professor Quinn tips his chin at him, either completely unaware of the tension radiating off him or ignoring it. I'm not sure which one would actually be better. "And what are they doing, Mr. Douglas?"
"They're building a movement," Douglas says. "These people are not psychopaths. They're deeply motivated believers in what they're doing."
"Ha, so it is religious," Parker says suddenly.
Douglas frowns, as though the point were never up for debate. "I don't think there's any doubt in that."
"And we know that religious brains have less functioning in the areas that promote rational thought. They're more emotional, less reasonable. They are actually quite different from normal people," she says.
He is shaking his head again. "That's fundamentally the wrong way to look at this. Just because you can't imagine belonging to something else so strongly that you'd die for it doesn't mean that people who do are mentally ill."
Break My Fall (Falling #2) Page 3
