UNTIL WE FALL
FALLING SERIES, BOOK 5
“ A beautiful story about second chances and what can be made of them.” ~ Laurie | Goodreads Reviewer
“I can’t even find the words to tell you how much I loved this story. This author has a real talent for making me FEEL when I read her stories. This book is no exception.” ~ Kari | Goodreads Reviewer
The darkness never forgets…
Caleb Gregory has spent ten years hiding in the dark, refusing to speak about the night his young life was destroyed. In his anger and his rage, he drank and fought until he drove everyone away until he had no one left.
The light casts a long shadow…
Nalini King has devoted her post army life to her passion: using yoga to heal her fellow soldiers. In doing so, she’s worked to forget the night her life burned down around her.
An unexpected storm…
When a storm forces them into the darkness together, these two wounded souls must face the demons of their past. Because it is only in the darkest night that we can truly see the light.
THE FALLING SERIES
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
Nalini
“Holy shit!” The explosion sounds like lightning’s struck the ground somewhere close outside. It vibrates through my chest, ripping the air from my lungs. My heart slams against my ribs, my scream tears blood and tissue on its way out of my throat.
Seeing how he ducks at the sound of the blast, too, I’m at least not worried about salvaging my pride. That fear and the look in his eyes make him seem like less of a threat. I’m oddly relieved that I’m probably not about to be robbed at gunpoint by the soaking wet meth addict standing in the doorway of my studio.
Maybe he just looks a little strung out from insomnia. That’s what I’m going to tell myself, anyway.
Behind the shadows in his eyes there is something compelling, something that’s drawn me to him from the moment he stepped inside my studio. Even as the rational part of my brain was tempted to press the panic button.
Then I’m blinded by an alarm flashing from the cell phone on my desk. “You’re welcome to join me in the basement or not but you have to get away from the glass,” I tell him quickly.
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
“Tornado warning. Isn’t that why you ducked in here?”
Awareness fills his eyes and he nods. “Um, yeah.”
I can’t tell if he’s drunk or high. And while spending the morning hanging out in the basement with a complete stranger when I’m supposed to be teaching my first yoga class isn’t exactly a great way to start a week, clearly the universe has other plans for me.
I move quickly as the sky fills with light again, flicking the lock on the front door and motioning for him to follow me. The lights flicker from the studio above as we descend the stairs and I offer a quick prayer that they’ll stay on.
I hate basements. There’s something primordial and terrifying about descending into the literal bowels of the earth, especially now, with hell raging in the sky overhead. As we step into the basement, the studio goes dark as the power finally surrenders to the storm. The flashlight on my phone pierces the darkness and chases away any demons that might be living among my yoga mats and extra stock.
But that light won’t last forever. And I need to find a candle before the battery runs out.
Of course I’m using the space for storage. I’d be a fool not to. I just usually ask Cricket—my office manager, who is not afraid of anything—to supervise the retrieval of things from the dark.
I fumble for the basement light switch at the bottom and my hand collides with another warm hand. “Jesus!”
“Sorry.”
The fact that it’s the wet guy’s hand and not attached to an evil spirit in the dark makes me ridiculously happy. I reach out, touching flesh that is warm and solid and male.
Of course then the power goes out completely and we are plunged into near complete darkness, with the only light coming from my cell phone. “Almost forgot you’d followed me.” There’s no hiding the panic in my voice. I hate the dark.
“I’m so fucking glad you’re not a zombie.” His voice is dry and droll. So completely at odds with everything I’m feeling. The laugh steals out of me. I can’t help it. It’s better than crying. The panic of stepping into the dark isn’t gone, but the laugh helps. I don’t take my fingers from his. I’m terrified and panicked enough to need the human connection right now.
I hate the dark. No matter how much I meditate, the chasm that opened inside me on my deployment to Syria—the deployment that didn’t officially exist—hasn’t closed.
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I finally manage.
I am intensely aware of the heat from his skin penetrating his damn T-shirt. The solid warmth and the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath my fingers.
He moves then, and his palm covers the back of my hand. “Are you okay?”
That is such infinitely loaded question with a thousand ways to answer.
“Not really.” It’s so easy to admit the vulnerability to a stranger. Here in the dark with the violence raging overhead. “I don’t like storms.”
“Me either. Haven’t really enjoyed them since Iraq.”
My fingers flex against this stranger’s skin, reaching toward the common bond I didn’t realize we shared. “Army?”
“Yes.” He captures my hand. “You’re freezing.”
“So are you.” He shivers as the words brush over my skin. “Did you know panic tends to use your blood for other things? Appendages staying warm isn’t a priority when you’re running for your life.” I slip my hand from his, stepping into the darkness to the rack where my yoga blankets are stacked neatly. “Here.” I toss him a black and white and red wool blanket.
“Damn, this is softer than it looks.” He slings it around his shoulders. “Thank you. Would it be unmanly of me to admit I’m freezing my balls off?”
I wrap up in a blanket, too, and step closer to him. Because I don’t want to be alone in the dark.
“If the dark fucks you up, why not have backup power or something?” he asks when I don’t answer.
Such a pragmatic suggestion, but utterly useless when I’ve got all I can handle just avoiding triggers when the lights are on. “Guess you didn’t hear that part about the panic?”
I toss a couple of meditation pillows onto the floor.
“Can we use this?” he lifts a fat white candle off a shelf.
“Yeah. Not sure how long the storm will be last.”
He sets it down and I try not to notice the way his body moves. He’s not graceful. He’s…rough. Stiff. As though life has already been incredibly hard on his body. “Do you have a anything to light this with?”
“I think so.” I vaguely recall something about ceremonial matches that Cricket had stored down here but she does, and the moment I find them I love her more than I already did.
He slips the matches from my hand and lights the squat fat candle. He doesn’t demand to know why I didn’t light it myself. Doesn’t question the shaking of my hands that I hide by clicking off my cell phone light as soon as the candle flame lights up the darkness.
I sit on one of the meditation cushions, folding my legs in front of me, far enough away from the candle that I can’t feel its warmth, but close enough that I’m within the circle of light spread by its tiny flame.
The edge of his mouth curls a little. He’s still watching me, those dark eyes filled with…something I can’t identify.
Something I’m afraid to acknowledge. Something tainted with fear.
“I’m Caleb,” he says after a moment.
The air in the basement is cold. My bones ache now when I get cold. That’s new since coming home from the war. I try to ignore it. But sometimes it rears up and reminds me that I still hurt.
Like now. In this moment, the simple human connection of telling someone my name is a needed distraction from the memories raging with the storm outside. “I’m Nalini.”
He’s focused and intense, like rubbing my freezing fingers is the most important thing in the world. “I went to school with a Nalini once upon a time.”
“It was my grandmother’s name.”
“It’s Hindi, isn’t it?”
It’s funny how a benign conversation can draw you away from the edge of panic. “Yeah. Most people don’t know that.”
“I’m not most people.”
I smile faintly. “Apparently.”
He sits next to me, soaking wet and wrapped in a yoga blanket. The shadows from the candlelight have cut his features, sharpening some, softening others. He’s taller than I am, broader. He’s a big man with a wide chest and strong hands.
I notice men’s hands now. I notice whether they’re manicured or rough. Whether the nails have been trimmed or broken.
Caleb’s hands are rough. There’s a fresh cut along the tops of his knuckles on one hand and each of his wrists are wrapped in bandages. I’m hoping those are from tattoos instead of something else.
I flinch as another explosion makes the walls around us shudder. Out of the corner of my eye I notice he does the same. Despite the layers of building between us and Mother Nature’s fury, the storm sounds like it’s right on top of us. Maybe it is.
“Fuck, this is a bad one,” he mutters.
“Yeah.” The fear is back in my voice, shaking and violent. I need to focus. To try and find a way out of the narrow tunnel drawing me back to a violent hyperawareness I’ve tried to leave behind.
A siren blares in the darkness. He glances down at his phone. “Shelter in place,” he reads, looking up at me. “I think we’re going to be here a while.” He shivers again.
“Do you want another blanket? I have sweatshirts in one of these boxes if you’d like to change.” Focus on the things I can control. Release the things I can’t.
Taking care of others is so much easier than taking care of myself.
“I’ll manage.” He sets the phone by his feet. “Thank you, though.”
Any other time, being in the dark like this would erode the fragile remains of my soul that I’ve pieced back together over the last few years. But in that moment the darkness isn’t terrifying. Even the candle’s flame, which I would normally hate, offers a golden-hued comfort. I am so grateful not to be in the dark, with the explosions and violence, alone.
I’ve been there before.
I keep trying not to go back. And every time I think I’m okay, that I’ve finally released the last of the terror and fear from the memory of my muscles and tissue and bones, it resurfaces.
Like now. With the storm tearing at the world overhead, my brain is trying desperately to remind my body that we are not in Syria, that we are not trapped.
That I am not burning.
CONTINUE READING…