Catch My Fall: A Falling Novel

by Jessica Scott

  It's got to be a coincidence, right? I mean, the universe doesn't work like this.

  But then my phone vibrates.

  It's her.

  I don't even have to look at it to know it's from her.

  She looks up then, aimlessly scanning the café.

  And she stills when her gaze finally settles on me.

  Her throat moves as she swallows. I can see the leading edge of panic and fear mixing in her dark eyes.

  I have one chance at this. One chance to not screw this up.

  One wrong word and she'll bolt. She'll run. And this time, she may run to where I can never find her.

  I swallow hard and search for the right words.

  And stumble into the void. Praying I can find my way out again.

  Kelsey

  Why in a thousand years and with a couple million people in the Triangle did it have to be Deacon who answered my email? The Internet is a vast, wide open space and somehow, it was him all along.

  What are the odds? “I didn’t know you liked piña coladas.” His words are light but the emotion beneath them tense. Tight.

  “Or getting caught in the rain?” I stand then because I need to be on equal footing with him. “We both know I’m into yoga.”

  “How do you feel about making love at midnight?”

  My throat tightens. “It’s already past midnight.”

  “I think we can figure something out.”

  I latch on to the first clear thought that surfaces, braced and prepared to head for the door. I can't do this. Not with him. Suspicion is easier to feel than the vulnerability that threatens to choke me. "Did you know it was me?"

  "How could I?" There's hesitation in his answer. He's not lying.

  It would be easier if he was. If he'd cracked into my phone somehow and known it was me, too, all along.

  But he didn't. And now I'm going to have to try and explain writing an ad I don’t remember writing. Explaining how I haven’t slept in far too long.

  I don't have the words I need. I don't have the ability to give voice to the emptiness inside me.

  I chew on my bottom lip and search for something, anything, to fill the awkward silence. Fuck it. The most direct path through an obstacle is to charge right through it, right? "So on a scale from walking in on someone taking a piss to finding your uncle fucking a piece of fruit, how awkward is this?"

  He scrubs his hands over his face and laughs, releasing the tension threading itself between us.

  "Holy shit, I didn't need that visual," he says finally. He shoves his hands into his pockets. "But to answer your question, it's pretty damn awkward."

  I glance toward the door, still thinking about making that run for it. Unsure how this ends.

  But I’m so tired of fucking running. "Well, at least I know you're not going to murder me in my sleep."

  He looks down at his feet, his body tense, angled toward the door. Is he thinking of running too? "Look, we don't have to do this," he says. He's giving me an out. An escape. My heart melts a little more for this man. This big, powerful, quiet man.

  "I'm not really sure that's what I want," I admit quietly. I'm trying not to cry in frustration. Deacon represents every complication in my life that I've been trying to avoid since I left the Army.

  Everything is coming apart, no matter how hard I try to hold on. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be around him, day in and day out, and not lose my tenuous grip on reality.

  I was wrong. I can't do this. Not alone.

  He rubs the back of his neck, his T-shirt stretching tight over his biceps, distracting me from the aching silence between us. I have to smother the happy dance that's going on in my panties right now. Arms have always been my thing. And Deacon has really great arms.

  I'm overtired. That's my story—about why my hormones are suddenly, deeply interested in a man I can no longer deny my feelings for—and I’m sticking to it.

  "I don't really know how this doesn't get more awkward." His voice is deep and low.

  "Oh, it can get plenty more awkward," I say dryly.

  He grins sheepishly. "I guess it can. But we don't have to test this theory, do we?"

  I look up at him. At the bright blue eyes that melted my willpower five years ago and the wide, full smile that filled my heart once upon a time. "No," I say softly. "I guess we don't."

  He steps into my space. He's there, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. He's watching me the way he used to watch me, back when we were in Iraq. Before we were both more cynical. And much less scarred than we are now.

  "You look tired." His voice is low, caressing my skin.

  "Hence the Craigslist ad."

  "Do you do this kind of thing often?"

  "What, solicit complete strangers on the Internet for no fucking?"

  There it is, the frustration I've been careful to keep cultivating. In order to keep the distance between us.

  He laughs softly. "Things you never expect to hear at a company commander's safety briefing, right?"

  I motion to the door behind him. Without the need for further discussion, we step out into the well-lit night.

  "For what it's worth, I don't remember writing the ad," I say once we've started walking. "I was really tired. I’d thought about it in a sarcastic kind of way, and then I started getting replies."

  "That's never good." There's an amazing lack of judgment in that simple sentence.

  My apartment is one block away. I lead him inside, to the foyer right outside my door. "So, listen…" he starts. I cut him off before he can say the words.

  "Let's not do this here." I open my front door. "My crazy cat lady neighbor is probably standing at her door right now, watching us through her peephole, slowly stroking her pussy. She never sleeps."

  "Fuck me, that's a terrible visual." He chokes and laughs and steps into my apartment.

  I shut the door and can't really avoid the sense of finality I feel hearing the click of the lock. It sounds nothing like I imagine a tomb would sound when it's scraping closed, but it's what it feels like to me, to have that door shut behind me.

  "Maybe we should have coffee or something first." I move to the kitchen, needing to put some distance between us. "Do you want some? I got a Keurig at the thrift store."

  "Don’t you feel guilty about the pods filling up landfills?”

  I set a can of beans on the counter and pull out the refillable pod. "Nope, I use a refillable one."

  "Smart. And frugal. I think I'm aroused."

  I smile over my shoulder at him. "Is there something wrong with saving money?"

  "I love Deadpool." He leans against the counter and it's enthralling to watch the cotton of his T-shirt stretch across his chest. "If you're tired, are you sure you should be drinking coffee? Isn't that going to be counterproductive?"

  "Coffee calms me down."

  "Yeah? So what's keeping you up then?"

  "PTSD? Childhood trauma? Pick your favorite damaged-veteran stereotype and let's see if we can come up with an interesting back story that's doesn't consist entirely of bad clichés."

  I can feel him the moment he steps into my space. The heat from his body wraps around me a moment before his hands settle onto my shoulders.

  He says nothing, letting the silence speak for itself.

  I close my eyes. I'm standing on the edge of the abyss. I've been staring into the darkness for so long, I've forgotten there is light in the world.

  The heat from his body is brilliant and bright and warm. Drawing me closer to my need. Drawing me closer to the memories.

  The good and the bad. All powerful, though. All overwhelming.

  The need inside me is powerful, and fighting the fatigue. I focus on the good. The memories of him making me laugh the first time our base got hit with mortar fire when we'd snuck away for a quickie in a bunker.

  It was odd to be aroused and terrified at the same time.

  I lean back into his embrace, into the solid wall of his
chest behind me. "Of all the men who could have answered that ad, I'm glad it was you," I finally whisper.

  He says nothing, but his hands slip from my shoulders and slide around to my belly, drawing me fully, completely against him.

  And for once, for the first time since I came home from that terrible deployment, I am completely at ease.

  I'm home.

  18

  Deacon

  In her bed, I have found perfection. In what feels like one simple move Kelsey is in my arms, her body relaxed against mine, our breathing in sync, her back rising and falling with her breaths in time with the way my chest moves with mine. I could stay here forever, just feeling her breathe. Her sheets smell like her. I'm surrounded, engulfed and more aware than I've been in a long, long time.

  "When did you start doing yoga?" My mind is wandering. I'm focusing on the sound of her breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

  She strokes her fingers over my forearm. Soothing. Soft. Sensual. This body-to-body contact completely consumes every ounce of my consciousness.

  "The first time I ran out of sleep meds. About six months after I got out of the Army." I hear what she doesn't say: six months after I left her. "I tried drinking through the problem and it didn't really help. I was staying with a friend down at Benning, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life and she dragged me to my first class. It was super weird at first but I got hooked on it." The sound of her voice, throaty and deep, vibrates against me, drawing me in deep.

  "What was weird about it?"

  "Being still. Getting my brain to stop racing." She makes a noise. "The first time I tried yoga nidra, I had a full-blown panic attack."

  "That doesn't sound like a good thing." My fingers tense against her ribs. "What's yoga nidra?"

  "The easiest way to explain it is being halfway between sleeping and waking. They call it the yogic sleep. It's guided meditation where you focus everything internally, except your hearing."

  "And you think it helps you? How?"

  "Well, yoga teaches us that our bodies store all our bad memories. Yoga is a way of coming to terms with them by releasing all their stored energy through practice."

  "I thought yoga was more cleansing and releasing toxins and all that shit."

  She laughs and the vibration massages my heart through the wall of my chest. "Some of the time. But other times, it's about accepting where you are and what you've been through. About not fighting the darkness."

  "That sounds like something you need a counselor for."

  "Yeah, well, I can't afford a hundred bucks an hour for a counselor. Yoga is cheaper."

  The bitterness in her voice hits me hard. I lean forward and nuzzle her cheek with mine. "It seems like a hell of a lot of faith to put in an exercise routine."

  "It's more than an exercise routine. It's something…sacred. It's important to millions of people. And I damn sure don't have any faith in the VA." She breathes out deeply. "I don't want to talk about the VA. It would require hours of meditation to get rid of the anger."

  "Yeah. I get that. I haven't even tried to get seen there for my knee."

  She turns in my arms, resting her cheek on my chest. "I'd forgotten about that. You never got the surgery while you were active duty?"

  "Never had the time. When I finally decided to get out, the process came really quickly."

  "So you're walking around with ripped tendons because you refused to make time to go to the doctor?" The sarcasm drips off her words, thick from the sleepy edge in her voice.

  "Well, when you put it that way," I say dryly. I stroke her hair out of her face and press my lips to her forehead. The need to keep touching her is a compulsion. A drive. I can't stop stroking, petting. I’m just reveling in the sensation of her body next to mine, exchanging heat and warmth and oxygen.

  She's silent for a while. Her breath is warm on my neck, steady. I almost want to check to see if she's fallen asleep.

  "In yoga, there's this meditation called trataka." Her voice vibrates through her body and into mine. "The flame meditation. You stare into a flame until your eyes water, then you close your eyes, focusing on the mental image of the fire."

  I have no idea what this has to do with anything but she is still lying in my arms. She could read a fucking cereal box right now and I would still listen. She’s falling asleep but still talking to me about yoga.

  I’m so fucking grateful that she’s not alone right now. That she didn’t turn me away when she realized it was me on the other end of that email exchange.

  "The first time I did it, I cried the entire time." Her voice thickens. I tighten my arms around her. I don't have the words I need. I'm trying to tell her with my body, my touch, that I'm here now. I wasn't, but I am now. That she's safe. "It was overwhelming. I almost quit yoga forever. Again."

  "But you didn't."

  "But I didn't." Her palm slides over my forearm, resting there. "The more I did it, the calmer I felt." Her fingers tighten, digging into the black ink on my skin. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for it to stop working. I haven’t slept in months.” She doesn't stiffen. Doesn't pull away with the admission that she didn’t have everything under control like she thought.

  "I'll stay," I whisper. "If you need me, I'll stay." It's a promise I can make. For now. In this moment, she is everything I need, the fulfillment of every promise I broke to her.

  She slides her arm over my chest, resting her palm against my heart. "I want to sleep with you."

  "By ‘sleep’, do you mean sleep or screw?"

  When I look down toward her, her face is tilted up. She smiles faintly. "I hate feeling like this. Like I'm teasing you. Using you."

  I arch one eyebrow. "Honey, you can use me any time."

  "Somehow you managed to make that sound filthier than I think you meant it to be."

  "Only if you want it to be."

  God, but it feels good to be flirting with her, even if she’s half asleep.

  To be fucking alone with her.

  I cup her face, nibbling on her lips. "Kels, I don't need to have sex with you."

  "Jesus, thanks for that ego-smashing let down," she says mildly.

  "I mean, not right now." I lower my forehead to hers, smiling because I can't help it. "I want you sober." She flinches at the word sober but I press on, needing her to hear me, to really hear the words I'm speaking. "I want you to do filthy things to me. But I only want that when you're ready for it. When it's not going to spark the nightmares that had you running away like last time."

  She closes her eyes. For a moment, I feel like she's going to ask me to leave. That she's going to get up, open the door, and tell me she's changed her mind.

  I don't move. Don't speak. I slide my thumb over her cheek and offer myself to her. For whatever she needs. For however long she needs.

  Kelsey

  “Stay,” I whisper.

  His body physically relaxes beneath my touch. His heart is slow and steady beneath my palm, his breathing smooth and slow.

  We lay in the quiet for a long moment. I’m somewhere between sleeping and being awake. Except that I feel everything about him, his body, his touch. The warmth surrounding me. Connecting me. Threading our energies together.

  "How did you end up in North Carolina?"

  The sound of his voice is deep beneath my cheek, soothing. The beating of his heart is a warm comfort. There's a lazy arousal sliding through my body. A sensual need tinged with old, never forgotten fear.

  This is Deacon, I remind myself. I don't have to be afraid. I shouldn't be.

  But I am. Because the nightmares are there, always there. The shame of being weak. Of being unable to handle everything the Army threw at me.

  "Because I had nowhere else to go after I got kicked out of the Army," I finally admit. There's no sense in hiding it.

  "Wait." He goes deadly still. "When did you get kicked out of the Army?" His lips are warm against my skin but his body is tense.

/>   He kisses my forehead gently. His fingers leave tiny heatwaves behind each stroke. His attempt to calm me doesn't break through the shame burning over my skin. After a second or two he adds, "You don't have to tell me. It doesn't matter."

  I smile, savoring the drugged feeling of being so close to sleep. "I popped hot on a urinalysis. The Army changed the medication policy so that you couldn't take anything you’d had longer than six months. My brigade commander had a zero-tolerance policy for any drug use. My company commander managed to get me separated as opposed to court-martialed."

  His body tenses. It's a subtle shift but it's there, just there. His fingers continue to move, sliding over my skin, stroking softly. "Motherfucker."

  I make a noise. "Yeah, he really was. Always droning on and on about being a professional and if you couldn't take care of yourself, how could you lead soldiers? This from a guy who spent the bulk of the war at the Pentagon." I release a deep breath, tightening the back of my throat in a cleansing ujjayi breath. "When I went to his office, he told me I was a disgrace and I should consider myself lucky I was being administratively separated. That the Army didn't need NCOs like me in the force who couldn't handle their personal issues."

  Deacon swallows hard, practically vibrating beneath my touch. "I'm having a hard time not being violently angry right now," he whispers. His voice is tight, thick. Ragged in a way I haven't heard from him in a long time.

  "I've made my peace with it. I can't change it. And I knew the rules but I took the meds anyway." I press my lips to his throat. "I needed to sleep."

  He shifts in a sudden burst of energy and pulls me tighter to him. Our bodies are flush, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. He's warm and pulsing and alive. So very alive.

  He's my personal flame. I stare at the pulsing of his heartbeat beneath his skin at his throat, then lean in, feeling the beat beneath my cheek.

  "Does not being alone really help you sleep?" he asks after a long silence.

  "It's not a cure all. But it helps."

  I close my eyes, focusing on the memory of his pulse in the darkness.