Caleb is one of those guys who just rubs people the wrong way, but tonight, at least, he's not alone if he's here. Not sure how I feel about him continuing to hang out at the bar, considering he just got out of the hospital for almost drinking himself into a coma. It's pretty fucking dumb that he's here.
I don't talk about the Army much. Not with my wealthier customers, anyway. Every so often someone will notice the 82nd Airborne Division tattoo buried in the swirling black ink lines on my bicep but most people don't bother to look closely enough.
People see what they want to see. That’s how Caleb found his place among the misfit Legos and toys that are drawn to The Pint. He saw a fellow veteran and started talking shit about killing ’em all and letting God sort them out and I politely told him to shut the fuck up. Which apparently endeared me to him for life because he has become a semi-permanent resident over the last year or so.
And I’m a fucking sucker, because I keep letting him come back where at least I can keep an eye on him and make sure he’s not drinking himself into a coma like he did a few weeks ago.
I can’t stop him.
And I can’t cut him loose. No matter how much he might piss off my higher-paying customers.
It doesn’t work that way.
But tonight, they’re not going to see a former company commander with a life full of regrets. They’re going to see a big guy with a beard and tattoos breaking up yet another bar fight.
I drag Caleb off the suit. “Out. Both of you.” Caleb holds up both hands and tries to look innocent. “I don’t really want to hear it.”
“Oh come on! Dickless over there took my chair.” Caleb’s version of Veteran Outrage Syndrome is annoying on a good day. I’m not in the mood tonight.
Not that I ever am.
“Call me Dickless one more time.” This from the suit wearing a pair of three-hundred-dollar Cole Haan shoes. You’d think someone with that much money wouldn’t be insecure about the state of his manhood.
I sigh. Too often Caleb reminds me of all the reasons I despise my alma mater. Guys who sign up, thinking the Army is going to make them into men.
Or maybe I just loathe guys like him. He’s such a fucking stereotype.
No one would ever look at me and see a West Point grad. And if Caleb doesn’t settle down immediately, I’m going to confirm everyone’s stereotypes about tattooed, bearded bar owners.
“Either knock this shit off or you’re both gone. It’s a fucking football game.”
Caleb holds up his hands again and heads to the latrine. Three-Hundred-Dollar Shoes stumbles to the bar, I hope to settle up rather than keep drinking.
When someone is that far in the bag, it’s no longer about having any fun or running up a tab.
Crisis averted, I head back to the bar. The news is on. Another soldier wounded in Syria. Christ, what a shitshow.
I stand there, mute, absorbing the details of the latest bombings.
I've got inventories to run and paperwork to file and drinks to pour. But instead, I'm standing behind my bar, trying to chase away the memories. Trying to forget what the news in Syria reminds me of.
Wishing that it wasn’t a lie when I tell people I have no regrets about the decisions I’ve made. I would change everything.
I pour a double shot of tequila. In the quiet din of the corner of my bar, I raise my glass toward the TV. Just a little. I don't want to draw attention to my small tribute.
I lift the glass in silent tribute to the men who’ve died in this pointless war, wishing I could just drag my ass upstairs and drink myself stupid.
I catch Deacon watching me a moment before he lifts his own glass in quiet tribute. I toss back the shot and close my eyes, trying not to see, trying to ignore it. Hoping to numb the dull ache in my chest that never seems to go away. It's just some days, I'm busy enough to pretend it's not there.
He gets it. I wish he didn’t. I wish Kelsey didn’t carry around the scars that she did. But that’s the way life goes in our little band of misfits. The war is behind us but none of us has ever really come fully home.
It’s why I can’t take a knee. I might not be in the Army anymore, but I can't just leave.
I have to keep going. This is my place. And there are men and women counting on me. Maybe not to protect them from bullets and bad guys. But what we have here…it’s important. It matters.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll actually believe it someday.
Chapter 2
Parker
* * *
There is being alone and there is being lonely. And sitting on the other side of a locked bathroom door, listening to my future fiancé grovel is not nearly being alone enough.
“Park, I said I was sorry. I overreacted.” His voice has never grated on my nerves as much as it does right now. Maybe it’s because I can still feel the bite of his fingers gouging the skin of my upper arms. “I just love you so much. I can’t stand the idea of you looking at another man.”
I swallow hard and lift the ice pack off my upper arm. The bruises are already red and tinged with purple. These are going to stick around a while.
I thought the fight about the dick pic was over. Boy, was I fucking wrong.
“You can leave anytime.” My voice doesn’t shake or tremble. He’s lucky I didn’t call the cops, but I don’t feel like dealing with the scandal.
And it’s not like they’d believe me anyway.
Besides, it’s not really a big deal. It’s just a couple of bruises.
“What can I do to fix this?”
Start by respecting my fucking request to leave my apartment. But I don’t say that. Because it feels too much like overreacting. He’s never hurt me before. Never laid a hand on me or raised his voice.
And isn’t that just a sad commentary on my life right now?
“Look, none of this would have happened if you’d just been honest with me when everything went down. You have a nasty habit of lying to me, Parker. I’m sorry but I’m not going to apologize for being suspicious. If you lie about sex…”
I lean my head back on the door, looking up at the ceiling. Oh, that is so rich. I don’t even know how to respond.
Six months ago, I was happy. I was engaged and working on my application for business school.
Something slams into the door, scaring the shit out of me. My heart pounds against my ribs, breaking beneath the weight of the hurt.
“Damn it, fine. Have it your way. Take a couple of days to cool off, but when I come back, we’re going to talk about this. And the wedding. And the weekend at the Outer Banks with my parents that I am not cancelling.” His voice twists just a little. It’s sad that I notice the change now. I never noticed it before. When things were good between us. “I’m going to let you have your little tantrum. But you are not going to embarrass me in front of my parents.”
There are fifteen tiles in the ceiling. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I whisper.
Because no one would believe me, even if I tried. That’s the way this stuff always works for girls like me, isn’t it?
I finally push to my feet and look at my arm in the mirror. It’s not the end of the world. He grabbed me a little too hard. It’s fine.
But the bruises blur in the mirror. My eyes fill and shame crawls around my spine, squeezing tight until I can barely breathe.
I need an out. An escape. A way to get Davis to call the whole thing off so that I don’t get blamed for ruining everything I’ve carefully constructed since my mom died and I tried my hand at rebellion.
I don’t rebel anymore. I’ve been practicing staying inside the lines. Trying so hard to make my father proud. To make him even notice that I exist.
If I end things with Davis, things would go back to the way they were after my mom died. The birthday cards from the secretary. The silence on the other end of the phone when I call.
The emptiness reminds me of everything I lost when my mom died. If I lose Davis, I lose my dad.
A
gain.
The apartment is empty when I finally leave the bathroom. I hate this feeling of being trapped. Of being useless.
I’m many things, but I’m not useless. At least not normally.
But tonight, my arm is throbbing. I need a way out. Out of this apartment. Out of the gilded cage that my life has become.
My purse is on the kitchen island, the contents shaken out across the blond marble surface.
Sighing, I start to gather my belongings.
Then I see it. Crumpled beneath the desk. The paper with the internship information on it.
I swallow, looking at the bar’s letterhead. The Pint.
I don’t rebel anymore. I’m a good girl. And good girls don’t go to bars by themselves.
And that is fucking bullshit meant to keep us from living the life we want. Teach us how to be good and we never break the rules, never upset the status quo.
My status quo needs a little upsetting tonight, damn it.
I wrap my fingers gently around the bruises of my upper arm. There is a faint feeling, somewhere in the vicinity of my bruised heart.
Tonight, I’m feeling a teeny spark of rebellion. And it feels…good. More than good. It feels like me, coming out of a fog. Just the idea of doing something feels so much more right instead of being a passive little doll.
Tomorrow, I can go back to being Davis’s arm candy.
Tonight? I’m going to make some new friends.
Eli
* * *
Kelsey strolls in, thirty minutes late for her shift. She tosses her purse behind the bar and immediately starts slinging drinks next to Deacon, who she apparently isn’t speaking to. Again.
I refuse to get involved in whatever is going on between them. My business management instructor would probably say I need to fire some folks. My father taught me that’s not how the loyalty works.
And while none of us is in the Army anymore, some lessons are hard to shake.
Besides, Kelsey is a goddess behind the bar and she’s usually got a quick smile and a smart mouth on her. Tonight, though, she’s a little off.
Deacon frowns in her direction, then focuses on pouring another round of Goldschlager for the sorority girl party that walked in. It’s like they voted to spend some quality time in support of the local veterans’ charity, aka my bar.
Which is good because that means the word is getting out about the bar.
Deacon grunts and passes the tray of drinks to one of the sorority girls. “You make any headway on getting the internship filled?”
“I told you we’re not hiring an intern. We don’t need the trouble of trying to train up someone new.”
Kelsey leans over, topping off one of Deacon’s drinks in a way that makes it clear she’s correcting his pour. She’s poking at him tonight. Wonder why. But I’d rather bite my tongue off than ask.
“Too late. Met a girl who’s going to come in to talk to you.”
I roll my eyes. It’s like I didn’t even say anything. Sometimes, it’s like Deacon and Kelsey are running things around here and I just write the checks.
“Yeah? And what are her qualifications?” I ask. Not because I’m troubleshooting her but because I’m actively curious. Kelsey has never invited anyone here. She’s prickly at best around us and that means she’s hard to get close to – for anyone.
“Well, she’s cute, she seems only mildly insane, and she seems to need a place to work. Seeing how you don’t exactly have the business school breaking down your door, I figured she’d be as good a shot as any.”
I lean forward over the bar and pluck a cherry from the fruit tray. “What do you mean, only mildly crazy?”
Kelsey knocks back a shot of vodka straight up. Good god, the woman can drink. But I’ve never seen her drunk. Which, for working in a bar, is saying something.
“She was muttering something under her breath when she nearly ran into me. Someone in her life has clearly pissed her off.”
I lift one eyebrow. “She doesn’t have a Freddy Krueger starter kit or anything?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Kelsey hands off two pink drinks that are smoking on top. “Maybe some mild psychoses but nothing we haven’t seen before.”
Deacon shakes his head and passes her a couple of shot glasses. “We’re used to our own special flavor of crazy around here. The kind that comes with a literal trigger warning.”
Kelsey rolls her eyes and laughs. “These are the kinds of jokes that run off the high-paying clients. First rule of veteran crazy club: we don’t talk about veteran crazy club.”
It’s Deacon’s turn to roll his eyes. “That was pretty terrible.”
She takes a bow.
And apparently, all is right in my little world once again.
Chapter 3
Parker
* * *
The Pint isn’t what I expected. Something loud and grinding is blasting from an ancient jukebox that actually has flipping discs to scroll through. The brick walls are accented with black and white photos and small flags of different colors. I’m sure they represent something but I’m not sure what.
Despite the dark interior, it feels homey, not cold or threatening. There are small candles at each table, nestled in glass jars and low-hanging lamps over a pool table near the jukebox.
I stand there for a moment, taking in how utterly stark the contrast is between this place and the Baywater where I usually hang out. Mostly because my father lets me run a tab there and doesn’t complain because I rarely run it up too high.
But here, there’s a different atmosphere altogether. Here there’s no uptight piano music, no waiters in stiff white shirts that disappear as soon as they take your order.
Here is bar food and loud music. Laughter that’s both too loud and comfortable all at the same time.
I am not at home here. It’s too unrestrained. Too unsettled.
But I’ll be damned if I chicken out now. I spot the girl from the quad behind the bar and make my way to her, dodging at least three eye-fuckings along the way.
Some things, sadly, are remarkably the same.
Her face lights as she spots me. “Hey, you made it. I honestly didn’t think you’d show.”
I smile at the welcome. “Really?”
She shrugs. “Figured the worst that could happen was you wouldn’t show. If you did, you’d make my boss pretty damn happy because he’s been in denial about looking for an intern for a while.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Kelsey, by the way.”
“Parker.”
Kelsey eyes me for a second. “I know why you’re here,” she says quietly. She holds up her finger, then starts pouring different liquids into a glass. A shake over one shoulder in the mixing glass and then a cherry on top and she slides it toward me. “Had a fight with the other half, didn’t you?”
I grin and take a sip of the drink. “What’s this called?”
“Breakup Sex.”
I try not to choke. It’s fruity with a bite of vodka behind it. “It’s really good.”
“I know. I was inspired the night I came up with it.”
“Bad breakup?”
She lifts her own glass in mock salute. “Just one of many that I’d just as soon forget.”
I sip the rest of my drink. “So did you find the financial aid office?”
“Yep. Now if only they knew how to access the GI Bill without requiring seventeen dead trees, I’d be okay.”
I frown. “Does it really take that many?”
“Maybe only one tree. Or a sapling. Who knows? All I know is that nothing is easy these days.”
“So you’re a soldier?” Something about her mannerisms doesn’t surprise me at all. “You’re too pretty to be a soldier.”
Kelsey shoots me a side eye that I’m pretty sure means I should drop dead. “There’s this meme out there of stupid shit that civilians say to female soldiers.” She winks at me and pours for the guy next to me who is trying not to look like he’s staring down my shirt. “Go
ogle it sometime. Eyes up here, honey,” she says to Peeping Tom.
I flinch, completely ignoring the guy next to me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know. That’s why I’m still talking to you.” There’s no animosity in those words. Which surprises me. “The most difficult thing about being in this town is that every college student I encounter swears they know more about military life than me.”
“I bet you hear all kinds of stupid things,” I say. I’m suddenly remembering my class last semester. Where I was the know-it-all college student who knew more about life and violence than my classmate who’d been deployed.
I suddenly feel two inches tall.
“You know what’s great about being in the Army?” Kelsey slides a glass of water toward me. She points at a few of the guys scattered around the bar. “Every one of these dudes doesn’t know me from Adam. But I feel more at home around these men than I do with my own family.” She points a straw at me. “That’s powerful stuff right there.”
I look down into my glass. I wouldn’t know. But I don’t say that. Because this is not the Poor Parker Party.
She taps the edge of my glass. “Hey. You know what solves all the world’s problems?”
“Please don’t say whiskey.”
Kelsey laughs. “Well, I was going to say whiskey but since you took that off the list I’ll say penis. Like really good, grinding sex to get out all the aggression and frustration, you know?”
“No, can’t say that I do,” I mumble. She is seriously talkative in a no boundaries kind of way. “I’m not really sure how I feel about you sharing your penis fetish. I mean, it’s cool and all but this is only our first date.”
Kelsey promptly laughs her ass off. “Oh my sweet Jesus. You’ve never been well and truly fucked, have you?”
“I’m quite sure I have no clue what you’re talking about. And that sounds really painful, to be honest.” I toss back a large gulp of my drink, needing something to wash down the flames on my face.
After I Fall: A FALLING NOVEL Page 2