CATCH  MY FALL

FALLING SERIES, BOOK 4

“Catch My Fall is a haunting tale that is hard to walk away from.” ~ Isha | Goodreads Reviewer

 THE FALLING SERIES

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Durham, NC

Six Months Ago

Deacon

“Can I touch it?”

Sweet baby Jesus, the things I do for my job.

The woman leaning across the bar is about one deep breath away from bursting out of her top, and I’d bet every red-blooded man in The Pint is hoping for just that.

 The bar is busy tonight, filled with a very unusual mix of customers, even for a place that’s known for its unusual mix of customers.

And by unusual, I mean veterans mixing with college students. Almost all of us who work here are vets or, as I like to call us, refugees from civilian life.

My very friendly friend leaning across the counter is not a vet. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be nearly as enthralled with the branches of the tree tattooed into my skin as she is.

And I wouldn’t be nearly as drawn to the distraction of her touch.  A certain part of my anatomy is fervently hoping her fingers will linger a little longer. Maybe drift a little lower.

He’s been feeling neglected lately and, well, she might be just the one to help me pass the night away with some smooth body rocking.

She leans over a little further and runs her finger over the edge of the tree tattooed into my bicep. A pair of dog tags is nested in a little silver line of tiny silver balls threaded among the branches, pieced together to represent the real chain I no longer wear.

The dog tag tattoo was the first one I got when I joined the Army, the stuff that NCOs laugh at privates for doing. I damn sure laughed at my joes when they did stupid shit like I did way back when. The tree came later, along with the crow that she can’t see.

If she did see it, she might ask me about it. And I’ll play its significance off, saying it was a gothic phase I went through years ago.

She doesn’t need to know the story behind it.

The girl leaning across the bar smells like oranges and sunshine, and maybe a little too much Patrón. I lean closer, in part to do my service to mankind and to keep her from actually falling out of the top she’s dangerously close to abandoning.

Eli, our boss and de facto commander even if he doesn’t want to be, tends to frown on public nudity. The cops don’t really like getting called for those kinds of things, either.

The cops like bar fights even less, and naked chicks tend to spark the caveman in even the most civilized of hipster college dudes. And well,  The Pint has a reputation to uphold as an upscale establishment. It’s just that every so often, when we get the ratio of veterans to college students a little too high, we collectively give in to mankind’s baser needs: whiskey and sex.

All that being said, it’s part of my duty description to help Ms. Patrón keep her clothes on and keep her hands on my body.

Her finger is soft and smooth against my skin, and she traces the small chain over the inside of my biceps until it disappears into the white T-shirt I’ve worn to work tonight.

The slide of her finger over my skin should be arousing but tonight…it’s not nearly as compelling as I want it to be. I want to lean closer to let her press her lips to my skin and see what else she’d like to do with that perfectly painted mouth.

It should be no sacrifice to stand perfectly still while she touches me. Her touch is a connection, linking me from my alcohol-induced haze to the world of sensual sensation.

It’s a fantasy. One that doesn’t exist for me, hasn’t existed in several weeks if I’m being honest with myself. Christ, I need to get fucking laid.

But my friend across the bar with the barely contained breasts is not going to be the one to break that streak.

It’s not an easy thing to break the contact but I do. Because what I need will not be satisfied in a simple connection. At least not hers.

Christ my dick is picky these days. Miserable fucker.

“Another drink?”

Ms. Patrón leans back and traces the same finger over her bottom lip. “I’m trying to behave,” she whispers. “But yeah, I think another shot would be just the thing.”

“You misbehave often?” Because I can’t quite help myself.  Maybe if I flirt, I can summon the energy to ask her to come home with me. To strip off her clothing and see if she’s willing to do a little service for her nation.

I really need to stop drinking. That sounded fucked up, even to me.

“A little too often, to be honest.”

“Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing? Everyone’s allowed to misbehave. Isn’t that the fun of being an adult?”

She knocks back the shot and smiles at me, licking her lip. “I’m trying to pretend I’m not an adult tonight.”

Danger, Will Robinson. Abort! Nope. No way in hell I’m keeping this conversation going.

“Well, I’m not into daddy fetishes.” I grin and wink at her, trying to take the sting of rejection out of my words. She wants to keep drinking, she can, but I have to see to other customers.

Eli steps out of the cellar, kicking the door shut behind him and sets two bottles of whiskey on the counter that, between them, are worth over three hundred dollars. “So, any takers on how long before we have our first fight tonight?”

I glance over at him, then out at the highly unusual crowd at an already unusual bar in a town known for unusual bars.  The Pint is in one of the old tobacco brick buildings in downtown Durham and it would be unremarkable except for Eli and the space he’s created here.

He’s somehow managed to become the center of gravity for the small veteran community here in a hipster college town. I can’t really tell you how I stumbled into a job here. It wasn’t on purpose.

And yet, here I am, serving expensive ass whiskey to a bunch of college kids who are looking at the crowd up from Fort Bragg for a night on the town like they are from another country.

Which, to be fair, is an accurate statement. Fort Bragg is a long way from Durham as cultures go.

It doesn’t help that somehow, tonight became an unofficial Ranger Panty night. I’m not sure if it was a dare on social media or what, but there’s about two dozen people in the bar wearing the ultra-short running shorts made famous by, well, the Rangers.

One half of the population I mentioned before is wearing Vineyard Vines and Sperrys. The other half is literally wearing combat boots and Ranger Panties. There is some mixing between them, but for the most part the military folks are on one side of the bar, laughing and getting tanked, and the college crowd looks like it’s doing an ethnography of military bar stories, watching warily from a distance, like they’re afraid one of the vets is going to snap and shoot the place up.

This is fine, I’m sure. Like, what could possibly go wrong?  

I’m not sure how I feel about half the bar population running around in those shorts.

’Course, half the population in the bar includes a lot of the women wearing them, too, which makes it really fucking hard to concentrate every time someone decides to bend over.  

Dear God in heaven, thank you for the women who decided tonight was laundry night, too.

“It should be okay. So long as Caleb doesn’t show up tonight,” I tell Eli.

“Cut him some slack, will you?”

I breathe out through my nose. “I have no idea why you continue to support him. He’s ended up in the hospital after trying to kill his liver one too many times, he’s an obnoxious drunk, and quite frankly, his latent ammo-sexuality is fucking annoying.” I toss back a shot of Patrón at the thought of my least favorite regular customer.

“I’m trying to get him into CrossFit or something to see if it can help him quit drinking,” Eli says. I ignore the fact that he doesn’t comment on my opinion.

“That’s all we need. Mr. Shoot ’Em in the Face wearing TapOut gear and getting a fucking Jeep Wrangler.”

Eli glances over at me as he shakes a drink, then strains it into the glasses. And knowing Eli like I do, I wisely change the subject.

“Ranger Panty Night seems to be a success,” he says, sliding the drinks across the bar to the waiting frat brother. “It’s definitely brought in a different crowd.” 

“Hard to argue,” I say mildly, playing along with the impersonal conversation because it’s better than the alternative. “Ranger Panty Night is practically printing money. How the hell did you come up with this?” Receipts are way up tonight. Especially since it’s a Thursday, and the Fort Bragg crowd most likely has to be at PT early tomorrow morning. They’ve got at least a two-hour drive home.

“It was completely by accident. Caleb sent me a link to the Amazon reviews for Ranger panties. I laughed my ass off then posted it on social media. Somehow, I ended up offering a free drink to anyone who showed up in Ranger panties and, well, the rest is history.”

I lift my glass to him in mock salute. “As long as no one calls someone else a fucking moron, we should have a real productive night.”

And hopefully not too productive, because it’s just me and him running the bar these days. We really need to hire some additional staff, especially if we continue growing like we have been.

But it’s a bar. And despite our efforts, there is a schism down the middle of our space, one that I’m not sure how to heal. I love the brick walls and the low-hanging lights. The black and white pictures of soldiers mixed with photos of Durham’s history.

Technically, it’s not my job to heal anything. That’s Eli, everyone’s favorite Boy Scout who looks like a Hell’s Angel.

Unlike me—I look like an angel but raise holy hell whenever I get the urge.

Except that lately, I haven’t felt like raising hell.

I wish I knew what the problem was because I fucking hate feeling like this.

A shorter dude in Ranger panties changes the music from something pulsing and intense to a smooth country song. And of course, that’s when the shit show begins because clearly, the Sperry’s crowd wants more unknown alternative remixes.

In the middle of the beginnings of a bar fight about what music should be played, a sleek woman wearing jeans and a black tank top slides into the space between the opposing sides and starts to dance.

And I mean really dance.

Her hips sway to the music, her eyes close. Her lips part just a little.

One of the Sperry-wearing trust fund babies moves in behind her, his hand sliding down her hip, his body moving in sync with hers, like they’ve done this before. Her movements make her tank slide higher, revealing the ink that spreads out around her waist. 

It’s enthralling, watching her move. Watching her lose herself in the feel of someone else’s body against hers, the smooth slide of his hands down her flesh, drawing her closer.

I’m not the only one captured by the sight of the erotic duo. As the smooth, slow, country music continues the tension in the bar is replaced by a sensual energy, from people daring to cross the gap and make that most elemental human connection.

She turns and the light hits her face just right. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted.

I’d recognize her anywhere.

And suddenly, I’m no longer enthralled by watching her dance.

This is how our night ends, ladies and gentlemen. With me standing there, fighting the urge to drag that guy’s fucking hands off a woman I haven’t seen in three years. A woman who could fuck my brains out and still be up and ready to go on patrol in Iraq the next morning.

Kelsey. Fucking. Ryder.

Watching her move, watching his hands slide over her body, I am hit with a violent longing.

I am suddenly, starkly, alone.

Just like always.

#

Kelsey

I needed a whole lot of space and yoga to find my center again today. But today was going to be the day I broke through barriers. I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself. I was going to get a job and get my transfer paperwork filled out at school. When I walked into The Pint, I was trying to pretend tonight was a normal night. But it’s not. The loneliness that slammed into me full force after walking through campus today hasn’t gone away, hasn’t let me go.

All of those lofty goals changed the minute I walked into The Pint, prepared to fill out an employment form to ask the owner for a job, and instead saw Deacon Hunter standing behind the bar.

Three years since I’d seen him.

Three years since I’d run away from the shit show my life was becoming with him.

And now there he is.

I could have left before he saw me. I could have walked away and pretended I never saw him. Maybe I’d forget that punch in the gut feeling of heat and warmth and arousal when I saw him.

But it would take a while. 

So I did what I always do when things are getting overwhelming. I seek connection. Touch.

I need to feel. To be reminded of why it is that I’m here. I close my eyes and let the body moving in sync with mine surround me.

It would be far too easy to pretend these are Deacon’s hands on my body. Deacon touching me, holding me, reminding me off all the good we had before things went to hell.

But they’re not.

My dance partner’s hands aren’t rough like my memories call for, but smooth. Still, he’s strong and—most important—confident as he moves behind me.

I focus on what I notice about him. His cologne is nice. Not overpowering.

Even when overpowering is what I want. What I need. I need someone to take the emptiness and block it out with sensation. Something that will blind me to the memories and the bullshit that chase me in my sleep and haunt my waking hours.

I want to forget. I want to forget the ache in my heart, the emptiness inside me.

I crave this: connection. Touch. Being part of a whole.

He rubs close against me, close enough that I don’t have to guess what he’s packing. It would be good, so good, to take him outside and let him do what I want him to do.

I glance over at Deacon, glaring at the iPad they apparently use for a register. He’s chewing on a drink straw like he’s going to snap it half. I should tell him he might choke but somehow, I don’t think he’d appreciate the warning.

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 but 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.

CONTINUE READING…

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