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AFTER I FALL: 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 that 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 writeup 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, 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. She is tiny in mine. 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 flight 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. I love my dad, I really do, but I swear he loves Davis more than me. I sigh heavily, at least grateful that he can’t see my expression.
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 after I get some work done on my grad school applications.”
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 cynical 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.
My phone vibrates in my purse.
Your first shift is tonight at six.
I give in to my mischievous impulse.
This isn’t exactly good employee communications. You should at least attempt to make employees feel as though they have a choice by asking instead of demanding. Or saying please once in a while.
The little bubbles appear as he types a response, then fade again. Then they’re back.
Finally, a single word appears on my screen.
Please.
I grin, anticipation sliding through me.
I’ll be there.
With fucking bells on.