Break My Fall (Falling #2)

by Jessica Scott

  Break My Fall

  Jessica Scott

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Thank You for Reading!

  Also by Jessica Scott

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Copyright

  The Falling Series, Book 2

  Jessica Scott

  Jessica@jessicascott.net

  http://www.jessicascott.net

  Jessica on Twitter

  Jessica on Facebook

  Jessica on Tsu

  Sign up for Jessica's Newsletter

  Violence. I’m addicted to it. It’s how I feel alive. It’s the only thing that’s real any more.

  And now I have to sit around and discuss it like it’s physics or calculus. I can’t do it. I can’t pretend that it’s some sterile academic topic. Violence isn’t sterile. It isn’t calm. It’s pulsing. It’s alive.

  It’s my drug.

  Until I met Abby, I never wanted anything beyond the next fight. Never considered that I might finally find a way back to the land of the living.

  Now? Now I find myself dreaming of a woman with golden eyes.

  But I can never be with her. Because I am not whole. And I never will be again.

  But I cannot stay away. And loving her might finally be what breaks me.

  The Falling Series

  Book 1: Before I Fall: Noah & Beth

  Book2: Break My Fall: Abby & Josh

  Book 3: If I Fall: Parker & Eli

  Note – these books are fiction. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidence

  Chapter 1

  Josh

  "How about you spell ‘hegemonic’?" I didn't come to The Pint tonight looking for a fight. I swear to God I didn’t. I am trying to behave.

  But I don’t belong here. Not tonight. Tonight, The Pint belongs to the perky college girls spending Daddy’s money before the semester starts and the frat guys figuring out how to get laid.

  Or guys like this fucking tool in front of me who think that evil people in the world can be reasoned with.

  All I wanted was to have a beer and bullshit with Eli and the guys who knew what it meant to eat dirt in Iraq and instead, I’ll start my second semester just like I ended the first — in a damn bar fight.

  Because there's just something about the phrase American hegemonic empire that sets my blood on fucking fire, and when it comes from this smug little know-it-all Marxist in the middle of a gentrified part of a tobacco town…let’s just say my PTSD is flaring up.

  This isn't going to end well. Of that, I'm reasonably certain. And I won't apologize for that, either. Anyone who tells you fighting isn't the greatest feeling on earth has never felt the fucking rush that violence brings.

  Part of me welcomes it. The feeling of fist pounding into flesh. The pain.

  The pain is the only thing that's real anymore.

  Another part of me, though. Another part burns with shame at the anticipation flooding through me.

  I square up with the cocky little fucker who thinks he’s being ironic wearing a Kermit the Frog t-shirt.

  "I'm all set, Colonel Jessup," the hipster says.

  I lift one eyebrow. "You realize that's not an insult, right?" People misunderstand Jack Nicholson's character from A Few Good Men. They think Colonel Jessup is a monster. He's not.

  He's doing what his nation asked of him. Defending it. Guarding it against the wolves that prowl outside the door.

  Call it patriotic bullshit if you want to, but there are bad people in the world. Pretending they don't exist or that they just need jobs or pussy doesn't make them any less willing and capable of hurting the people I care about.

  But I'm not at war anymore. At least that's what I keep telling myself every day when I wake up and remind myself that I'm home. It's what I want to believe when I don't see military vehicles rolling through desert sand on the 24-hour news.

  Sometimes, I think I'd rather be there than here, dealing with this dickbag who thinks he knows how the world works because his professor told him about it.

  He takes a sip of craft beer and tries to look disinterested. "The fact that you can't determine when you've been insulted isn't my problem." He waves a hand in my face. "Go back to murdering civilians in Afghanistan or something."

  And there goes my rational thought.

  To be honest, I'm not sure if I'm about to get my ass kicked today or not, but that's not really what I'm thinking about when I snatch his craft beer off the bar and throw it in his face. Eli is going to kill me for the seventh time this month for fighting again.

  One of these days, I'll show up to a fight when my opponent has brought a gun or a knife but I’ll worry about that when the time comes.

  Slam. Another fist, this one to my jaw because I'm not paying attention. His shithead buddy charges me like a fucking bull, and before I know it, we're crashing into the front door. It doesn't break. I don't think.

  Still. Eli is going to kill me.

  We crash into the street, and because it's a Thursday night, it's busier than if it was Monday. I'm vaguely aware of strong hands yanking me off him. And then I'm not thinking. I'm fucking pissed because this was supposed to be between me and the hipster and now it's not.

  The hipster's buddy is on his hands and knees. I think that’s a tooth in the pool of blood.

  Strong hands slam into my chest. "Jesus, man, do you have to do this every night?"

  Eli. I spit blood onto the sidewalk and swipe my hand across my mouth. I am aware of everything around me. And I can really feel. Every heartbeat. Every nerve. Every pulse of blood out of my body and down the side of my face.

  I feel alive.

  Except where it counts.

  "What's the damage?"

  "It's not about the money, Josh." Eli is my height with black hair and a beard he claims is his reward for having to shave every day since he turned seventeen and decided that joining the Army would be a fun way to see the world. Except that he did it the hard way and went through West Point.

  Isn't that why we all joined? Oh wait; war. That was the thing we all joined for. At least, I did.

  Eli is remarkably well adjusted for a West Point officer.

  I look around at the crowd that's starting to dissipate. Now that the fighting is over, there's nothing more to see. Too bad these spoiled little fucks don't know what living really is. Worst thing they've got to deal with is too much homework and whether Mommy and Daddy will give them extra money so they can afford to buy Adderall from their dealer to stay up all night "studying”.

  You'd think I would be too young to be this jaded and cynical. Oh, but I wish that was fucking true. And right now, I'm not overly interested in unpacking any of it with Eli.

  I just want to drink.

  I fling my arm around Eli's shoulder. "So what's on tap for the rest of the night?"

  But apparently, I was r
ight about him wanting to kill me. He jams a finger into my chest. "You know what? I'm really getting tired of running defense for your angry veteran bullshit."

  We've been down this road before. He'll bitch at me for fighting, I'll tell him I'm working on my anger management techniques — which we both know is a lie — and we'll go back into his bar and throw a few back. Sometimes a couple of the guys from the b-school will join us but most of the time, it's just me and Eli after things shut down.

  "Get some ice for that eye and go home. I'm done tonight."

  I drop my arms, the adrenaline starting to fade. "What the hell crawled up your ass?"

  "Nothing. I'm sending you home before you start some shit with the next guy who decides to look at you cross-eyed. One fight per night limit."

  "New rule or something?" I try to grin but pain starbursts through the side of my face.

  "Just…take some ice and go, Josh." Eli sounds tired.

  I offer a mock salute and flinch when my fingers tap the edge of my swollen eye. My fingers come away sticky.

  Blood. Huh. I guess I'm used to it. I suppose it means I'm alive, so there's that.

  I walk into Eli's bar and grab a towel and stuff it with ice. Drop some cash on the bar to cover my tab and head out. I step into the street and dab the towel on my eye. Shit that hurts.

  I pull it away and look down at the towel. There's a lot of blood.

  Well, fuck.

  Abby

  I'm generally not afraid to walk home from work at night. I walk through campus to my apartment on the other side of the sprawling buildings and new construction.

  It's my way of fighting the fear that would paralyze me if I let it.

  But I refuse to let my past define my future.

  I'm stubborn that way.

  But tonight, apparently, my little act of daily defiance against the world might turn out to be a bad decision.

  I'm only a block from my apartment. I'm on a well-lit sidewalk.

  So why is the hair on the back of my neck standing up?

  I'm not overreacting. I rarely do. I'm pretty good at feeling when the shit and the fan are going to make babies.

  But somehow, I missed the part when the two drunk guys stumbled out of The Pint, singing some bastardized off-key song that’s so badly mutilated, I can’t tell what it is.

  I walk a little faster. Hoping I'm invisible. I usually am, unless someone decides they want to fuck the black girl. Then I get noticed. I fucking hate feeling like this.

  And because my life is a series of clichés no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise, the shorter one sticks around when his buddy ducks into the alley.

  "Hey baby."

  Damn it. It’s always the little ones you’ve got to worry about. Them and the gym rats who get juiced on steroids.

  Head up. Make eye contact. Don't look weak or intimidated. "Not interested."

  He frowns. At least I think he does. He's hidden in a haze of Ralph Lauren-wearing nightmares.

  He steps in front of me. "That's not very nice."

  Chin up. Hope he doesn't hear the fear in my voice.

  "What’s your name?"

  "None of your business."

  Yeah, I'm being rude. But I learned a long damn time ago that you never, ever show weakness in situations like this. Graham would tell me to stop antagonizing the situation, to de-escalate it. But I'm not wired that way. I hate feeling weak. Guys like this will back down if you offer a show of force.

  Usually.

  My heart is in my throat.

  "You're not being very sociable, honey."

  "Hey."

  Mr. Ralph Lauren looks over my shoulder. I can’t not look.

  It's just not my lucky day. I'm trapped. Never really figured on this as a possible end to the night.

  This is what I get for not paying attention.

  "I think the lady said no."

  I stiffen at the voice that melts out of the darkness behind me. And as I glance over my shoulder, I hope to hell things didn’t just get worse.

  They definitely just got interesting, though.

  My idea of a hero is not a big, muscular guy sporting week-old scruff and holding a bloody bar towel to the side of his face. The rational side of my brain isn't working really well right now, but I need a way out of the jam with Pink Polo and this might be it.

  Pink Polo shirt holds his hands up. "Why the hell do you care?"

  “Maybe because I said I wasn’t interested,” I say. I don’t know how to do this. How to stand here and let someone else fight my battles for me.

  Pink Polo drags his eyes down my body and back up. I feel naked and exposed and alone.

  Big guy comes to stand next to me. And, oh god, why do I notice that he smells good? Like smoke and sweat and spice. "Take it somewhere else."

  Maybe it's adrenaline. Maybe it's fear.

  I don't know and I damn sure don't know how to deal with any of the crap that's happening tonight.

  But for a moment, I am not alone. For once, standing in the darkness, someone is standing with me.

  It is an utterly unfamiliar sensation.

  Pink Polo spits on the pavement. "Fuck you, man. She's not worth it." He slinks off, looking for his buddy.

  My throat relaxes, just a little bit, and I can finally take a deep breath.

  And then I get another good look at my hero.

  For a moment, I’m fixated on the side of his face that he’s dabbing with a towel. The blood distracts me, but only for a moment.

  His dark eyes are locked on me and suddenly, I no longer notice the blood or the bleeding.

  "You okay?" His voice is thick and gritty, his words clear. Like he's not standing there, actively bleeding.

  Wring your panties out, ladies.

  I swallow and nod. There is something familiar about him that I can't shake, but now is neither the time nor the place to start digging into that, no matter how much I might want to. "Thanks for the rescue."

  "I was in the area." He presses the towel to his eye again and I catch a glimpse of strong block letters on his forearm. I want to ask to see his tattoo but I can’t. It would send the wrong message. "You live far from here?"

  I shake my head. I have miraculously developed a fixation with tattoos in the last thirty seconds. "Two blocks away."

  He tips his chin, studying me. The scrutiny isn't the same as the guy he ran off. There I felt hunted. Vulnerable. Like prey.

  Now? Now I feel something else. Something equally unsettling but a thousand times more interesting. Something that draws me closer instead of makes me cold.

  "You good to get home?"

  Finally, I find my voice. "Are you my white knight in shining armor?"

  He looks away and presses the towel to his eye once more.

  "I'm nobody's hero," he says softly. There is something dark beneath those words. Something that should have me running in the other direction.

  But I don’t move. Graham would totally encourage me to go to bed with him. He claims I need someone to knock the dust off that's been gathering since the fiasco known as Robert.

  I know better than to even entertain thoughts like this. I can’t afford a casual hook-up like some of the blue blood sorority girls on campus. I can’t afford the mistakes that can come out of them. And I damn sure can’t even consider hooking up with tattooed bleeding men who apparently like to get into bar fights.

  But for a moment, a brief, shining moment, I stand there and let myself get lost in the fantasy of what if. What if he took a step toward me? What if he touched his fingers to my face and whispered what he’d like to do to me? What would it feel like to grip his forearms as he slid against me, skin to skin?

  Aaand I need to go home.

  I'm overtired. I worked non-stop over the holiday break. That's my excuse.

  It's got nothing to do with being drawn toward the big man with the dark ink on his skin and the penetrating green eyes.

  The man who says he’s not a hero.r />
  "That’s an odd thing to say," I say softly. I’m not going to take a single step toward him. To close the distance between us or place my hand on his chest. I'm not going to wonder what his hands would feel like on my back, his fingers tracing my spine.

  Down girl.

  He frowns and winces. "Never mind."

  Fresh blood oozes from the cut over his eye. "You're bleeding."

  "It's nothing," he says. "Happens once a week."

  My throat tightens. I don't like blood. Not mine. Not anyone's.

  "You should get it looked at."

  His throat moves as he swallows. The ripple of skin over sinew is captivating. "I will if it doesn't stop bleeding soon."

  And just like that we're at an impasse. The conversation has run its course.

  "Well, thanks for…saying something." It's the most eloquent thing I can manage.

  "I'm sure you could have handled it and all. I just…I don't like…I didn't…"

  His skin flushes. Beneath the shadows from the overhead light, he flushes. It's ridiculously sweet in a thousand ways.

  Because I can do nothing less, I touch his upper arm. He is warm and solid and real, and for a moment, I want to be brave, or maybe foolish, and ask him his name.

  But I don't. Because that's a stupid, foolish fantasy that ends with us both getting naked and me getting hurt.

  And girls like me don't get the fantasy.

  If we're lucky, we get the bad dream that ends in hurtful words. If we're not, we get the nightmare that maybe doesn't end.

  Chapter 2

  Josh

  My eye is less swollen than it was last week. It hurts a hell of a lot less than it did. I can no longer feel my pulse throbbing against my bones every time I squint in the North Carolina sun.

  I'll live.

  I've got exactly an hour to get from my apartment off east campus to the old science building on west campus. I'll be lucky if I make it.

  First day of class. Can't be late.

  I should be feeling rushed and just this side of a panic attack, if the condition of the undergrads around me are any indication. But I'm not.